WEBVTT

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Isn't there a lot of
misogyny in this story?

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Observed a male student,
who I happen to know

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was taking a course with
the English department's

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sole radical feminist,
and was therefore

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alert to all of misogyny's
insidious manifestations.

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[LAUGHTER]

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By stating this opinion
in the form of a question,

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perhaps he was indicating
that the distrust even hatred

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of women evident in
Sister Ursula's memoir

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might be OK in this instance
because the author was,

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sort of, a woman.

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[LAUGHTER]

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At any rate, he was
right to be cautious.

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What would you expect, a
chorus of his female classmates

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saying out, the whole thing
takes place in a girls school.

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There are only two men in
the story and one was Jesus.

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[LAUGHTER]

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So the statistical sample
was bound to be skewed.

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No, no.

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Read correctly, Sister Ursula
was clearly a feminist.

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I would like to see
more of the mother

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though, one of the
young women conceded.

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It was a major cop-out
for her to die before they

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could get to the hospital.

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[LAUGHTER]

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"You wanted a deathbed scene?"

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said another student.

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'Wouldn't that be,
sort of, melodramatic?"

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Well here the
discussion faltered.

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Melodrama was a bad thing.

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Almost as bad as misogyny.

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[LAUGHTER]

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Why was the daughter sent for?

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Wondered someone else.

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"If the mother didn't love
her, why send for her?

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Maybe the father sent for her?

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Well then why wasn't
he there himself?

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"I know I was the one,
interrupted another, who

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wanted to see more of the father
after the last submission,

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but now I think I was wrong.

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All that stuff about the father
with her over the Christmas

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holiday was like we kept
hearing what we already knew.

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And then he's not there at the
hospital when the mother dies?

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I'm confused."

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He turned to me, "Aren't you?"

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[LAUGHTER]

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"Maybe somebody in the hospital
contacted the convent,"

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another student suggested
letting me off the hook.

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For a dying prostitute
in a charity ward?

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How would they even know
where the daughter was

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unless the mother told them?

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Everyone now turned
to Sister Ursula,

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who, under this
barrage of questions,

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seemed to have
slipped into a trance.

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"I don't care," said
another student,

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one of the loners in
the back of the room.

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"I like this story,
it feels real."

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[LAUGHTER]

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The fourth and final installment
of Sister Ursula story

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was only 6 and 1/2 pages
long with regular margins,

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normal fonts, standard
double spacing.

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"My life as a nun has been
one of terrible hatred

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and bitterness," it began.

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"I considered writing, you
don't mean that, in the margin

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but refrained because
Sister Ursula always

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meant what she said.

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It was now late
November, and she

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hadn't veered centimeter from
literal truth since Labor Day.

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These last perfunctory pages
summarized her remaining years

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of the convent until
the school was partially

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destroyed by fire.

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It was then that Sister
Ursula came to America.

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Still a relatively young
woman, she, nonetheless,

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entertained no thoughts
of leaving the order

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that she had always despised.

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She had become, as Sister
Veronique predicted,

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one of them.

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Once, in her late 40s, she
had returned to Belgium

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to search for her father,
but she had little money

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and found no trace of him.

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It was as if, as Sister
Veronique had always

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maintained, the
man never existed.

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When her funds were
exhausted, Sister Ursula

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gave up and returned
to America to live off

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what remained of her life among
the other orphans of her order.

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This was her first college
course, she explained,

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And she wanted
the other students

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to know that she had enjoyed
meeting them and reading

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their stories, and thanked
them for helping her with hers.

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All of this was contained in the
final paragraph of the story.

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[LAUGHTER]

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An unconscious
postmodern gesture.

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[LAUGHTER]

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"This last part sort of fizzles
out, one student admitted.

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Clearly pained to say this
after its author had thanked

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her readers for their help.

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"But it's one of the
best stories we've

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read all semester," she said.

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"I liked it too," said
another, whose voice

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didn't quite fall right.

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Everyone seemed to understand
that there was more to say,

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but no one knew
what it might be.

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Sister Ursula stopped taking
notes and silence descended

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on the room.

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For some time, I'd been
watching a young woman who'd

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said next to nothing
all term, but who

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wrote long, detailed
reports on all the stories.

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She caught my attention
now because her eyes

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were brimming with tears.

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I sent her an urgent
telepathic plea.

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No, please don't.

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"But the girl in the story
never got it," she protested.

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The other students,
including Sister Ursula,

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all turned toward
her, "Got what?"

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they said.

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I confess, my own
heart was in my throat.

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"About the father,"
the girl said.

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"He was the mother's
pimp, right?

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Is there another explanation?""

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