The Ladies of Loretto

I'm scared shitless! Hundreds of girls dressed exactly as I am in dark navy serge uniforms, black stockings, stiff white plastic collars and cuffs and black Oxford shoes. Their Oxfords shine; mine are scuffed. So typically me.

It's September 1960. Like penguins on parade, we are lined up, waiting for the doors to open on the next four years of our lives in the holy halls of Loretto College School for young ladies. One small problem: I do not feel like a lady and don't think I want to be one. It sounds boring. I don't belong here. I'm just a girl. But my father, who wants me to become a doctor or scientist, believes in attending a school with no distractions from the opposite sex. At fourteen, I'm not distracted by the opposite sex, just attracted to them. However, I know better than to question my father’s decision even as I silently resent him for not asking nor caring whether I want to be a doctor or scientist. I just want to be a writer. I like reading people. I hear what they say but I listen for what they're not saying. I want to write what they don't want us to know.

“Gloria! Gloria!”

Peeping through my unruly hair that never stays where I want it to, I follow the voice directed at one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. I stare, awestruck. By 2015 standards, she’s an Angelina Jolie: superb cheekbones, full lips. All natural. This is before those days of pumped lips, silicone boobs and inflatable buttocks. In 1960, what you're born with is what you're stuck with. What I'm stuck with in the looks department is unfair. I glance at the Jolie lookalike again. She keeps touching her hair. I want to tell her that unlike mine, it's still perfectly in place. I try to twitch my nose like Barbara Eden does in "I dream of Jeannie", mess it up for her a bit, but it doesn't work. No magical powers here, except to perceive that under that aloof exterior, I just bet she's scared to death too.

She's tall, slim. I'm short, a bit tubby, or if I were honest with myself, what people call “pleasingly plump”. Ugh! I hate her already. I hope she's stupid so I can feel better about how I look. I'm ugly, at least that’s how I feel about myself, but on the plus side, there's a brain between my ears. At least, when you look like I do, you have to hope you have something else going for you, or four years of comparing myself to others in this girls' convent school is going to be slow death.

My girlfriend, Betty, arrives. Betty’s a classmate from Grade 8 with whom I have a love-hate friendship. I love her because she’s always nice to me but I sort of hate her too because she is so pretty and popular. I asked a boy back in Grade 8 why everyone liked Betty so much. He said, "She has such a great personality". I guess that means my personality stinks because no-one likes me. Maybe that's why I latched onto Betty: I hoped her wonderful personality would magically rub off on me. So far it hasn’t.

Betty and I are about the same height but again, she has a tiny waist and all the right proportions. Her uniform fits perfectly around her curves. Mine bunches at my waist, which is too thick, and the hemline is too long. Betty's hemline stops just below her knees, as the nuns' directive dictated. Mine goes all the way down to mid-calf because my father said it doesn't matter because I'm still growing and it will be the perfect length by Grade 11. My parents bought the uniform two sizes too large so I could wear it for all four years. They did the same with my Oxfords. That's why those are already scuffed: I wear size 7 1/2. They bought me 9's. I will grow into those too apparently. I stick out like a female Charlie Chaplin between all the nicely groomed girls whose uniforms fit properly. It doesn't help to have pretty Betty right beside me but I'm glad she's there. It makes me feel more normal to have at least one friend. What is "normal"?

We're in the classroom now. I sit at the very back. It's a good spot. I can see all of them but they can't see me. That’s the way I like it. I slide even lower in my seat hoping the teacher won't see me either. I’d love to be invisible. I daydream about being able to see what everyone else is doing without being seen. What’d be even better is being able to read minds. I’m convinced most people never say what they are really thinking. Of course, odds are we wouldn’t want to know either. Knowing what the other girls think of me would probably hurt. But I’d never let them know that. I hide my feelings.

I steal a glance at the teacher. She's a nun, of course…a very old one! She looks like she’s been in the convent forever. Her eyes are rheumy behind her heavy spectacles. She removes them constantly to wipe away tears, then slides her glasses back up her nose. Her skin is lumpy. If I didn’t know better, she could pass for a witch leaning over a steaming cauldron, and with my luck, I’d be the first naughty child she’d toss in there! But she’s not a witch.

She kisses the huge cross dangling from her heavy wooden beads and clears her throat. I wonder what kissing the cross does for her. Lo and behold, the witch …er nun…smiles at us.

“I’m Sister St. Simeon, your homeroom teacher, ” she announces. “We’ll now do roll call.”

She holds the list of names right up to her nose to read them. She stumbles over each name, even the easy ones. Heaven help me when she gets to my name: it's one of those difficult Polish names that only Polacks can pronounce and everyone else butchers. Here it comes.

"Jad...wee...gah Koob...a...la"

The girls giggle. I cringe and sink even lower in the seat.

"Not here," I mumble. The girls titter and giggle some more. They heard me. Sister St. Simeon didn’t. She looks confused. Where did that voice come from? She starts to embarrass me further by stumbling over my name again.

"Jad...wee...ga? Are you ... Are you present?"

"Not really," I reply, thinking I'm being funny and smirking a little at Betty who's sitting across from me. Betty reprimands me with her look, indicating I should sit up and stop being a smart-aleck.

I don't know where this cheekiness is coming from. It's not like me at all. Yes it is. I like unsettling people. I don't want to be what everyone expects. That's boring. My father would clobber me if he saw my behavior when he's not around. But he's not here now. That knowledge empowers me. I sit up straight and put up my hand.

"Here!" I reply. I’m cheeky but not mean. I’ve made Sister St. Simeon suffer enough and for that matter, who gives nuns names like that? It’s nearly as bad as mine! She peers over the top of her spectacles to get a better look at me. I suspect she doesn’t think any more of my looks than I do of hers. No matter: we’re kindred spirits, different only in age. I decide I like her.