Fear

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 164 of 529 · 20 per page

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  Esarhaddon, which says that Marduk decreed that Babylon should be desolate for seventy years, but relented and allowed it to be restored after eleven. Jeremiah also prophesied that Zion would be made like Shiloh (chap. 26), and for this some people wanted to put him to death. His friends at court (primarily the son of Shaphan) prevailed by invoking the precedent of Micah of Moresheth, but another prophet, Uriah son of Shemaiah, was not so fortunate. Even though he fled to Egypt, he was brought back and executed. Prophesying bad tidings to the king was a dangerous business. After the initial deportation in 597 B.C.E., Jeremiah allegedly sent a letter to the exiles (chap. 29) telling them to settle in Babylon and seek its welfare, “for in its welfare you will find your welfare” (29:8), despite the words of some prophets to the contrary. In chapter 24, the Jewish community in Babylon is contrasted with those who remained in the land under Zedekiah. Jeremiah is shown two baskets of figs, one good and one bad. The good figs represent the exiles, while the bad represent Zedekiah and his officials. The exiles are destined for good: “I will plant them and not pluck them up” (cf. 1:10). These passages clearly reflect the viewpoint of the exilic editors of Jeremiah’s oracles. The issues become more acute during the final siege of Jerusalem. In Jeremiah 21 Zedekiah asks the prophet “to inquire of the L ORD on our behalf” in the hope that the Lord would do a mighty deed as he was believed to have done a century earlier when Sennacherib was advancing. Jeremiah provides no comfort. On this occasion, the divine warrior is on the side of the Babylonians. This response proceeds on the assumption that YHWH is the Lord of all history, and that whatever happens is his will. To discern the will of the Lord on this occasion, all Jeremiah or Zedekiah had to do was look over the city wall at the Babylonian army and draw their own conclusions. But Jeremiah does not only predict disaster. He goes on to counsel treason and desertion: “See, I am setting before you the way of life and the way of death. Those who stay in this city shall die by the sword, by famine, and by pestilence; but those who go out and surrender to the Chaldeans . . . shall have their lives as a prize of war” (21:8-10). The reference to the way of life and way of death is a clear allusion to Deut 30:15. In that case, the way of life was to keep the

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  The fifth oracle in the book of Malachi (2:17—3:5) predicts the coming of the Lord to his temple in judgment in response to the people’s complaint, “Where is the God of justice?” The “messenger” or angel sent to prepare the way recalls the angel sent before Israel in the exodus (Exod 23:20) but more directly Isaiah 40, where a figure in the divine council is told to prepare the way in the wilderness. In Isaiah 40 the context is one of consolation. In Malachi it is one of judgment. The main issue in dispute in this passage is the identity of “the messenger of the covenant.” In the context it is difficult to distinguish this messenger from the Lord himself. In Genesis “the angel of the L ORD ” is similarly difficult to distinguish from the Lord himself. The focus of the passage, in any case, is on the terror and danger associated with the coming of the Lord. The theophany may be understood as a variant of “the Day of the L ORD ,” which we have encountered repeatedly in the preexilic prophets. What is remarkable here is that the main purpose of the Lord’s coming is to purify the temple. The judgment is not on the nations but on the center of the Lord’s own cult. The final oracle (Mal 3:6-12) repeats some of the charges that made the judgment on the cult necessary. Malachi has no objection to sacrifice or offerings. His problem is that people are “cheating God” by not bringing the full offerings and tithes. He also accuses people of cynicism in saying that their worship is for nothing. In 3:16, however, he distinguishes a group of “those who revered the L ORD ,” who seem to be exempt from these charges. As in Isaiah 56– 66, we see here signs of emerging sectarianism: the elect group that will be saved is not all of Israel or Judah, but only the righteous. The tendency to identify such an elect group within Israel becomes clearer later in the apocalyptic literature, and becomes fully explicit in the Dead Sea Scrolls. The Epilogues The book of Malachi ends with two brief epilogues. The first is a reminder to heed the teaching of “my servant Moses” (Heb 3:22; Eng 4:4). The oracles of Malachi were rather selective in their attention to the Mosaic law. The epilogue was added by an editor who wanted to affirm the primacy of the Torah. This

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  with us” (8:10). The presence of the Lord requires complete reliance on him. Isaiah’s advice would have been difficult for any ruler to follow. It required that he simply put his faith in the Lord, not try to defend himself by making alliances, and certainly not by appealing to Assyria. In Isaiah’s estimation, YHWH was more to be feared than either the Syrian-Israelite coalition or Assyria. The Ideal King There is, however, a very positive oracle appended to chapters 7–8 in 9:1-7 (MT 8:23—9:6). The context is the invasion of Zebulun and Naphtali—the northeastern part of northern Israel. There is no mention of the destruction of Samaria. The reference, then, in 8:23 is to the Assyrian annexation of this territory in 732 B.C.E., not to any later invasion. The oracle predicts a bright future for this region. Isaiah 8:23, however, has the appearance of an editorial edition, designed to put the negative prediction of the previous passage in a broader historical perspective. This is followed by a poetic oracle, announcing that people who walked in darkness have seen a great light, for “unto us a child is born.” The “child” is given hyperbolic names: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. This passage has generated an enormous amount of controversy. In Christian tradition it is read as a messianic prophecy and used in the Christmas liturgy with reference to the birth of Christ. Some scholars argue that it was originally composed as a messianic prophecy—that it was composed after the Davidic dynasty had been brought to an end by the Babylonians and was a prediction of the restoration of the Davidic line. There is no indication in the passage, however, that, the line had been cut off, or that a restoration of the kingship is involved. Many scholars hold that the oracle was originally part of an enthronement liturgy. Compare Psalm 2, where the king (who is also called mashiach , “anointed one”), is told, “You are my son, this day I have begotten you.” There are also Egyptian analogies for such an enthronement liturgy, but it should be noted that these, like Psalm 2, address the new king directly. The

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  we are told, the fear of the Lord fell on neighboring kingdoms, and they did not make war on Jehoshaphat. First Kings 22 reports that Jehoshaphat was allied with Ahab of Samaria in the campaign against Ramoth-gilead. This episode is the occasion of the prophecy of Micaiah ben Imlah, which is repeated in full in 2 Chronicles 18. Jehoshaphat has only a minor role in the story in Kings, although it is notable that he is the one who insists that Micaiah be consulted. The statement in 1 Kgs 22:44, that “Jehoshaphat also made peace with the king of Israel,” implies a positive judgment. In Chronicles, however, when Jehoshaphat returns to Jerusalem, he is met by a seer, Jehu son of Hanani, who asks, “Should you help the wicked and love those who hate the L ORD ?” (2 Chron 19:2). Jehoshaphat recovers from this false step but repeats his mistake later by joining with Ahaziah of Israel (20:35- 37). Here the Chronicler alters the account of 1 Kings. According to the older history (1 Kgs 22:48-49), Jehoshaphat built ships to go to Ophir for gold, but they were wrecked at Ezion-geber. Then Ahaziah proposed that his servants go with those of Jehoshaphat in the ships, but Jehoshaphat declined the offer. Chronicles, in contrast, claims that he had joined with Ahaziah in building the ships, and was denounced by a prophet, Eliezer of Mareshah. It was because of this that he suffered the shipwreck (2 Chron 20:35-37). The account of Jehoshaphat also includes a report of a spectacular victory over Moabites and Ammonites that has no parallel in Kings. The story drives home the point that victory in battle is by the power of God, not of human armies. First, Jehoshaphat prays for divine assistance (20:6-12). Then he is reassured by a prophet, Jahaziel son of Zechariah, a Levite. All Jehoshaphat has to do is stand still and see the victory of the Lord on his behalf. Singers go before the army, giving thanks to the Lord. Then the Ammonites and Moabites attack the inhabitants of Mount Seir and end up not only destroying the people of Mount Seir but themselves as well. Jehoshaphat and his army have only to collect the booty and return to Jerusalem with much fanfare. The emphasis, then, is on ritual, and the battle is entirely miraculous. The story must be regarded as a theological fiction, designed to display the Chronicler’s ideas about the proper

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  But from the corner of my eye, I examined the man closely. The stubble on his face that I hadn’t noticed when he first pulled over now gave him the appearance of being unkempt. There was dirt under his fingernails, and the smell of cigarettes hung in the air. Suddenly he looked creepy to me. Then we missed the turnoff to Harvard Square, and panic hit my stomach. I swallowed hard before saying, “You missed the exit.” “It’s okay,” he replied. “I’m going around this other way I know.” His answer was plausible, so I let our intermittent conversation continue, attempting to mask my anxiety that was swiftly turning into panic. But within a minute or two, it was evident that the car was not going to Harvard Square. We were now in North Cambridge on the feeder road to Route 2, the highway that headed west from Boston. My throat became dry, and I was afraid to speak lest my voice betray my fear. Suddenly images of the figures of death leapt into my mind—the names of fiends who had engaged in killing sprees over the last few years: Charles Manson, Richard Speck, and Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler. Could this be my fate? The car was now on Route 2. Soon there would be little traffic around us and no way to escape. My mind was working in frantic overtime. How do I get out of this car? Should I just throw open the door and fling myself on the road? We’re going more than sixty miles an hour. I could be killed . I knew the road intimately, having traveled it dozens of times. There was only one more set of lights before it opened into a broad four-lane highway. If the light was red, I could jump out. But what if it’s green? I thought. Then I’m done . The gruesomeness of what might happen flashed before my mind. No—no way was I going to die. I wouldn’t let myself be murdered by this thug. The image of my parents, my three younger sisters, and my brother came to my mind, and in that instant I felt a surge of power rise from deep inside me. My fear was transformed into rage. Glaring straight at the man sitting two feet from me, I yelled at the top of my voice, “You turn this car around right now and drive me into Harvard Square.” The driver looked at me but didn’t respond. He seemed stunned. “Do you hear me?” I screamed. His voice was oddly quiet. “Sure,” he said, “if that’s what you want.” We were approaching the light, and it was green. “Make a U-turn here at this light.” I said making my voice as steely and cold as I could. And that’s what he did, exactly as I told him. Slowing the car down, he turned around and headed back in the direction we had come.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I pretended to be engaged in the games we were playing, but it was impossible to distract myself from her terrifying presence. Every few minutes, I sneaked quick glances in her direction, only to find her eyes still fixed on me. Why is she staring at me like that? Then she turned her head. I followed her eyes—she was now staring at Leonard. Oh, no , I thought. It’s about Leonard . Ever since that day two years earlier when Sister Catherine had forbidden me to speak to Leonard ever again, I had avoided him, not sure if he even knew about the rule. Now sitting amongst my playmates, I was unable to speak—my throat dry with fear. I grasped a prayer from deep within me, but I sensed that prayers weren’t going to do me any good. When the clock chimed noon and we headed for lunch, I tried to mingle inconspicuously among the other Little Sisters, my insides knotted with terror. But as I approached the doorway, Sister Catherine blocked my way. “You,” she said. Her voice was low, but her rage was inescapable. “Go over to St. Ann’s House and wait for me in your cubicle. I’ll see you shortly.” I had a premonition of what was to come. As I crossed the yard, my hands were shaking. I was grateful that, because of the holy day, Brother James Aloysius wasn’t working on the cars. He seemed to be able to tell when I was in trouble. Entering my cubicle, I closed the curtain behind me, and sat at the far end of my bed. My face was hot, and my chest hurt. I was too scared to cry. Minutes passed, which seemed like hours, and I started to say my Rosary. Then the corridor door creaked open, and I recognized the sound of Sister Catherine coming closer and closer by the swishing noise that her stockings made when she walked. She stopped outside my cubicle and pulled back the curtain. I knew it. In her right hand, she carried the ominous black leather bag that contained the Big Punisher. Her wrath was petrifying. “You know what you did, don’t you?” she yelled at me. “No, Sister Catherine, I don’t. I really don’t,” I replied, hoping that my honest claim of innocence might spare me. “You were laughing with Leonard during the games,” she responded, her voice shrill, her green eyes fearsome. “You’ll regret breaking the rule. Get out here now, and go down to the end of the corridor.” Beatings with the Big Punisher were always done in the cubicle farthest from the front hall so that any Big Sisters who might be passing by wouldn’t be able to hear the screaming. I walked to the far end of the corridor and into Mariam’s cubicle. Throwing my long blue skirt over my head with one hand, Sister Catherine used the other to retrieve the Big Punisher and began beating me.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  But I wasn’t letting my guard down for a moment. “Now you follow my instructions,” I said, trying to sound as though I really was in charge. And for the next ten minutes—which felt like an hour—I gave the orders as we drove back to Cambridge. No polite conversation, no small talk. “Take this exit,” I said. “And now a left here.” “Okay, straight down Mass Ave.” As we neared Harvard Square, I breathed easier, knowing I could jump out of the car and make a scene if necessary. There was no way I was going to let him find out where I lived, so I directed him to the center of Harvard Square and, when we reached the kiosk at the entrance to the subway, I said, “Stop now.” Opening the car door, I stepped onto the sidewalk, slamming it behind me and losing myself in the crowd. My knees were shaking as I made my way slowly to the muffin shop around the corner, where I sat down and ordered a cup of tea. It remained untouched while I replayed in my mind the experience I’d just been through. What if I hadn’t screamed at him? I thought. Where would I be now? Deep in the woods somewhere? Being stabbed to death? There was no need to berate myself. I’d learned my lesson. I was grateful to be alive. But I did make a pact with myself, swearing never to hitchhike again in my whole life. I kept that promise. I also decided not to tell my parents what had happened, knowing how distraught they would be. It would be more than ten years before I shared the story with them. And as I walked home to my apartment, I repeated to myself something I had believed as a child but had forgotten about as a young adult: “I really do have a guardian angel.” I took full responsibility for what happened that day, a brazen and reckless decision that might have ended catastrophically. But a far more heinous incident would occur the following year, when I was not yet twenty-two years old. It would take me many years to forgive myself and decades before I was able to recount the event to others. My firm was expanding and a number of new brokers had been hired, each with a secretary or two. One new employee was a broker with a rollicking sense of Irish humor, a long client list (generating lots of commissions), and a hail-fellow-well-met attitude. He was given a large office, an obvious indication of his stature as a producer, and his desk was peppered with pictures of his third wife and their three children. Handsome he was not, with his Coke-bottle eyeglasses encased in thick black rims, and a figure that could at best be called portly. His secretary was a charming English girl, a few years older than I was.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “Holy Mother of God!” The exclamation shattered my reverie, and I turned to see Sister Marietta leaping up from her Angel’s seat in the Little Brothers’ refectory. “Close the blinds. Quick!” she yelled. Instinctively, Angels leapt to their feet, and in a matter of seconds, all seven windows in our refectories were shut tight and the blinds drawn. The brief moment of pandemonium subsided as Sister Catherine entered the darkened refectory, grim-faced. Without stopping to speak, she headed directly out through the kitchen toward the front door. Several of the Big Brothers followed her, unsmiling and resolute. Included in the group was Brother Pascal, our lawyer. His presence meant it was serious. Breakfast came to a halt as children and Angels sat nearly motionless. I hardly had time to speculate who might be outside, when Sister Catherine reappeared. She gathered the Angels around her and huddled with them for a few moments. Then they went into action. “Silence, everyone,” came the whispered command. “Come now, quickly. Upstairs, upstairs.” As the Angels herded us out of the refectory, the sound of men yelling came from the side porch. Crouching low, we tiptoed up the stairs and found ourselves in a sitting room I’d never seen before. This was the Big Brothers’ living quarters, off-bounds until this moment. “Sit down,” whispered Sister Teresa. “Keep your heads down—don’t look out the window, and don’t say a word.” All thirty-nine of us sat silent and motionless, some on the couch, the rest on the floor, crowded together, knees bent, elbows tight to our bodies, so as to fit in the small space. Fear permeated the room, and I could almost hear thirty-nine hearts pounding in terror. No one dared move an inch or whisper a word. I wondered where my parents were. And then the most pressing question, the one I always seemed to come back to in any situation. Are they safe? The Angels slipped silently in and out of the room but kept a sharp eye on our every move. Minute followed tortuous minute. With no plausible notion of what was going on downstairs, my mind raced with questions. Whom were we hiding from? Was it the Communists—those demons who were going to bring the world to ruin as Sister Catherine told us day after day? Were we going to be martyred as she prophesied? An hour went by, and we remained motionless. With my chin resting on my bent knees in the tense silence, I glanced around the room, relaxing my guard a bit. It occurred to me that this was the part of St. Therese’s House where Brother James Aloysius had been living for the past five years. The room had an old-fashioned feel to it, with wallpaper and a brass floor lamp next to a homey-looking upholstered wing chair. I imagined that was where my father sat when he read his books. He was always in the library searching the shelves for something to read—something spiritual, of course.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Why , I thought, but no answer came to mind. I felt as though that new, hideous rule was somehow directed at me. Veronica was almost a year old and nearly ready to take her first steps. Each evening during our thirty-minute recreation, I’d let her toddle toward me with her tiny hands grasping my fingers, as I walked backward with arms outstretched. I couldn’t concoct the right words to tell my parents about this new restriction, so I tried my best to act as though nothing had changed. But one evening, when Sister Matilda wasn’t in the yard during recreation, I couldn’t resist taking Veronica’s hand. As I led her across the yard, her tiny feet making progress with my guidance, I glanced up and caught sight of Sister Matilda watching me from the second-floor window of St. Francis Xavier’s House. I gulped, knowing I would soon be in trouble. Within a minute she was standing in the doorway, beckoning to me. Without as much as a kiss good night to my parents, I headed into the house, fully aware of what lay ahead—a paddling with whatever instrument Sister Matilda deemed appropriate. Would it be her latest instrument of torture, the two-foot-long board that only she, with her Paul Bunyan–size hands, could handle? She chose instead a shoe brush, and in the soundproof stairwell, she laid into me as I was bent over her lap. “This will teach you not to break the rules,” she thundered as the powerful force of her blows hit my bare bottom. On another morning, Sister Matilda called the eight oldest of us Little Sisters in from our recreation in the yard. Leading us up to the third floor, she waited as we assembled in order of age. Then, striding back and forth in front of us, she fired a question: “Which of you didn’t wash your face this morning before First Breakfast?” I hadn’t the slightest recollection of whether I’d remembered to wash my face in my rush to be ready on time, but Sister Matilda had apparently discovered the infraction by inspecting the towel racks after second breakfast to make sure all the facecloths were wet. When no one responded, she said, “Well, maybe this will help you to remember.” She approached Mariam, saying, “This will hurt me as much as you,” but she didn’t seem to mean it as she brought the full force of her open hand across Mariam’s face. She did the same to Rene, and then came to me. After slapping me, she said, “And a second one for you,” as her left hand came crashing into the other side of my face. I nearly fell over. The rest of the Little Sisters each received a single resounding slap. We then had to sit in silence for an hour as further punishment. Was I the culprit? I wondered.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  No better than dogs.” Sleep eluded me for what seemed hours, as I saw visions of “punks,” as Father called them, and the “dogs,” Sister Colette’s word, hurling stones at my window. The attacks against us were gaining momentum. In the darkness of night, vandals smashed the plate glass windows of the Center and damaged the life-size marble statue of the Virgin Mary that stood in the garden next to the house. It was starting to dawn on me, that our “cause” (as Father described the dogma of “No Salvation Outside the Catholic Church”) was the source of the vitriol that was launched against us. That cause represented everything I wished I could change—the separation from my parents, the endless arrests on the bookselling trips, the Sunday afternoons when Father and the Big Brothers and Sisters went to Boston Common, the rules and punishments, the ban on seeing my grandmother and even our name, Slaves of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. I had no wish to be a slave and I didn’t want my parents to be slaves either—not even to Our Lady. And why did we have to have a cause that made everyone hate us? The very logic of the “No Salvation” dogma confounded me, and I posed the innocent question, at the age of eight, to one of the Big Brothers during recreation one night, “How can people who live on a faraway island be sent to hell for all eternity when they never had a chance to be converted to the Catholic faith?” The response, “If they were of good faith, God would have sent them a missionary.” I was skeptical because it seemed so unfair. How could God be so cruel? But I knew better than to give voice to my incredulity. By now, the rigidity of our daily regime seemed normal. Even calling my parents Brother James Aloysius and Sister Elizabeth Ann felt more natural than saying Daddy or Mama. And when, a few weeks after my eighth birthday, we had a surprise visit from my father’s family, I adored the reunion with my grandmother after a four-year hiatus. Nothing had changed about her—I saw the same twinkle in her eye, the same white hair and eyeglasses. But with my cousins, I found myself more embarrassed than excited. I stared at their worldly clothes and wondered what they thought of me in my long blue jumper, dressed exactly like my sisters. I felt out of place, particularly when my mother asked us to sing some of the religious songs we’d been taught. I’d have preferred to show them how my father had taught me to play chess on my birthday. * * * As the next summer rolled around, Sister Catherine came back into our lives, taking the oldest of us on a trip to a property she had bought in Still River, a hamlet about thirty miles west of Cambridge.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  We held marathon sessions of canning in August, during which we converted hundreds of bushels of fruits and tomatoes into applesauce, pear sauce, tomato juice, and jams and jellies to carry us through the winter. Shortly after the start of my junior year in high school, I received a summons to Father and Sister Catherine’s office. I was unprepared for what was to take place. Father sat in his usual, nearly supine position in the low red leather armchair, his feet outstretched on the ottoman. He looked feeble, with a tremble in his hands, in sharp contrast to Sister Catherine, who sat ramrod straight on her chair, her head held high. Father beckoned me to his side and I knelt on the floor, eye level with him. Taking my hands in his, he spoke, his voice tremulous. “Will you offer your entire life to God and be the bride of Christ?” he asked. “There’s no greater gift in this world, darling, and you have been chosen by God for this purpose. You won’t turn your back on Him, will you?” Panic struck me. I was trapped. What am I to say? In the silence, Father spoke again, this time raising his voice. “You will regret it all your life if you turn your back on God now. I can promise you that.” The frail man lying before me could still provoke fear. Now was not the time for questions. Now was the time to acquiesce, to accept my fate and say yes—particularly with Sister Catherine looking down on us from her throne. And that’s what I did. “Yes, Father,” I answered and felt my heart sink. He responded with jubilation, squeezing my hands with a strength that belied his frailty. Sister Catherine observed the two of us with an air of both approbation and superiority. “There is much you will need to learn,” she said, as though rebuking me. As I left the office, a pall of dread and anxiety enveloped me. I had just committed myself to God forever and must prepare myself for a life out of sight of the world. For the next few weeks, Sister Catherine intensified her spiritual instructions to us, the impending postulants. It was during one of our sessions that Father burst into the room. Sister Catherine bristled, as though she resented his intrusion, but he ignored her. “I want you to hear something,” he said, his agitation evident in his quavering voice as he waved a small transistor radio in the air. Turning first toward me, he put the radio up to my ear and held it there for about ten seconds. It was music for sure, but far from the classical chords to which I was accustomed. The sounds were cacophonous, and the men’s voices were harsh. “What do you think of it?” he asked. And without allowing me to answer, he proclaimed, “This is music of the devil.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  But from the corner of my eye, I examined the man closely. The stubble on his face that I hadn’t noticed when he first pulled over now gave him the appearance of being unkempt. There was dirt under his fingernails, and the smell of cigarettes hung in the air. Suddenly he looked creepy to me. Then we missed the turnoff to Harvard Square, and panic hit my stomach. I swallowed hard before saying, “You missed the exit.” “It’s okay,” he replied. “I’m going around this other way I know.” His answer was plausible, so I let our intermittent conversation continue, attempting to mask my anxiety that was swiftly turning into panic. But within a minute or two, it was evident that the car was not going to Harvard Square. We were now in North Cambridge on the feeder road to Route 2, the highway that headed west from Boston. My throat became dry, and I was afraid to speak lest my voice betray my fear. Suddenly images of the figures of death leapt into my mind—the names of fiends who had engaged in killing sprees over the last few years: Charles Manson, Richard Speck, and Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler. Could this be my fate? The car was now on Route 2. Soon there would be little traffic around us and no way to escape. My mind was working in frantic overtime. How do I get out of this car? Should I just throw open the door and fling myself on the road? We’re going more than sixty miles an hour. I could be killed . I knew the road intimately, having traveled it dozens of times. There was only one more set of lights before it opened into a broad four-lane highway. If the light was red, I could jump out. But what if it’s green? I thought. Then I’m done . The gruesomeness of what might happen flashed before my mind. No—no way was I going to die. I wouldn’t let myself be murdered by this thug. The image of my parents, my three younger sisters, and my brother came to my mind, and in that instant I felt a surge of power rise from deep inside me. My fear was transformed into rage. Glaring straight at the man sitting two feet from me, I yelled at the top of my voice, “You turn this car around right now and drive me into Harvard Square.” The driver looked at me but didn’t respond. He seemed stunned. “Do you hear me?” I screamed. His voice was oddly quiet. “Sure,” he said, “if that’s what you want.” We were approaching the light, and it was green. “Make a U-turn here at this light.” I said making my voice as steely and cold as I could. And that’s what he did, exactly as I told him. Slowing the car down, he turned around and headed back in the direction we had come.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Those were the only books in our library. It was pleasing to observe the comfort of the room and to imagine him enjoying himself, much the way I remembered those evenings when we were still a family together—the seven of us. [image file=Image00026.jpg] The Little Brothers in 1963. My reverie was interrupted when one of the Angels tiptoed into the room and whispered that we could stand and stretch our legs. She escorted children on quick trips to the bathroom. I made sure to be among them, curious about what my father’s bathroom looked like. Then the whispering began. “Did you see anything?” someone asked. “There were men outside,” came a barely audible reply. “I think I saw a gun,” whispered one Little Brother. It was close to noon when we were allowed to return to the refectory. There were no vestiges of the mysterious and frightening episode that had erupted a few hours earlier. The blinds were open and, miraculously, the breakfast dishes had been washed, the tables reset, and the sixteen-quart pot of soup was in its usual place on the serving table. As we ate in silence, the door opened and Sister Catherine appeared. The tension that had been so evident in her body when she marched through during second breakfast was gone. She now wore her motherly look. Glancing around the room, she called out in a gentle voice the names of five Little Brothers. “Louis, Maurice, Patrick, Magnus, and Brendan,” she said. “Would you please come to my office?” In a flash, I pieced the puzzle together. All five Little Brothers were Richard Cullinane’s sons. Whatever happened that morning had to do with him. In the eighteen months since he’d left, we’d heard nothing more about him. And then this crisis. Sister Catherine led the five Little Brothers out of the refectory toward her office without speaking to the rest of us. It wasn’t until she made her usual appearance in our refectory during dinner that she shared with us some details on the morning’s events. Richard Cullinane, whom she now referred to as RC, was suing to take the five Little Brothers away from the Center and their beloved mother, Sister Laura, she said. He had come that morning with a sheriff. Sister Catherine’s voice became stronger. She rose up on her toes, her steely green eyes blazing, and proclaimed in a fearsome voice, “He is a traitor to Our Lady and her cause, and we will fight him with our prayers and in the court.” What was not shared was that, eighteen months prior, Richard Cullinane had entreated his wife to leave with him so that together they could once again be a family and raise their five boys. She had refused, and he had then taken legal recourse. [image file=Image00027.jpg] The Little Sisters in 1963. I am on the far left in the back row. In the darkness of my cubicle that night, I replayed Sister Catherine’s words in my head.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “I know the way,” the man replied as he started off. And for a few minutes, all was fine. The driver made small talk. “Do you live in Cambridge?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, careful not to tell him where. “How long?” “All my life,” I said, wanting him to know that I knew my way around. I did my best to sound nonchalant, as though hitching a ride was nothing out of the ordinary for me. But from the corner of my eye, I examined the man closely. The stubble on his face that I hadn’t noticed when he first pulled over now gave him the appearance of being unkempt. There was dirt under his fingernails, and the smell of cigarettes hung in the air. Suddenly he looked creepy to me. Then we missed the turnoff to Harvard Square, and panic hit my stomach. I swallowed hard before saying, “You missed the exit.” “It’s okay,” he replied. “I’m going around this other way I know.” His answer was plausible, so I let our intermittent conversation continue, attempting to mask my anxiety that was swiftly turning into panic. But within a minute or two, it was evident that the car was not going to Harvard Square. We were now in North Cambridge on the feeder road to Route 2, the highway that headed west from Boston. My throat became dry, and I was afraid to speak lest my voice betray my fear. Suddenly images of the figures of death leapt into my mind—the names of fiends who had engaged in killing sprees over the last few years: Charles Manson, Richard Speck, and Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler. Could this be my fate? The car was now on Route 2. Soon there would be little traffic around us and no way to escape. My mind was working in frantic overtime. How do I get out of this car? Should I just throw open the door and fling myself on the road? We’re going more than sixty miles an hour. I could be killed. I knew the road intimately, having traveled it dozens of times. There was only one more set of lights before it opened into a broad four-lane highway. If the light was red, I could jump out. But what if it’s green? I thought. Then I’m done.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  I rarely slept because it was in sleep that I was forced to confront myself, my past. I was tormented by terrible dreams, memories really, of those boys, the woods, my body at their lack of mercy.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  One night, I crawled to the door of the resident faculty member on my floor, a woman who, during my freshman year, had imitated me in a game of charades by widening her arms and waddling around the room until someone guessed my name as the clue. When she finally woke and came to the door, I was cold and sweating and clammy. Campus security took me to the local hospital, where the doctors discovered I had gallstones. I called my parents, terrified, and my dad told me not to worry. He told me to close my eyes and that in the morning, he would be there. I did as he said and when I woke up, there he was. That is the kind of father he has always been. I had emergency surgery, and my gallbladder was removed. It turned out the high-protein diet I had been on for the summer had not done my gallbladder any favors. I spent about ten days in the infirmary, and ended up with a wicked new scar, tender to the touch. During my recovery, I was still in pain, and before long, doctors discovered that the surgeon had left some gallstones inside me—such tiny objects causing so much pain. I was rushed to Mass General in Boston, my first ambulance ride, and I was scared again, but also excited in the way of a child who does not quite understand mortality. This time, both my parents came and fretted over me until I was better. Before long, I went back to school. I had lost weight with all the sickness, so once again, I had work to do to make my body bigger and bigger and bigger and safer. 19Though I mostly sat in the counselor’s office silently and sullenly, I continued to go to therapy throughout high school. I didn’t make a lot of progress, but it was a space where I could escape the pressure of needing to earn good grades at an aggressively demanding school. I could escape from being an unpopular and awkward teenager who was desperately lonely. I could escape from being a disappointing daughter. Eventually, I was assigned to a woman counselor and she gave me a copy of The Courage to Heal, by Ellen Bass and Laura Davis. At first, I hated the book because it included a “workbook,” as well as cheesy exercises I couldn’t possibly take seriously. The language was too flowery and full of affirmations that also made me distrustful.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  There wasn’t much difference in the length of the two pathways, and I chose to challenge her. “Yes, I think the way I went is about the same.” She looked as though she would strike me, and I waited for a blow. Instead, she thrust her hands behind her back and spoke—enraged. “I know why you walked that way.” Her voice was shaking. “You wanted to meet Brother Basil coming in from the field.” I maintained a steely composure on the outside. I wasn’t going to back down, despite knowing I’d been caught. But inside, my heart sank, painfully aware that I was unable to escape Sister Catherine’s spies. The entire “choir of Angels,” all eight of them, was on a mission to watch my every move and report back to Sister Catherine. I was trapped. M 40 Hurtling Toward the Inevitable 1964 ariam, the oldest child, graduated from high school in the spring, a celebratory moment in the life of the Center. Since the age of twelve, she had expressed her desire to live her life as a nun, the perfect illustration of the success Sister Catherine hoped to achieve among all thirty-nine children. In so many ways, Mariam was the leader of the children, and she was set as an example of what each of us could achieve. For a year before her graduation from high school, under Sister Catherine’s tutelage, she had been encouraged to spend time alone doing spiritual reading in preparation for becoming a nun. Now this summer, Sister Catherine expanded the spiritual reading to include the next twelve oldest children, seven Little Sisters and five Little Brothers. It was a clear signal that we, too, were being groomed for postulancy, the first of three steps to becoming a professed nun. For one hour each day after lunch, I was expected to find a quiet place to read and to contemplate on my vocation as a bride of Christ. I chose a secluded spot in the grove of white pines that bordered the hay fields where the alfalfa was high and ready to be cut. The site was ideal for an hour of solitude and reading, but I did neither of those. Instead, I spent the hour peering through the camouflage of pine needles and watching Brother Basil as he sat tall on the tractor and traversed the field, mowing the hay. When my hour of “meditation” had expired, I emerged from the pine grove, precisely as he neared me. We exchanged silent smiles and I basked in the warm feeling that crept through my whole body.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Why , I thought, but no answer came to mind. I felt as though that new, hideous rule was somehow directed at me. Veronica was almost a year old and nearly ready to take her first steps. Each evening during our thirty-minute recreation, I’d let her toddle toward me with her tiny hands grasping my fingers, as I walked backward with arms outstretched. I couldn’t concoct the right words to tell my parents about this new restriction, so I tried my best to act as though nothing had changed. But one evening, when Sister Matilda wasn’t in the yard during recreation, I couldn’t resist taking Veronica’s hand. As I led her across the yard, her tiny feet making progress with my guidance, I glanced up and caught sight of Sister Matilda watching me from the second-floor window of St. Francis Xavier’s House. I gulped, knowing I would soon be in trouble. Within a minute she was standing in the doorway, beckoning to me. Without as much as a kiss good night to my parents, I headed into the house, fully aware of what lay ahead—a paddling with whatever instrument Sister Matilda deemed appropriate. Would it be her latest instrument of torture, the two-foot-long board that only she, with her Paul Bunyan–size hands, could handle? She chose instead a shoe brush, and in the soundproof stairwell, she laid into me as I was bent over her lap. “This will teach you not to break the rules,” she thundered as the powerful force of her blows hit my bare bottom. On another morning, Sister Matilda called the eight oldest of us Little Sisters in from our recreation in the yard. Leading us up to the third floor, she waited as we assembled in order of age. Then, striding back and forth in front of us, she fired a question: “Which of you didn’t wash your face this morning before First Breakfast?” I hadn’t the slightest recollection of whether I’d remembered to wash my face in my rush to be ready on time, but Sister Matilda had apparently discovered the infraction by inspecting the towel racks after second breakfast to make sure all the facecloths were wet. When no one responded, she said, “Well, maybe this will help you to remember.” She approached Mariam, saying, “This will hurt me as much as you,” but she didn’t seem to mean it as she brought the full force of her open hand across Mariam’s face. She did the same to Rene, and then came to me. After slapping me, she said, “And a second one for you,” as her left hand came crashing into the other side of my face. I nearly fell over. The rest of the Little Sisters each received a single resounding slap. We then had to sit in silence for an hour as further punishment. Was I the culprit? I wondered.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  We were sent back out to play, but I lingered and when the others headed down the stairs, I took the opportunity to check the facecloths—mine was damp. The only dry one belonged to Sister Matilda’s daughter. It’s not fair—why does she dislike me? A powerful slap in the face became one of her favorite modes of discipline. I could feel the marks left by the impact of her hand on my cheek. But I soon observed that she was careful not to use that form of punishment if I was heading out to recreation in the evening with my parents, so they never saw the redness on my face. At another of our Saturday morning Chapter Meetings, as Sister Matilda entered the kitchen where the eight of us sat on the bench awaiting the start of the meeting, the force of her step told me there was trouble. She took her seat at the table and wasted no time. “It has come to my attention,” she announced, and the tone in her voice made my stomach churn, “that all of you were rude to Father last week when he took you for a ride in the car. Who wants to tell me about it?” I was stunned and, along with the Little Sisters, sat in silence, wracking my brain to recollect what had happened a few days back, when Father had taken us to the Italian market in Boston’s North End, where the merchants sold meat, fruits, and vegetables. Those occasional forays into the outside world were a treat. As he always did on such occasions, Father had asked us to sing some hymns for the vendors, whom he described as “good Italian Catholics.” When we were through, one of the men offered Father peaches and plums for us. Holding the fruit in his hands, Father turned to us and asked, “What would you like, dear, a peach or a plum?” I loved both and thought about it before saying, “A plum, please, Father.” The other Little Sisters made their choices. I could remember nothing else about the excursion. “Well, let me remind you.” There was an edge of sarcasm in the tone of her voice. “When Father asked you if you wanted a peach or a plum, you had the nerve to make the choice yourself instead of letting him decide.” She slammed her hand down on the table next to her chair with such impact that all eight of us jumped and her voice became thunderous. “From now on, if Father asks you what you would like, you are to reply, ‘Whatever you would like me to have, Father.’ Do you understand?” “Yes, Sister Matilda.” “Good. Now you’re going to practice it.” She turned to Mariam and asked, “What would you like to have—a peach or a plum?” Mariam replied, “Whatever you would like me to have, Father.” Then she turned to Rene and asked the same question, and then to me.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I 38 A New Crisis 1963 t was several days after the shocking news of our loss in court when Sister Mary Dorothy vanished in the middle of the night. That was bad enough— one of the Big Sisters simply disappearing or “running away,” but she was the mother of four of the children. Would there be another lawsuit? I wondered. But Sister Catherine, leaving no doubt that she was in command, announced that evening in our refectory that the children, together with their father, Brother Theodore, would have to leave the Center. She had no appetite for another custody battle on which a verdict had already been rendered. Gasps and sobs broke the silence. Even some of the Angels were crying. Sister Catherine herself looked beaten, her normally broad shoulders hunched. But she mustered a smile as she looked lovingly at each of the four children about to depart. “You will be in our hearts and prayers every day, and we will ask Our Lady to keep you safe from the evils of the world,” she said. Maud, one of the four children, sat at my table. Tears cascaded down her cheeks onto her blue jumper. For the past five years, she’d been my breakfast, lunch, and dinner companion, sitting in the same spot to my right. Despite Sister Catherine’s rule against particular friendships, it was impossible not to have a special bond with her and the three other Little Sisters at my table. Being four years her senior, I had played the role of her defender on more than a few occasions when Sister Maria Crucis accused her unfairly of wrongdoing.