Handbook for an Unpredictable Life: How I Survived Sister Renata and My Crazy Mother, and Still Came Out Smiling (with Great Hair) (4 page)

I looked back toward the entrance as many other girls, ranging from toddlers to eighteen-year-olds, formed another line, waiting at an open counter for their turn to grab a plate of food. Most of them were black or Latino. Some were white. No Jews, I thought, since none of them were dressed like the Hasids in Williamsburg. Their chatter was deafening.

“Hi, Amelia!” waved Cindy to an older girl.

The girl paid her no mind.

“That’s Amelia,” Cindy remarked as she turned back to me. “She’s my friend; she’s in Group One. You have to be five to be in Group One. Groups Two and Three are for the big girls. You can’t go yet, ’cause you’re only three. That’s why you’re in Baby Girls, like me.”

A really old nun, dressed with a bigger, longer, and more ridiculous black scarf on her head, stood in front of all of us, flanked by two other nuns, almost as old as she was. She clapped her hands three times, and all the girls stood up and began to sing:

At the end part (“I thank the Lord!”), everyone clapped four times on each of the last words. Then they all sat.

The head nun began another prayer as everyone followed along with their heads bowed and hands pressed together in prayer.

Wow. They pray a lot here. I don’t recall if we prayed at Tia’s, but it probably wasn’t as much as they did here.

Everyone dug in, and the loud-ass chatter began again. The food looked foreign and bland. The vegetables were overcooked, and the fish smelled funny. Where were the rice and beans?

“You’re not gonna eat your food?” asked Cindy.

I shook my head no.

“Can I eat it?” she asked. “If you don’t eat it, you’re gonna get in trouble.… Can I eat it?”

“Leave her alone, Cindy. Let her eat her food,” said this chubby, reddish-olive-skinned Spanish girl with big hazel eyes.

I looked up at her.

“That’s Puerto Rican—Jew Evita Feinstein. She’s in Group One.”

“Shut up, Crazy Cindy Berrios.”

They both cracked up.

“What’s your name?” asked Puerto Rican—Jew Evita Feinstein.

“Wosie.”

“The nuns call her Rosemary,” replied Crazy Cindy.

“They do that shit to everybody,” Evita chimed in. “Except me, ’cause I’m a half-Jew.”

Again laughter, from both of them.

I couldn’t believe Puerto Rican–Jew Evita Feinstein was Jewish. Well, half Jewish. She looked like us, and she didn’t wear those funny dresses with the dark stockings. And she cursed! Jewish girls never cursed, even if they were only half. Only the Italians, Polish, Irish, and Puerto Ricans cursed, like my cousins—not in front of Tia, of course. A slight smile emerged from the corner of my mouth. I liked these cuckoo girls. Still, I couldn’t eat.

Afterward, we went back to the Baby Girls’ dormitory, and the young ladies who dressed in street clothes were there. These were our counselors, and each girls’ dormitory was assigned two. One of them showed me how to fold my clothes and put them in the bin assigned to me. We went back into the playroom, and she showed me around—the toy box, the bookshelf, and the play table. I grabbed one of the books.

“
Puedale lee este a mi, por favor
[Can you read this one to me, please]?” I asked one of the ladies.

“We do not speak Spanish here. We speak English, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because those are the rules, and we are here to teach you and help you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re one of God’s children …”

What the hell did that mean? God isn’t bilingual?

“I’ll ask Sister Mary-Domenica if she will read it during reading time tonight. Let me show you the courtyard where you can run and play,” she answered.

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I want to read the book, please.”

“I’m sorry. It’s time to go outside,” she stated firmly. “Let’s go.”

“Can I take my book,
por favor
?” I pleaded politely.

She paused, trying to hold back a smile, and then said, “Sure.”

I excitedly opened it.

“Ooh!
Lookit!
She has the ball. Ball!” I said, pointing to the word.

“You know what that word is, Rosemary?”

“Yes! It says, ‘ball’! She likes to play with it, right?”

“Yes. Please take it outside.”

She left quickly.

I took the book and sat close to the door, watching the other kids romp and play with each other. I tried to read the book, but was distracted by my misery and by the girls playing as if nothing was wrong. They all seemed okay with being here.

Before bedtime, all the little girls in Baby Girls lined up again in the bathroom, each of us in a nightgown, a bathrobe, and slippers, holding a toothbrush. There were three or four sinks, a couple of bathroom stalls, and one humongous shower. Three by three, the girls walked up to the sinks, washed their hands and faces, and brushed their teeth.

I was standing behind Crazy Cindy, who couldn’t stop talking and making jokes and acting silly. I was still quiet. I was uncomfortable. I’d never worn a bathrobe. I only saw people wear them on television, like Shirley Temple in
The Little Princess
. I wasn’t sure if I liked wearing one or not. I wanted Tia so bad. I wanted to suck my thumb so bad. I wanted to cry and run out, but I didn’t dare. I just moved along the line with the rest of them, inching closer and closer to the sink.

It was our turn. I turned on the faucet. The light of the moon, peering from a small window above, glistened on the running water. My eyes were transfixed by the dancing sparkles of light. I slowly began to wash my hands, and I started singing, “A tea for two, a two for tea.…” I didn’t even realize I was singing until I heard laughter. I turned around and the girls were all pointing and laughing at me. I flushed with embarrassment.

“That’s enough, girls!” commanded Sister Mary-Domenica as she stood at the doorway of the bathroom. “And you! What is your name again?”

I was terrified.

“Wosie,” I answered.

“Her Christian name is Rosemary, sister,” said Sister Ann-Marie.

“Hurry up and brush your teeth,” she snapped. “We don’t have all night here.”

I looked at Sister Mary-Domenica towering over us, with a paddle in her hand. Her mouth was tight and stern. The bathroom fell silent. I grabbed the toothbrush and started brushing. I don’t remember if I even knew how to properly brush by then. I wanted to vomit. I swallowed the feeling instead.

“Everyone over here. Reading time,” Sister Ann-Marie commanded politely.

We all formed a semicircle around Sister Mary-Domenica, who was sitting in a rocking chair, holding the same book I’d been reading earlier. I looked up to Sister Ann-Marie; she smiled and winked at me. I smiled and winked back. A lot of the girls couldn’t sit still during the reading, but I did.

Sister Mary-Domenica closed the book and shouted, “Get ready for bed, girls!”

I walked over to my bunk and began to climb up. Crazy Cindy pulled me down. “No. You have to wait to say prayers.” She pulled me next to her, told me to kneel, and indicated with her hands for me to put mine together in prayer.

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”

Everyone quickly jumped up into bed. No one tucked us in. No one kissed us good-night. No one told us they loved us and they’d see us in the morning. Sister Mary-Domenica shut off the lights and left. I started to cry.

“Psst. Psst. Rosie. Where you from?” whispered Crazy Cindy. She was leaning over her top bunk toward mine.

“From my mommie’s house,” I whispered back through a few snotty tears.

“But where, stupid?”

“Why did you call me stupid? That’s not very nice,” I replied, hurt.

She tried to smother her laughter.

“I didn’t mean it like that, stupid. Where’s her house? Is she from the city?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know. I just knew it was in a neighborhood with a lot of Puerto Ricans and Jews.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Saint Joe’s. I’ve been here since I was one. I’m four and a half.”

“I wanna go home.” I whispered back, tearing up.

“You can’t. You have to wait for your mother to come back and ask permission.”

My mother? Oh no! Which one, my real mommie or that other pretty, mean lady who brought me here? I lay back on my pillow and cried, quietly. I finally put my thumb in my mouth, trying to soothe myself to sleep.

“Rosie. Rosie,” Crazy Cindy continued to yell in a loud whisper.

“Who’s talking?” screamed Sister Mary-Domenica as she came marching back into the dorm wearing a granny nightgown and a cotton nightcap on her head!

Crazy Cindy quickly pretended to be asleep. I sat up.

“Perdoname,”
I squeaked.

“English!” she snapped.

“I wanna go home,” I said, softly crying.

“This is your home now,” Sister Mary-Domenica again snapped. “Go to sleep. And stop that crying.”

With that, she left again. This time I began to cry out hysterically,
tears pouring out of my eyes with fear, pain, and anger. This just can’t be. Why is this happening to me? I want to go home! I want to go home!

“I said stop that crying!” screamed Sister Mary-Domenica as she came rushing back in. Crazy Cindy, in a loud whisper, told me to lie down and be quiet before I got hit. I tried my hardest to quiet myself. I pulled the covers over my head, stuck my thumb in my mouth, and tried to control my breathing, which was coming out in big gulps of pain.

•   •   •

It was 6:00 AM the next morning. The old bag, Sister Mary-Domenica, came out clapping her hands together to wake us up.
Clap, clap, clap!
“Let’s go. Time to get up. Line up for showers,” she barked. I woke up, drained and exhausted. Everyone jumped out of their bunks, took off their nightgowns, put on their bathrobes and slippers, and headed to the bathroom.

One girl—skinny, Latina, looked around my age—wouldn’t get out of her bunk. She sat there, crying. Sister Mary-Domenica went over to her bed.

“Get off, now,” she said through her clenched teeth. “You know better than to wet your bed. Get your sheets and bring them to the laundry chute!” The young girl pulled her sheets off, crying the whole time, and put them down the chute. She returned to get her bathrobe and slippers.

“Lift up your nightie!” ordered Sister Mary-Domenica.

The girl did so and bent over with her hands on her knees. Sister Mary-Domenica pulled out a paddle from under her robe.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
Right across her bare bottom. Fear and astonishment went straight through my body. The girl was crying even harder now. Everyone else stood quiet, watching. I started to shake.

“Stop crying or I’ll give you something to really cry about. Get in line!”

Inside the bathroom, everyone took off their bathrobes and placed them on hooks against the wall. Sister Ann-Marie was waiting inside. I didn’t understand what was going on. I felt funny and numb, but I continued to follow along. Then they all formed a line in front of the big shower. There were four showerheads turned on. In groups of five or six, or however many of us could fit inside the shower at a time, the girls went inside and started to wash themselves. I got nervous. I felt weird standing there naked with strangers. Plus, I never washed myself before. I watched to see how they were doing it. They were quick and thorough about it. There was no horseplay or enjoyment involved.

It was my turn. I followed behind Crazy Cindy. Seeing how sad and uncomfortable I was, Crazy Cindy splashed water in my face to try to make me laugh. I didn’t. She then stood directly under one of the four showerheads with her mouth open, took a bar of soap, stuck it in and out of her mouth, swishing the mixture around to create bubbles. All of a sudden she sneezed and bubbles shot out of her nostrils. I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. She started laughing too.

Sister Ann-Marie screamed, “Both of you, out!” We quickly got out and stood in front of her, naked, shaking from the cold, Cindy with soap bubbles still foaming from her mouth.

“Who started it?” she asked.

We said nothing.

“Cindy? No one wants to say anything? Okay, both of you are on punishment.”

“It was me, Sister Ann-Marie.” said Crazy Cindy.

I looked at Cindy. I couldn’t believe she went to bat for me.

“You’re on punishment, Cindy. Sister Mary-Domenica will deal with you later. Go get dressed.”

Crazy Cindy began to head out, then sneezed—snot and bubbles splattered all over Sister Ann-Marie’s clothes. Silence! A beat passed, then Crazy Cindy couldn’t help herself and started laughing. Sister Ann-Marie was not amused.

I went over to Sister Ann-Marie and tugged at her robe.

“
Perdoname
, Doña Sister Lady,” I pleaded. “Please don’t be mad at Crazy Cindy. I laughed too. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Rosemary. Thank you very much for apologizing. That was very honest and charitable of you. And please remember to speak in English.”

“What’s ‘chaweeable’?”

Sister Ann-Marie turned to the other young nun, Sister Elizabeth-Claire, a stout, round thing, clasping her mouth with her hand, trying to suppress a smile.

Sister Elizabeth-Claire bent down to my height. “It’s pronounced ‘char-i-ta-ble.’ It means that you weren’t thinking of yourself, you were thinking of your friend, Cindy. It means that God came into your heart.” “Huh?” “God is our heavenly father who protects us and guides us,” she answered.

Father. Hmm.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he loves us. He loves all of his children.”

“How many children does he have?”