|Sister Ramona Bascom|
They're a dying breed, the New York Times noted recently. Describing their declining numbers as "near extinction", the story said that the number of nuns in the U.S. has been declining since Vatican II reforms that gave more church leadership opportunities to lay people and since the sexual revolution and women's movement of the Sixties and Seventies. The estimated number of nuns has dropped from 180,000 in 1965 to 56,000 today according to the Center for Applied Research in the Apostolate at Georgetown University. When these statistics were last published in 2009, 91 percent of all nuns were at least 60 years old.
They're not only dwindling, but they are, at times, not treated well by the Church they serve. For example, a community of nuns doing charitable work with the poor and disabled in Santa Barbara lost their convent not long ago when it was sold by Church officials to pay for settlements to the victims of priests' sexual abuse.
They may be a dying breed, but the elderly nuns I've seen lately are amazing women: bright, active, involved in their communities and working in a greater variety of settings than ever. One nun from my childhood is a dedicated peace activist. Another recently joined the counseling staff at Stanford University. Their numbers may be dwindling, but they're still making a wonderful difference.
And they leave a wealth of memories, especially for those of us who attended Catholic schools in the Fifties and Sixties.
I parted ways with the Catholic Church long ago. But I don't regret, for a minute, my education in Catholic schools. Most of my memories are loving and joyous.
Looking back at nuns of my youth, not all was sweetness and joy, of course. Some nuns were scary, had bad tempers and were too quick with the ruler. A few -- like the nun who made fun of my partial paralysis when I was still recovering from polio or the mother superior who announced to my class that my parents were not really married because they hadn't had a Catholic wedding -- were startlingly unkind. But most of the nuns I encountered were absolutely wonderful.
When I was in elementary school, they were young Sisters of St. Louis nuns fresh from Ireland who managed classrooms of 60 kids with energy and imagination. Their instruction had a certain hands on quality: nuns would swat you, hug you, stop you short with sarcasm (an Irish specialty) and make your day with well-earned praise.
In the Irish tradition, older siblings were held responsible for younger ones at all times. If, for example, a younger sibling threw up or became incontinent in class, the older sibling was called in to clean up. The day he started first grade at St. Bede's, I put my brother Mike on notice that if he puked or peed in class, his ass was grass. I was never called for bodily fluid detail, bless him, but I did get summoned to his classroom to retrieve a note for our mother when my brother was clowning around again and, another time, to explain the possible causes of his erratic behavior after one particularly horrific night of abuse from our father.
As soon as she was aware of what we were dealing with at home, Mike's teacher Sister Rita gave us an extra measure of love and affection, checked Mike daily for signs of physical violence and attempted to protect us by threatening to call the police if she saw any further signs of abuse.
Sister Rita McCormack, who before Vatican II was known by her religious name of Sister Mary Virginia, didn't stop at protection. She took an active role in helping me to regain clear speech as my facial paralysis gradually diminished. In sessions after school, she would coach me, having me read and recite poems and we would act out plays together. This sparked my interest in acting, a passion that brought me much pleasure in high school, college and, in young adulthood, professionally.
She encouraged me to write -- and praised my efforts generously, advocating for me with other teachers, making them aware that this quiet, awkward kid had something special going for her.
And sometimes she taught me lessons I was reluctant, at least initially, to learn.
Substituting part-time for our cancer-stricken eighth grade teacher, Sister Rita pushed me relentlessly in algebra, urging me not to give up so easily, not to assume I couldn't do math, and taught me not only to enjoy algebra but also a great deal about persistence.
And on my eighth grade graduation day, she caught me acting like an ungrateful brat -- avoiding Aunt Molly, who had flown in from Ohio for the event, because I was mortified by the hat she was wearing: a large black broad-brimmed hat festooned with an array of red roses. Sister Rita wanted to know why I hadn't yet introduced her to the person she knew meant so much to me. "It's that hat, so embarrassing," I muttered, cringing. Sister Rita's eyes narrowed: "You're embarrassed by her hat?" she asked sharply. "After she flew all this way to see you graduate?? Just think about that while I go and introduce myself."
She rushed over to Aunt Molly with a lilting "Hello, Aunt Molly! It's so wonderful to meet you!" When I saw my two most beloved adults embracing, my ungrateful bratty little heart melted and I rushed over, smiling, to join them.
She was like Julie Andrews in "The Sound of Music": she sang beautifully and lead our school choir, ran and jumped and wrestled playfully with kids on the school grounds. She was tall, nearly six feet and the pockets of her habit were so long that sometimes one or two of her first grade students would try to crawl into them for the ultimate E ticket ride on the playground. She ran a tight ship in the classroom -- one does with 60 rambunctious kids -- but all she had to do was give you a look, say your full name with a certain lilt and you instantly fell into line.
Sister Rita's gentle humor, her emotional honesty, strength of spirit and caring nature remain unchanged, undiminished by time and infirmity. She still radiates joy and love. Just thinking of her makes me smile and feel incredibly blessed.
I also smile and feel blessed when I think of Sister Ramona, whom I encountered in my senior year of high school. Like my other high school teachers, Ramona was an American-born Dominican sister. She was 27 at the time and new to high school teaching. One of the classes she taught was journalism -- and she joked that I taught her everything she knew. Not true at all, of course, but I was her most enthusiastic student.
I remember feeling, early in that wonderful school year, that Sister Ramona was very special, that she was someone I could trust, that she could hear and keep the painful secrets of my life. And I was right. I remember her staying away from her afternoon prayers one day to listen to me as I revealed some details of abuse that I was almost ashamed to speak aloud. I watched her face for shock and disgust. There was none. Only loving concern as she took my hand. "What you're describing is painful, but not all that unusual really," she said. "A lot of families have these issues. You are not alone. Not at all." I felt my shoulders sag with relief as the burden of sadness and shame lifted almost instantly. And I knew I would love Sister Ramona forever, too.
She has had an unerring instinct for making me feel special and for being there when I need her most.
Near the end of my senior year of high school, I arrived at school one morning feeling crushed because it was my 18th birthday and my parents had completely forgotten. I couldn't believe it. They forgot my 18th birthday!!! But Sister Ramona didn't. I opened my locker and found a bunch of cards and funny, hand-drawn cartoons had been squeezed inside. One of the notes directed me to the beginning of a treasure hunt throughout the school for little items and more cards celebrating my special birthday. She absolutely transformed the day for me.
She also made my graduation day extra special with a lovely letter -- which I still have -- telling me all she valued about me and her support for my dreams for the future. And seeing my disappointment when my parents told me that they were too busy to attend the graduation ceremony, Sister Ramona rallied some of the other nuns and they told me that they were going to be my "aunts for a day" and form a cheering squad for me. And they kept their word -- even after Aunt Molly appeared, dragging my penitent parents with her.
And she came for a fun dinner shortly after Bob and I started living together -- a year before we were married -- and calmed his nervousness (he had never met a nun before) with a couple of mildly ribald comments. And she was an especially welcome guest at our wedding, talking my depressed mother - my father boycotted the ceremony altogether -- into a celebratory mood. And, as if by magic, she appeared at my mother's funeral, her arm around me at the graveside, understanding in a way few others could the complicated love and loss I was feeling.
Having known my parents and our family situation well, Sister Ramona has a unique perspective on my life. Over dinner not long ago, she was talking about a mutual friend of ours who also came from a seriously dysfunctional family and who has suffered greatly all her life -- unable, for the past two decades to leave her home because of agoraphobia, having a host of mental and physical illnesses, and feeling estranged from those she loves and from life itself. We both noted sadly our unsuccessful moves to help.
"I've often wondered about the difference I see between the two of you," she said. "You're the same age, went to the same schools, grew up in the same community. And your family -- in terms of abuse and outrageous dysfunction -- was far worse as far as I could see. But then I realized a critical difference: you grew up feeling you were loved. As crazy as they were, your parents genuinely loved you. I could see it every time we spoke of you, every time they came to see you in a school play, even at graduation. They thought the world of you. And what a difference that makes."
I realized that it was true: my parents, for all their eccentricities, really did love me. And I truly felt their love. And that, indeed, has made a huge difference.
I have felt Sister Ramona's love not only for me, but also for countless others. She has spent years listening, reassuring, encouraging, pushing and, when necessary, challenging several generations of young girls through radically changing times. She has dried tears, mediated disputes, been there in countless crises. She has made hundreds, maybe thousands, of young women feel special.
Sister Ramona has more friends than anyone I know. So many people, including me, love her immensely and forever. When she was leaving her last stint as principal of Flintridge Sacred Heart Academy a few years back to move to Northern California and new adventures in curriculum development and, later, working as a counselor for students at Stanford, the community decided to hold a roast in her honor. It was a memorable combination of a celebratory Mass and a Sister Ramona Roast, held in the school's gymnasium. Ramona had a front row seat beside her mother, who was dying of brain cancer, but who was aglow with love and laughter that special day. The young priest -- a graduate of St. Francis High School, the boy's school just down the hill -- recounted in the middle of celebrating the Mass how he first met Sister Ramona. "It was at a school dance, when I was 16" he said smiling. "And I was out in back of the school auditorium kissing a girl. Suddenly, I felt a firm grip on my jacket and was yanked up to face a nun whose expression was stern, but her eyes were laughing. I think that's when I got my religious vocation to become a priest!" The crowd roared with laughter, no one laughing more heartily than Sister Ramona and her lovely mother.
I have tried to be there for her when she has felt challenged over the years. Sister Ramona had a talent for pulling troubled schools out of the red, including Flintridge Sacred Heart about 40 years ago. She revamped curriculum, inspired creative fund-raising (the picture at the top of this post was from a fund-raising event invitation), got parents more involved and made the school more solid academically and financially. And when she would accomplish that with one school, she'd be handed another. Once, she was assigned to an impoverished, inner-city girls high school with a primarily Spanish speaking population. After a short period of feeling overwhelmed, she threw herself into the challenge, spending the summer in Mexico for a total immersion in Spanish and then turning around that school's fortunes as well, falling in love with students and parents -- and they with her -- in the process.
I have listened when, at times, she has talked about her frustration at a stubbornly paternalistic hierarchy, one pope in particular. But she has never used that as an excuse -- as I did -- to leave her Church or her calling, but as a rallying point for greater commitment to change what she can and to live each day with faith and joy.
Once, when Bob and I were discussing the meaning of success and challenged each other to come up with the name of the most successful person we knew, Bob beat me to the punch. "That's easy," he said. "Sister Ramona is the most successful person, the most successful human being, I have ever met." And I was quick to second his choice, though maybe going for a tie between Sister Ramona and Sister Rita.
Nuns may, indeed, be a dying breed, but they're not gone yet. They're still very much with us, still contributing, still living with joy and with love.
Early this year, I was asked to come back to Flintridge Sacred Heart to address the Parents Guild on adolescent depression. None of the nuns of my youth were still at the school. In fact, I had never met the nuns who hurried up to Bob and me when we arrived. That didn't matter. Sisters Carolyn McCormack (no relation to sister Rita) and Sister Celeste Botello, the president and principal of the school respectively, enveloped us both in cozy, warm embraces.
"Welcome home," said Sister Carolyn softly and she embraced me again. And, even though we had just met, I felt very much at home in the warmth of her embrace.