Isn't there a lot of misogyny in this story?
Observed a male student, who I happen to know
was taking a course with the English department's
sole radical feminist, and was therefore
alert to all of misogyny's insidious manifestations.
[LAUGHTER]
By stating this opinion in the form of a question,
perhaps he was indicating that the distrust even hatred
of women evident in Sister Ursula's memoir
might be OK in this instance because the author was,
sort of, a woman.
[LAUGHTER]
At any rate, he was right to be cautious.
What would you expect, a chorus of his female classmates
saying out, the whole thing takes place in a girls school.
There are only two men in the story and one was Jesus.
[LAUGHTER]
So the statistical sample was bound to be skewed.
No, no.
Read correctly, Sister Ursula was clearly a feminist.
I would like to see more of the mother
though, one of the young women conceded.
It was a major cop-out for her to die before they
could get to the hospital.
[LAUGHTER]
"You wanted a deathbed scene?"
said another student.
'Wouldn't that be, sort of, melodramatic?"
Well here the discussion faltered.
Melodrama was a bad thing.
Almost as bad as misogyny.
[LAUGHTER]
Why was the daughter sent for?
Wondered someone else.
"If the mother didn't love her, why send for her?
Maybe the father sent for her?
Well then why wasn't he there himself?
"I know I was the one, interrupted another, who
wanted to see more of the father after the last submission,
but now I think I was wrong.
All that stuff about the father with her over the Christmas
holiday was like we kept hearing what we already knew.
And then he's not there at the hospital when the mother dies?
I'm confused."
He turned to me, "Aren't you?"
[LAUGHTER]
"Maybe somebody in the hospital contacted the convent,"
another student suggested letting me off the hook.
For a dying prostitute in a charity ward?
How would they even know where the daughter was
unless the mother told them?
Everyone now turned to Sister Ursula,
who, under this barrage of questions,
seemed to have slipped into a trance.
"I don't care," said another student,
one of the loners in the back of the room.
"I like this story, it feels real."
[LAUGHTER]
The fourth and final installment of Sister Ursula story
was only 6 and 1/2 pages long with regular margins,
normal fonts, standard double spacing.
"My life as a nun has been one of terrible hatred
and bitterness," it began.
"I considered writing, you don't mean that, in the margin
but refrained because Sister Ursula always
meant what she said.
It was now late November, and she
hadn't veered centimeter from literal truth since Labor Day.
These last perfunctory pages summarized her remaining years
of the convent until the school was partially
destroyed by fire.
It was then that Sister Ursula came to America.
Still a relatively young woman, she, nonetheless,
entertained no thoughts of leaving the order
that she had always despised.
She had become, as Sister Veronique predicted,
one of them.
Once, in her late 40s, she had returned to Belgium
to search for her father, but she had little money
and found no trace of him.
It was as if, as Sister Veronique had always
maintained, the man never existed.
When her funds were exhausted, Sister Ursula
gave up and returned to America to live off
what remained of her life among the other orphans of her order.
This was her first college course, she explained,
And she wanted the other students
to know that she had enjoyed meeting them and reading
their stories, and thanked them for helping her with hers.
All of this was contained in the final paragraph of the story.
[LAUGHTER]
An unconscious postmodern gesture.
[LAUGHTER]
"This last part sort of fizzles out, one student admitted.
Clearly pained to say this after its author had thanked
her readers for their help.
"But it's one of the best stories we've
read all semester," she said.
"I liked it too," said another, whose voice
didn't quite fall right.
Everyone seemed to understand that there was more to say,
but no one knew what it might be.
Sister Ursula stopped taking notes and silence descended
on the room.
For some time, I'd been watching a young woman who'd
said next to nothing all term, but who
wrote long, detailed reports on all the stories.
She caught my attention now because her eyes
were brimming with tears.
I sent her an urgent telepathic plea.
No, please don't.
"But the girl in the story never got it," she protested.
The other students, including Sister Ursula,
all turned toward her, "Got what?"
they said.
I confess, my own heart was in my throat.
"About the father," the girl said.
"He was the mother's pimp, right?
Is there another explanation?""