There's A Nun In The Middle Of Every Conundrum

What is it about nuns? Even I can't resist a little shot at them. I say even I because I have known nuns all my life: I have been taught by them and I have worked with them and I can say truthfully I've never had a problem with them. In fact, I'm quite fond of them. As far as any group of people goes, they're no quirkier than the rest. So why are they always the butt of jokes and the subject of gross exaggerations in popular culture? Unfamiliarity, perhaps. But if you've been around nuns since you can remember, like I have been, they become familiar and pretty ordinary (in the best kind of way). If a little more dedicated and less worldly than most of the rest of us.

I remember the nun we had in second grade, who was pretty young (I think she played guitar and probably played and sang at the so-called "hippie masses" that were popular in the early 1970s [appropriately held in the basement of the church, the hippie mass featured guitars and not the celestial organ; I'm sure my first exposure to the music, even the name, of Bob Dylan--Dye-lan to me then and for a few years after--came at a hippie mass: "Blowin' In the Wind," "Kumbaya," "My Sweet Lord" {minus the hare krishna chants, naturally}, and even "Let It Be" were staples of the hippie mass songbook]), who one day, obviously frustrated, let out a "you damn kids," in the middle of a reading lesson. Of course we were scandalized, though looking back at who some of us were, I now tip my hat to the nun for her accuracy and even restraint in word choice.

That same nun was one of the few who at the time wore her skirt short, as in about half-way down the calf. Most still wore their black habit-skirts all the way down to the floor; thankfully the younger ones, by showing some dark-stockinged leg, removed at least one mystery for us with regard to "what's going on under all that." The biggest mystery to me was the head, covered up by the wimple (and what a waste of a potentially great word, wimple; especially now that wimples are pretty much archaic). Our nuns wore ones that snugly clung to their faces (there were pins on the side that for years I swear had to stick into their cheeks); most of them had a little flap that covered the hair at the top of the forehead. Again, thankfully, some of the more liberal ones went without the flap, so at least we knew they had human hair. Most if not all had long black sleeves, which hid anything from kleenex to rosaries to pens to maybe even a couple of aces. Besides the utter confusion that now reigns with nuns walking around in "civilian" clothes (I don't know how non-nun-upbrought people react to learning that the woman they're talking to is actually a nun, but for me, it still rattles me a bit, instantly sweeping me back to the age of eight: yes sister, no sister, and inevitably, I'm sorry sister...), I just think there was something very stately about nuns in habits, that I now miss.

We didn't have any nuns who could fly (what in the world was going on in TV land to okay the idea and then actually produce a show about a nun who could fly? and they say reality TV is nuts?), but we had some great characters. One very much loved and revered nun was confined to a wheelchair. She was of course known affectionately as Sister Mary Hot Wheels (to her face, though? I kind of doubt it; but she must have known; I hope it gave her a chuckle). Another nun was kind of the Jimmy Durante of nuns; everybody loved her. They might not have been able to do much with their hair back in those days, but it seemed that every nun was issued a loud clicker (another thing that went up the sleeve, I believe). Nothing said "on your knees" with more alacrity and authority than a nun clicking her clicker loudly in church; instantly 35 kids would genuflect, make the sign of the cross, and be back up standing upright before the echoes of the click faded away amid the cavernous church. I'll bet you five holy cards if you walked into a Catholics-only old folks home and clicked the right clicker, there would be people who usually could hardly move snap to a crisp genuflection in seconds.

One observation about nuns in the post-habit-wearing world: an observation I made years ago and still stick to. You can always tell a nun (even an ex-nun) by her shoes. Now not being a shoe fanatic, I can't really describe for you the types of shoes nuns/ex-nuns wear, I just know them when I see them. Ultimate case in point: A few years ago I was with a group of people, some I knew, others I didn't. We chatted for a half hour or so. There was one woman in the group I didn't know, who was pleasant enough, but there was something about her I couldn't quite put my finger on. After a while, in the course of the conversation, she said that she was a former nun. Like a Pavlovian dog, my eyes instantly went down to inspect her shoes and, well, let's just say thank the Good Lord I'm such a reserved individual, otherwise the entire group would have witnessed me smacking my forehead and yelping, "A nun! I should have known! Just look at the shoes!"

Here's to all the nuns I've known and know: thanks for all the lessons, the laughs, and the prayers.

Eurythmics & Aretha-Sisters Are Doin' It For Themselves