Nun the Better for It

I remember my first visit back to Mom’s hometown as an adult and how stunning I found the landscape. The hills would roll on as far as the eyes could see, with countless villages nestled atop the mountainside. This was La Ciociaria — stucco homes carved out of the ground, church spires rising toward the heavens, and countless stone walls intact long after their builders met their own Maker. All this washed against a backdrop of vineyards and olive groves. I never fully appreciated the beauty as a child.

Sadly, life in the ’50s and ’60s in central Italy wasn’t as pretty as its landscape. The country was still reeling from the devastating effects of the Second Great War, and areas outside of major cities were riddled with poverty. My grandfather struggled to find work, and in those days, a man who couldn’t provide for his family was a man without a purpose. Needless to say, his frustrations were often taken out on the family.

Mom grew up a peasant, and as the eldest of five children, her responsibilities involved more than schoolwork and the occasional chore. A mile from the home, there was a stream where the villagers gathered to wash clothes. Mothers and daughters would come together to laugh, sing and recount the latest gossip, taking a much-needed break from the men in their lives. I imagine Mom balancing a basket on her head, walking home with a load weighed down by freshly washed clothes.

Their home had no heat or running water, and meals usually consisted of dandelion weeds picked from the side of roads, and potatoes, lots and lots of potatoes. My grandfather would provide the occasional meat accompaniment when he put his hunting skills to good use. His nickname was Volpino, which translates to little fox.

In those days, there was barely a future for men to dream of; you can imagine what it was like for a young woman. Well, it would be a stretch to consider Mom a young woman at the time; she was in sixth grade. You had two choices: groom yourself for marriage or join a convent. For as long as she can remember, Mom wanted to be a nun. Her father didn’t mind because it meant she would live a life protected from Italian men, and he would have one less mouth to feed.

She attended the local Catholic church in the upper part of her village, a one-hour walk each way. Her life soon involved attending Sunday masses and saying her prayers regularly. Her first time in confession was an odd experience, though.

The priest asked, “What sins have you committed this week?”

“What do you mean? What sins could an eleven-year-old girl commit?” she responded.

“Why do you lie to me? You must have committed a sin; no one who comes before the Lord is blameless.” The priest insisted she confess her sins.

Conflicted and unsure of what to say, Mom eventually provided the man with the misdeed and lied to him about saying a bad word to a neighbor. The priest, now satisfied, had her recite a few Hail Marys and an Our Father.

Puberty hit Mom at an early age, and it didn’t take long for the priest to show an interest in her. He insisted they meet regularly and agreed to serve as a mentor and guide as she pursued her dream. After a few visits, the priest asked if she was still a virgin. It wasn’t the question that troubled her but more the manner in which he asked. Filled with a sick feeling, she fled home after the exchange and recounted the story to her father. Rather than provide comfort, he was filled with rage, and Mom received a stern warning. He forbade her ever to attend the Catholic church, and if he ever caught her, he promised to beat her with crippling force. He feared the priest was trying to exploit her, and through gritted teeth, uttered words that would devastate Mom.

"I’d rather have a daughter confined to a wheelchair than have one who sees a priest concerned about a child’s virginity!”

I never understood my grandfather’s reaction. Granted, he was a man with violent tendencies, and when you couple that with fear, it never tends to go well for the ones around you, especially those with little power or authority. I would have expected that anger to be directed toward the perpetrator and not the victim, yet that would have required challenging a man of the cloth in a small village, and sometimes, the spread of gossip can be just as dangerous. As a father myself, I can only think about how I would have reacted had I been in his shoes.

And just like that, Mom’s dream of becoming a nun had been shattered. A child without many choices was now left with only one.