Authors: Carla Van Raay
My sister and I were never housed at the same convent in the five years that she was a probationary nun. Her buddy at Genazzano was Sister Anna; they shared an iconoclastic attitude, although Sister Anna’s was more intellectual and guarded, and therefore more diplomatic and acceptable. Anna also showed a sweet humour about all the things she ridiculed or derided. My sister, however, transformed her ideas into action, and immediate action at that. Eventually, in spite of the shortage of vocations, she was considered ‘bad blood’ because of me and wasn’t allowed to stay on.
However, in the autumn of 1968 she was at Genazzano, and I wanted to be near someone who could understand me and make me laugh. The Easter holidays were coming up. I fronted up to Mother Albion, without much hope, to
ask if I could be with my sister for their duration. This unprecedented request was refused, as expected, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.
On the day before Good Friday I packed a small bag with toiletries and a few underclothes and headed for the highway, which passed close by the front gates. No one saw me leave because they were all at prayers; ostensibly, I had left the chapel to go to the toilet. I wrote a little note and left it on my superior’s breakfast plate, both hoping and not hoping that it would give her indigestion. ‘I’ve gone to visit my sister at Genazzano,’ she read later with unbelieving eyes. ‘I’m travelling with friends, so don’t worry. Sister Mary Carla.’
The ‘friends’ I was referring to were whoever might pick me up to travel south. I simply trusted in God to send me friendly people to take care of me.
It was a drizzly day and I headed for the protection of a leafy tree. I looked along the bitumen highway, the only arterial road going south, and my heart thumped when I saw a shiny black car coming towards me. As if I had done this all my life, I raised the thumb of my right hand as it came nearer. My white habit made me the most visible target in the world, even under a shady tree on a grey day.
The car slowed down and stopped close by, off the road. There were three men in it; from where I was standing I guessed the driver to be Italian—an instant plus for me, bringing back memories of the warm-hearted Italian friends of my teens. Relying on the instinct that would protect me in so many situations in the future, I knew I would be safe with these men. The back door swung open to let me in—an invitation to share the seat with an open-mouthed Australian farmer, a heavy man with a big stomach and spreading legs.
We were well on our way when they asked, ‘Where are you going, Sister?’ ‘To Melbourne,’ I replied. ‘Is that all right?’ ‘That’s all right with us,’ said the driver decidedly, heading off questions from the others for the time being.
They were heading for Melbourne, but not necessarily for Kew, where Genazzano was located. It never occurred to me that their destination might be elsewhere in Melbourne’s vast metropolis. I was deeply grateful, and thanked them very much for their kindness, showing a cool that I hoped was convincing.
The men said they were Catholics, to make me feel better. They must have had a strong inkling that this tall, white-faced sister travelling with them was in a bad way. Surely, the convent would have put her on a bus, at least—and certainly she should not be travelling alone.
The driver spoke up again. ‘Where in Melbourne are you going, Sister?’ I explained it was to the convent on top of the hill in Kew, and one of them remembered the row of cypress trees along Cotham Road. ‘To see my sister,’ I added, as if it were a perfectly reasonable explanation.
A road map was taken out and, once they were sure of the way, silence fell. They were polite enough not to talk about worldly things, because I wouldn’t be able to join in. They sat lost in their thoughts, casting an occasional glance at the nun in the back seat, who had half collapsed against the back door, her little brown suitcase beside her like a barrier separating her from the big man next to her. Other than the odd banal comment, no one spoke, as if we were all spontaneously on retreat.
It was a fairly long journey—about 180 kilometres—but we didn’t stop along the way. The man behind the wheel lost absolutely no time in his effort to deliver me as soon as God was willing. The country road entered the
humming business of the suburbs. The driver knew exactly where he was going. As soon as I recognised a familiar tramline I offered to catch it, but they wouldn’t hear of it. When the ornate convent gates on Cotham Road came into view, I offered to walk down the driveway, lined with magnificent flowerbeds planted by my father, but again they didn’t want to risk losing their passenger, especially now, so close to target. The black car sailed down the winding driveway, around the oval with its stately trees and stopped at the porch with its oak front door. They waited while I rang the echoing bell. When the heavy door swung open, they shouted farewell and drove off—these men who had turned out to be truly my friends.
The portress was shocked to see me, and called the Reverend Mother, who had been warned but hadn’t expected to see me so soon. In her little study—which I recalled from postulant and novice days—I explained my reason for coming and asked if I could stay for a few days. How I had got there was already obvious. The superior appeared genuinely nonplussed about the whole affair but decided to let me have my way, and did so with kindness. She called my sister and asked her to make tea and look after me.
My sister was delighted to see me. We sat on the kitchen bench as she got the story—and all my other stories—out of me, saying, ‘Oh man!’ and, ‘Oh geez!’ I could count on her to be on my side! She made tea, raided the biscuit tins and found some cake in the fridge, all of which I gobbled up with gusto, even though we were in a serious period of penance before Easter. It was mid-morning and I hadn’t had breakfast yet.
On Easter Friday, I took on once more my old familiar task of sweeping the corridor. I strewed tea leaves across
the width of the lino floors so they would absorb the dust as I systematically swept them up. Memories of miles of corridors crowded into my head, along with memories of terrifying nightmares of having forgotten to mop the floors and seeing dust collected in swirls of soft downy fluff.
After Easter, I returned to Benalla by car with four Genazzano nuns who were to spend some holidays there. My time with my sister made me feel infinitely better, for having had a sympathetic ear for a change.
Back home, nothing was said to me. The only person to hear my story was Sister Antoinette, who enjoyed my adventure, but held her breath for me. This, she knew, could not go on. Meanwhile, the little circle around Mother Albion advised her to send me to a psychiatrist for an assessment.
There was a retired, much respected, psychiatrist by the name of Dr Brown, who had close connections to Genazzano. He lived in Melbourne, within walking distance of the convent. An appointment was made and I travelled south again, accompanied by the same four silent nuns who had come up with me.
I was ushered into the venerable old man’s study, accompanied by the grim and accusatory Vicar of Genazzano. She was tight-mouthed, but her usually dull brown eyes were alert. Also present was someone not well known to me, who had arrived at Genazzano while I was overseas. She was a so-called neutral second person, but really they were there to get the opinion they wanted to hear.
Dr Brown was a gentle man who had the greatest respect for the reality of suffering, having observed it in his many patients. White-haired, soft-footed and slightly stooping, he
nevertheless carried himself with rare grace. ‘Sister Mary Carla,’ he said, ‘tell me what is troubling you.’ He sat down and gave me the impression that he would listen with the utmost attention.
‘My reputation was torn apart even before I came to Benalla,’ I began, glancing at my companions. What would they know of any of this? They weren’t even members of my community! Dr Brown asked me to clarify, and I answered honestly and without hesitation, in the presence of my two witnesses. I told him about the injustices I had endured; how I had felt deliberately picked on for years. Finally I was able to speak out passionately and truthfully to someone with some authority whose job it was to listen.
Several times my companions tried to interrupt with outraged denial, but they were silenced. Finally he asked me, ‘What do you want, Sister? What do you think would be a solution to your problems?’
I knew the answer to his question the moment he asked it. ‘I would like to be sent to another convent, away from Mother Albion, preferably to be with my sister at Genazzano.’ It immediately occurred to me that the latter would never be granted, so I added, ‘I would like to make a new start with people who don’t know me.’
Dr Brown then spoke with my two companions, to give them his opinion.
I had no idea that he had been asked to give the verdict that I wasn’t fit to be a nun and should be expelled. It was extremely difficult to force someone to leave once she had made her final vows; in fact it was impossible, unless someone with the right credentials was prepared to declare me psychologically unfit. But he did nothing of the sort.
In my presence, he told the two nuns that I showed symptoms of paranoia. When they spoke up and gave him
what they thought was the real version of events (though neither lived in my convent), he explained that this was proof that my interpretations of reality were paranoid. At the same time he noted that I was passionately devoted to religious life, and intelligent with a high sense of integrity and idealism. He wrote a note there and then—which he showed me before he gave it to the Mother Vicar—recommending that I be sent to the new small community at Frankston, where nobody knew me and I could be given the fresh start I looked for.
It was sound, workable advice—and surely that’s what my companions had come for? But their sour faces showed their disappointment. It came as no surprise to me, once back at Benalla, to be told the decision of the hierarchy: nothing was going to be done. I was to stay where I was.
The eyes from abroad continued to watch me, and more letters landed on my desk. They had been advised of my latest exploit—hitch-hiking to Melbourne of all things!—and were co-opted to lecture me. Nobody understood the distress that had prompted my action; they saw my behaviour as an outrage, a slight on authority.
The most direct letter came from Mother Winifred. She didn’t mince her words:
‘Notre Mère is distressed that you are the cause of so much unhappiness in the community and wishes me to say to you that this must not continue. Sister, you are not satisfied with the way of Renewal settled by the Chapter and you are critical of authority. It is important that you look into yourself; and as you are not happy in the Society, it is possible that your Apostolate is elsewhere. Your way of acting and your want of respect for authority are quite contrary to our Spirit. Sister, if you are unhappy and dissatisfied there is something radically wrong in your religious life and it is time for you to seriously examine if
you are in the right place. God bless you, Sister. Affectionately yours in JC, M Winifred.’
The letter, dated 25 March 1969, was well-considered, polite and diplomatic, and it really made me think. My loyalty to the Society was still intact—so much so that I had never opened my mouth to anyone on the outside, not even my parents—but it was true that I no longer embodied the Spirit of the Society, which relied entirely on joyful obedience and a respectful and intimate association with superiors.
AT THE END
of April, a whole year after I thumbed that lift to Melbourne, my constant prayers were answered—and probably those of the community, too. My mantra in those days, months and years had been a desperate
Lord, that I may see!
for I had felt for a long time that I was as blind as I had been that time in Broadstairs, when I had taken the pills at the wrong time.
I was in the chapel as usual at six in the morning, settling into the silence of meditation, when suddenly I saw a vision of the whole community, as from above. It showed my sisters hard at work, hard at prayer, and the unity among them contrasted starkly with my isolation. I felt keenly their normal state of happiness—once mine also—and their distress at the constant disturbance I was causing. I understood clearly that the more I fought for renewal, the more shut off I would become. There was no way back. I could no longer just toe the line and be peaceful. An urge grew in me to move on, to venture out into the unknown. It was more important than trying to fit in or being unquestioningly content. I also saw that no one would be going with me.
This was not a dark vision; it was infused with wonderful light, filling me with excitement. I knew in
that very instant that I should leave; that my heart and spirit longed for it. It wasn’t just a question of no longer fitting in as a nun, although I did not know that then. I needed to heal wounds which had their origin in my childhood, and the convent was not the place for these wounds to heal. Thanks to
Aggiornomento
, it was merely the place where they had re-opened.
I left the chapel, found paper, envelope and a stamp, and wrote straightaway to the Bishop, informing him of my intention. I placed the letter on the little escritoire, the collection point for the morning post. It was gone before breakfast. Only after breakfast did I inform my Reverend Mother. I was surprised at her annoyance that I hadn’t consulted her; I thought she would be relieved! She was after a little while, and the news soon spread around the community.
Only Sister Antoinette and Sisters Imelda, Madeleine and Anna came up to me to wish me well. The others must have felt betrayed as well as relieved: all their hard work in accommodating my neurosis, all that time I had taken from the superiors as they tried to counsel me—all for nothing. And they would have to share among themselves the teaching responsibilities and many chores that I was abandoning in the middle of the teaching year.
The Bishop sent his reply to Mother Albion, suggesting the next step, which was to write to the Holy See for dispensation. I was also to write formally to the Reverend Mother General, which I did. Father Doherty was told of the news and came to see me to give me advice on the wording of the letter to the Vatican.