Joy

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.

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

  According to the book of Ezra, the policy of Cyrus toward the Judeans was rather similar to his policy toward the Babylonians. An edict cited in Hebrew in Ezra 1:2-4 declares, “Thus says King Cyrus of Persia: YHWH the God of heaven has given me all the kingdoms of the earth, and he has charged me to build him a house at Jerusalem in Judah. Any of those among you who are of his people—may their God be with them!—are now permitted to go up to Jerusalem in Judah, and rebuild the house of the Lord, the God of Israel—he is the God who is in Jerusalem.” The authenticity of this edict has been questioned, but it is certainly the case that Cyrus authorized Judeans to return from Babylon to Jerusalem and to rebuild the temple there. Since he told the Babylonians that he was chosen by Marduk, we should not be surprised that he told the Judeans that he was chosen by YHWH. Whether he did or not, it seemed self-evident to a prophet of YHWH such as Second Isaiah that such a turn of events could only have been brought about by the God of Israel. The so-called Cyrus Cylinder; British Museum, London. The euphoria of (at least some) Judeans at the edict of Cyrus rings loud and clear in Second Isaiah. Some scholars think that the prophet predicted the rise of Cyrus and the release of the Judeans. It is easier to suppose that he prophesied after the fact. The setting is most probably Babylon. There is no awareness in chapters 40–55 of the problems that would confront the exiles when they returned to Judea. We should suppose then that these oracles were delivered within a year or so of the fall of Babylon. The oracles of Second Isaiah are not as diverse a collection as those we have found in other prophetic books. They consist of a series of short poems. There is no consensus on the actual delimitation and number of these poems; one scholar distinguished as many as seventy in chapters 40–66. A more reasonable

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

  large fish leaps out to attack Tobias. Raphael instructs him to open the fish and take out its gall, heart, and liver and keep them as medicines. Raphael guides Tobias to the house of Raguel, and tells him about Sarah. He urges the young man to seek her hand in marriage, since he is her next of kin. Tobias knows about Sarah’s previous husbands and is wary, but Raphael, tells him how he can repel the demon, using the fish’s liver and heart. Sarah’s parents are reluctant because of her previous history, but Tobias insists. Then Raguel gives her to him “in accordance with the decree in the book of Moses.” The young couple pray before they retire for the night. The parents are so sure that Tobias will die that they dig his grave, but in the morning he is found alive and well. Tobias now retrieves the silver but remains with his in-laws for fourteen days of wedding celebration. In the meantime, his parents are sick with worry because of his prolonged absence. Tobias hurries home when the feast is ended. Raphael instructs him to smear the gall of the fish on his father’s eyes, and sure enough, his sight is restored. Tobit proposes to give Raphael half of the silver in gratitude, but the angel finally reveals his true identity. Tobit thereupon bursts into praise of God (chap. 13). Before he dies he prophesies that all Israel, including Jerusalem, will be made desolate, but that Jerusalem will subsequently be restored and the exiles will return to the land. The book ends with a brief notice about the deaths of Tobit and his wife, and says that Tobias lived to see the destruction of Nineveh. The story of Tobit is no more historical than the other stories we have reviewed. Its fanciful nature is apparent in the roles of the angel, the demon, and the magical cures. Even though it is set in Assyria before the Deuteronomic reform, it clearly reflects the piety of Second Temple Judaism. The story is a romance; in large part it is the story of the quest of a young man for a bride and the trials he encounters. More broadly, the plot is that of a traditional folktale. At the beginning, the protagonists are in a state of lack (Tobit is blind, Tobias needs a wife, and Sarah needs a husband). Their needs are met and their problems are resolved through the aid of a wonderful helper (Raphael). The story draws on widespread folkloric motifs such as the Grateful Dead and the Dangerous Bride. Tobit’s ultimate good fortune is clearly related to his piety in burying the dead,

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

  indication of a transcendent experience, an experience of ultimate value that is not negated by human mortality. We shall find a similar kind of experience in the celebration of human love in the Song of Songs, which declares that “love is as strong as death” (Song 8:6). In some psalms the confidence in divine deliverance and the sense of fellowship with the divine seem to suggest that death may not be final after all, at least in special cases. Psalm 16:9-10 affirms: Therefore my heart is glad and my soul rejoices; my body also rests secure. For you do not give me up to Sheol or let your faithful one see the Pit. In the New Testament this passage is taken to refer to the Messiah and is cited as a proof text for the resurrection of Jesus (Acts 2:24-28). In the context of the Hebrew Psalter, the passage may mean only that the psalmist is confident that God will not let him “see the Pit” on this occasion, or before his life has run its natural course. A more intriguing case is provided by Ps 49:15 (MT 49:16): “But God will ransom my soul from the power of Sheol, for he will take me.” The expression “take me” recalls the exceptional case of Enoch in Gen 5:24: “Enoch walked with God and he was not, for God took him.” It was assumed, already in antiquity, that God had taken Enoch up to heaven, granting him an exception to the common human fate. It is possible that the psalmist hoped for a similar exception. The same verb is used in Ps 73:23-26: Nevertheless I am continually with you; you hold my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me in glory. . . . My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. Here again the psalmist seems to hope that the relationship with God will not be terminated by death, as would be the case in Sheol. Immortality may also be envisioned in the case of the king. According to 21:4, “he asked you for life, you gave it to him—length of days forever and ever.” It should be emphasized, however, that these cases are exceptional. The

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “This is where we’ll soon be living,” she told us as she led us through the stately white clapboard colonial-style house on eighteen acres of land. Then bringing us to the vast green field, she beckoned us to run around. Putting my arms out like wings, I sped through grass as tall as my shoulders. The smell of hay and the tickling sensation of the dried grass on my legs and arms were novel and exhilarating—different from the ocean, but full of newness and freedom. “And when we move here next year,” Sister Catherine said, as though letting us in on a secret, “we’ll have cows and chickens, and you can each have a pet of your own.” A pet of my own! It was almost too good to be true. This was Sister Catherine the way I wished she would be all the time—jovial and full of promises of good things to happen. Toward the end of September, the flu pandemic that had started in Asia reached the United States with full force and the red fence was unable to keep it at bay. Tutoring was cancelled, as all thirty-nine of us children fell victim. After a week of being confined to bed in a state of forced silence, it was Sister Catherine who came to the rescue, bringing us coloring books and crayons, jigsaw puzzles and Little Golden Books of nursery rhymes and fairy tales. Best of all, she dispensed with the rule of silence. Where was Sister Matilda? I wondered. She, who for the last three years had been solely in command of every facet of our lives, was suddenly no longer the head Angel. It was now Sister Catherine herself who assumed that role, becoming an omnipresent force in our daily life. Why? I pondered this unannounced but significant shift in power but knew to keep my questions to myself. At the Center, one didn’t ask aloud why things changed. Sister Catherine’s motherly demeanor that afternoon turned to rage a few days later when Mary Catherine, who was now just seven years old, refused to eat her breakfast. She and I were having our meal together at a small table set up in the kitchen on our floor. As Mary Catherine, still ridden with the flu, sat stone-faced looking at her scrambled eggs, her hands in her lap, the Angel in charge tried to cajole her. “Be a good girl now and eat your eggs. Do it for the souls in purgatory so that they can go to heaven.” Offering things up for the souls in purgatory was a common exhortation at the Center. I was convinced that a battalion of souls had been released from their purgatorial sojourn and had floated on their way to the beatific vision because of my sufferings—each soul the beneficiary of a scraped knee or elbow, the toothaches, earaches and headaches that often ravaged me.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  The next time I would do so was with the man who would become my husband. Not long after our breakup, and following a few interim dalliances, I found love again, this time with a man with whom I had been working for nearly two years, without the remotest interest in him. Over a simple lunch, we ended up discovering that each of us was in essence single—I recently ditched and he in the midst of a divorce after eighteen years of marriage and three children. We dated for some months before I felt comfortable telling my story for only the second time in my life. John had grown up in Washington, D.C., in the 1950s, in an era of debutante balls and society dances, and his instinctual reaction to my tale was one of disbelief at the life I had missed, one he had taken for granted. As I shared my story with him, I found myself laughing and using one of my favorite expressions, from the then famously popular song in the Broadway musical, Evita , “Don’t cry for me, Argentina.” Three years later, almost to the day, we became husband and wife in an intimate ceremony that included only our closest family. The fact that he was divorced made it impossible for us to be married in the Catholic Church, which disappointed me but not him. He, an Episcopalian, liked to call me kiddingly a “mackerel snapper.” For my part, I told him (in good humor) that his religion was based on the selfish whim of the Catholic King Henry VIII. If he hadn’t demanded a divorce from his wife because she couldn’t produce a son, there’d be no Episcopal Church. My parents voiced no objection to our mixed marriage, for which I was enormously grateful. In truth, they thought the world of my husband and were more than happy to remain silent on the matter of religion. However, the depth of my own concern about what my Center family might think of my getting married outside of the Catholic Church was revealed to me through a dream I had several nights before our wedding. In my dream, I was visiting the Center and excitedly telling the Big Brothers and Sisters about my upcoming nuptials. I was careful to omit the word “Episcopal” from the name of the Church—St. Paul’s—hoping they would think the wedding was to take place at the beautiful church of the same name that was directly across from the original Center in Cambridge. A sense of relief came over me when I realized that I hadn’t slipped up on the “Episcopal” part. After describing the music and telling them that my brother David and my sister Cathy would be singing the Ave Maria—sure signals, I trusted, that this was a Catholic wedding—I offered to show them my wedding dress.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  When he finished talking, and it was time to leave the Center for lunch or dinner, there was always a hand for me to grab as we headed back through the streets of Cambridge to the house on Putnam Avenue where everyone at the Center gathered for meals. We called that house Sacred Heart Hall. While dinner was being prepared, some of the adults would gather in the parlor room upstairs, where sofas and comfortable chairs were scattered around a coffee table. The women wore lipstick and pretty dresses, and the men smoked cigarettes as they sipped iced drinks and talked about what they did during “the war.” Their peals of laughter floated toward me as I’d sit at the top of the stairs with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. I didn’t understand much of what they said, but I was mesmerized. [image file=Image00013.jpg] Father and Catherine with me (lower left), Mariam, and another Center child, on the lawn of Sacred Heart Hall, November 1950. Sometimes Leonard joined me. Together we’d sit in silence, absorbed in the adults’ revelry and awaiting the clang of the bell that signaled dinner was ready. Then, holding hands, we’d sprint down the stairs and into the refectory. That’s what everyone called the makeshift dining room, where three long picnic tables were set up with folding chairs. We sat anywhere we wanted, adults and children side by side. I needed a stack of books underneath me, and still my chin barely came over the top of the table. But there was always a friendly “aunt” or “uncle” ready to help cut my food. If the weather was hot, we’d have our dessert sitting on the miniature rectangle of lawn between Sacred Heart Hall and the white picket fence that bordered the sidewalk. Father himself would often bring it to me. “What kind of ice cream would you like, dear?” he’d ask. “Strawberry, please, Father,” I’d say. Always strawberry, and always “please” and “thank you,” as I took the bowl with both hands. I’d let the ice cream melt in the summer’s heat, then slurp down the liquid—careful not to spill any on my white summer dress. [image file=Image00014.jpg] The grownup women as I remembered them before they discarded their “worldly” clothes. It was around this time that the women at the Center stopped wearing their colorful clothes. Floral patterned dresses, royal-blue jackets, and cinched waist suits were replaced by long black skirts and white blouses covered by a black jacket. Instead of a pocketbook, my mother now carried a small black fabric satchel. Her shoes were lace-up—no longer the heels and open-toed shoes she used to wear. The men wore identical black suits and white shirts, except when they were working and had to wear overalls. Even my own clothes changed. Now I wore the same kind of blouse and jumper as the other little girls. But I was unfazed by the new wardrobe.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Before long Little Sisters spilled into the corridor, trying to keep the rule of silence as they mumbled soft oohs and aahs . Suddenly the door opened and in walked Sister Catherine. “Merry Christmas, Little Sisters,” she said. “What has Baby Jesus brought you?” Her entry somehow signaled that it was all right to talk, and the corridor erupted into pandemonium, with Little Sisters in pajamas pulling toys and games out of stockings and sharing their bounty with one another. Mariam came to my cubicle door. “What did Baby Jesus bring you?” she asked. I looked at her in astonishment. She really thinks it was Baby Jesus? She’s almost thirteen years old . But seeing the excitement in her eyes, I could tell she believed it with all her heart. I had hardly finished opening my stocking when Sister Catherine stood in the doorway of my cubicle. With her was Sister Elizabeth Ann. It was the first time since we had moved nearly a year earlier that my mother was allowed to enter our corridor. “Anastasia, show Sister Elizabeth Ann what Baby Jesus brought you,” Sister Catherine said to me, and together we examined my presents—watercolor paints and a book of pictures to go with them, an origami set, a yo-yo, and a little porcelain bird. When Sister Elizabeth Ann visited Mary Catherine in her cubicle, she snuggled next to her on the bed and showed her how to make her Mexican beans jump. The best part of the day was yet to come when, after second breakfast, we had a community meeting in the front room, sharing our presents with our parents for several hours. It was well after lunchtime when the dreaded bell sounded that indicated the end of our family time together. I grabbed my woolen coat and headed for the door on my way back to St. Ann’s House to play with my new games and toys. As I turned to exit the front door of St. Therese’s House, I ran into Sister Catherine. She was in a cheerful mood as she leaned down and kissed me. “Happy feast day, my goddaughter,” she said quietly. “Did you have a lovely time at the community meeting?” “Oh, yes, Sister Catherine,” I replied, feeling in that moment that she really did love me. As I paused, reveling in the fact that she had singled me out for special treatment, she reached up to a shelf and took down her hat and pinned it to her hair, the telltale sign she was leaving the property. In an instant, I realized that Sister Catherine was going home to her family in Waltham for Christmas dinner. We left St. Therese’s House together, she to get into her car to drive home, and I to walk back to St. Ann’s House. As the afternoon turned to dusk, I watched the sun, a giant orange-red ball of fire, while it slowly drifted toward the horizon in the southwest sky.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  In the center of the table was a platter heaped with seafood delicacies—shrimp, lobster, and oysters—none of which I’d ever had before, all of which were scrumptious. The second course was lobster bisque, served from a soup terrine that matched the china plates and soup bowls. The main course was roast beef with mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, and peas. As we ate, my mother and grandmother kept up a torrent of conversation about the family—aunts and uncles, nephews, nieces, and cousins in Maryland and Virginia and in nearby towns in Massachusetts. I found my relatives’ names both foreign and fascinating—Bernice, Budgie, Charlotte, LaVerne. No one seemed to be named for a saint. Grandma asked about Jim, as she referred to my father, and about my siblings—how old they were and what we were studying in school. My brain was running out of room for all the information about my newfound family, but I didn’t want it to stop. Through it all, Grandpa hardly spoke a word as he kept bringing his handkerchief to his eyes to stem the stream of tears. It was like the parable of the Prodigal Son, I thought. Sister Elizabeth Ann hadn’t spoken to them in years, yet they had prepared the most elaborate and elegant meal I’d ever had. She was back now, and the past didn’t seem to matter. After lunch, my mother showed me around the apartment. I was impressed with how big it was. “This was my first bedroom,” she said, gesturing into a room with a delicate-flowered wallpaper and a light green bedspread. “I stayed here until my Aunt Bernice got married. Then I moved into her bedroom here,” and she walked a few steps down the hallway. A baby doll lay on the bed and my mother explained. “That was my doll Sally, the only doll I ever cared for.” I reveled in this opportunity to uncover a small fragment of my mother’s past. Here in her own home, she felt no obligation to abide by the rule forbidding any mention of the life she led before the Center. As we came back into the kitchen, I started to help Grandpa with the dishes. “No dirty work for my granddaughter,” he said. I laughed. “Grandpa, I do the dishes all the time. Let me help. You wash, and I’ll dry.” And for the first time since our arrival, he stopped crying, and we chatted quietly in the kitchen. When it came time to leave, we hugged and kissed, and Grandpa began to weep again. My mother, holding his hands in hers, said, “You must come up to visit in Still River so you can meet the rest of your grandchildren.” “We will come,” they promised as we closed the door and headed down the stairs and back to Still River. I was sworn to secrecy about the meeting that day.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I was deliberately ignorant of the array of drugs that were popular among students and young working professionals—Quaaludes, LSD, glue, and a cornucopia of drugs I learned about when I saw the movie of the late 1960s, “Valley of the Dolls.” The fear of losing control in a world I was still learning to navigate tempered any curiosity I might have had about experimenting with these drugs. I confided only in my English girlfriend, who in turn told me he’d tried to rape her on one occasion when he offered her a ride home. It was comforting to share the nightmare with someone who understood—we were now kindred victims of barbarism. But this remained our secret—I did not share it even with my family for over four decades. 61 Martha’s Vineyard 1971 T he midsummer sun broke from behind the towering plumes of white puffy clouds and flooded us with late-afternoon warmth, its light suffusing the deck in a hazy glow that invited us to bask. Clad in a pink bikini, I sat with my parents on the deck of the summer cottage on Martha’s Vineyard they had been offered for the weekend. Each of us was nursing a refreshing gin and tonic as we gazed out over the rolling dunes to the ocean beyond. My three sisters had headed out on a bike ride, and my brother was surf casting in an ill-fated attempt to surprise us with dinner. This was summer at its best—a family gathering in an idyllic setting. A casual observer looking upon this family by the sea might have thought the Walsh clan was on its annual August vacation, a long-married husband and wife bringing together the young adult siblings before a time they, too, would get married and have children of their own, creating the next generation of Walshes. But this get-together was hardly a yearly tradition. For us, it was the first time in more than seventeen years that we seven Walshes were together as a family under the same roof. It was our first family vacation, and the sheer newness of it was exhilarating. My father seemed particularly elated, like a king who is proud of what he has wrought in his kingdom. His joy was a family reunited, made complete only a couple of months earlier when the last two of his daughters left the Center and moved into the family home in Cambridge. “What a beautiful day,” my father said. “Beautiful” and “delicious” seemed to be his two favorite words. They expressed his constant state of mind these days—happy. “And how wonderful to have the whole family together.” “Cathy seems so much happier,” I responded, referring to my sister Mary Catherine, who had been a particular source of worry to him.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  In the center of the table was a platter heaped with seafood delicacies—shrimp, lobster, and oysters—none of which I’d ever had before, all of which were scrumptious. The second course was lobster bisque, served from a soup terrine that matched the china plates and soup bowls. The main course was roast beef with mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, and peas. As we ate, my mother and grandmother kept up a torrent of conversation about the family—aunts and uncles, nephews, nieces, and cousins in Maryland and Virginia and in nearby towns in Massachusetts. I found my relatives’ names both foreign and fascinating—Bernice, Budgie, Charlotte, LaVerne. No one seemed to be named for a saint. Grandma asked about Jim, as she referred to my father, and about my siblings—how old they were and what we were studying in school. My brain was running out of room for all the information about my newfound family, but I didn’t want it to stop. Through it all, Grandpa hardly spoke a word as he kept bringing his handkerchief to his eyes to stem the stream of tears. It was like the parable of the Prodigal Son, I thought. Sister Elizabeth Ann hadn’t spoken to them in years, yet they had prepared the most elaborate and elegant meal I’d ever had. She was back now, and the past didn’t seem to matter. After lunch, my mother showed me around the apartment. I was impressed with how big it was. “This was my first bedroom,” she said, gesturing into a room with a delicate-flowered wallpaper and a light green bedspread. “I stayed here until my Aunt Bernice got married. Then I moved into her bedroom here,” and she walked a few steps down the hallway. A baby doll lay on the bed and my mother explained. “That was my doll Sally, the only doll I ever cared for.” I reveled in this opportunity to uncover a small fragment of my mother’s past. Here in her own home, she felt no obligation to abide by the rule forbidding any mention of the life she led before the Center. As we came back into the kitchen, I started to help Grandpa with the dishes. “No dirty work for my granddaughter,” he said. I laughed. “Grandpa, I do the dishes all the time. Let me help. You wash, and I’ll dry.” And for the first time since our arrival, he stopped crying, and we chatted quietly in the kitchen. When it came time to leave, we hugged and kissed, and Grandpa began to weep again. My mother, holding his hands in hers, said, “You must come up to visit in Still River so you can meet the rest of your grandchildren.” “We will come,” they promised as we closed the door and headed down the stairs and back to Still River. I was sworn to secrecy about the meeting that day.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  path by the front of St. Ann’s House, heedless of the possible consequences but reassured with the knowledge that Sister Catherine had already left to be home with her family. He saw me, stopped, and his eyes lit up. Without giving him an opportunity to say a word, I spoke as fast as I could, well aware of the danger I was courting. “This is the day Grandma died,” I said. “I remembered her at First Breakfast. I wanted you to know that.” His expression spoke to me before his words, which were soft and tender, and uttered as though he was amazed. “How wonderful of you to remember, my little princess.” I dared not stay a second longer. I blew him a kiss and then turned and ran back down the walkway in a state of euphoria. I 24 Surprises, Good and Bad 1958 t was a snowy afternoon in February, only weeks after we’d moved from Cambridge, when Sister Catherine showed up unexpectedly in the Little Sisters’ corridor. She had a surprise for us, she said, and with that she unboxed twenty life-sized baby dolls, selecting one for each of us so that they matched our own hair and eye color. They were dressed identically in a white blouse and blue jumper, the same as our own uniform. “Now, dears,” she said in a serious voice, “you must promise me that you will keep this a secret. You mustn’t breathe a word of it to Father. He doesn’t understand little girls the way I do.” I got the picture—Father didn’t want us to have dolls because they were worldly. But I also pondered Sister Catherine’s words—that she understood little girls. I wanted to believe her, and I wanted to think of her in a motherly way. She was now the only person at the Center who could dispense love and I craved it from her. But those moments were fleeting and her love always felt conditional, as though a temporary reward for obedience to her. Bedtime stories, banished in Cambridge by Sister Matilda, after we were separated from our parents, were re-instituted by Sister Catherine. In addition, she took to reading to us during dinnertime several evenings a week. My favorite book was Fabiola, which had the subtitle, The Church of the Catacombs. A nineteenth-century novel by the English Catholic cardinal Nicholas Wiseman, it was a tale of conversion and martyrdom, the latter generally depicted in gruesome detail. The heroine was an elegant and brilliant young woman named

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

  Haitians love the food from our island, but they judge gluttony. I suspect this rises out of the poverty for which Haiti is too often and too narrowly known. When you are overweight in a Haitian family, your body is a family concern. Everyone—siblings, parents, aunts, uncles, grandmothers, cousins—has an opinion, judgment, or piece of counsel. They mean well. We love hard and that love is inescapable. My family has been inordinately preoccupied with my body since I was thirteen years old. My mother, who stayed home to raise my brothers and me, did not teach me how to cook, and I had little interest in being taught. I just enjoyed watching her prepare our meals from the periphery of the kitchen—the efficiency with which she pursued the task always impressed me. Her brow furrowed in concentration. She could hold a conversation, but when something demanded her attention, she hushed and it was like the whole world fell away from her. She did not enjoy sharing the kitchen space and did not want help. She always wore latex gloves, like a doctor—to avoid contamination, she said. She was known to add a drop of Clorox to the water when washing meat or fruit or vegetables. She washed a dish or cutting board or bowl immediately after it had been used. Save for the aromas wafting from the gas stove, you would never know my mother was cooking. Throughout my childhood, my mother prepared a bewildering combination of foods—American dishes from the Betty Crocker Cookbook or The Joy of Cooking one night, and a Haitian meal the next. The dishes I remember, the ones I love most, are Haitian—legumes, fried plantains, red rice, black rice; griyo, or pork marinated in blood orange and roasted with shallots; Haitian macaroni and cheese—everything served with sauce (a tomato-based sauce with thyme, peppers, and onions) and spicy pickled vegetables, everything made from scratch. This was how my mother demonstrated her affection. My mother didn’t believe in processed foods or fast food, so I have never eaten many foods people take for granted—TV dinners, Chef Boyardee, Kraft Mac & Cheese. She was ahead of her time. Her stance infuriated my brothers and me because our American friends got to eat magical foods like sugary breakfast cereals, and snack on Cheetos and Chips Ahoy and Little Debbie Snack Cakes. “Fruit is a snack,” my mom would tell us. I vowed, when I grew up, to decorate my home with clear glass bowls filled with M&M’s and she laughed. The older we got, the laxer my mom became. By the time my youngest brother arrived, junk food had breached the perimeter of our home, though in the moderation entirely characteristic of my parents.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  M 6 A Family of the Heart 1951–1952 y earliest memories are filled with the sounds of laughter. Though I was only three years old, I knew each of the more than sixty adults at the Center by name. We were family. Three times a day we gathered for meals. We prayed together in the morning at Mass and in the evening at Benediction. The men and women of the Center became an array of “uncles and aunts,” with someone ready at any time of the day to play games with me, read to me, or take me for a walk. My favorite “aunt” was Betty Sullivan, a soft-spoken woman with gentle brown eyes and shoulder-length dark hair much like my mother’s. When my parents attended the frequent evening lectures at the Center, she would come to our apartment and babysit. Sunday mornings were made extra special when she’d take me to the banks of the Charles River where I’d pick daffodils or buttercups. Most mornings after breakfast, I’d put my hand in hers, and we’d make the ten-minute trip along the streets of Cambridge to the Center. I knew the route by heart. As we walked, I’d skip around Betty, grabbing first her right hand and then her left as I circled her, while she seemed to glide along the sidewalk like a guardian angel before delivering me safely into the hubbub at the Center. The Center was a four-story gray building at the junction of Bow and Arrow Streets, fronted with floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows that faced both St. Paul’s Church and Harvard’s renowned Adams House. The ground floor consisted of one long rectangular room, its stucco walls painted a dull white and

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  In an act of Catholic kindness, the prioress of one of the splinter groups of Big Sisters admitted Betty into their convent on her deathbed, fulfilling a request she had been making for years—that she be allowed to rejoin the Center. She was buried in the Center’s cemetery, and the stone on her grave is inscribed: Sister Mary Elizabeth. After I had been living for several years in New York City, I reconnected with Charles Forgeron (formerly Brother Sebastian). He was single and often in need of an escort in his active social life and for several years in a row, we attended an annual ball at the Pierre Hotel. Sadly, he, too, died young, of a heart attack at the age of sixty-three. Over the next couple of decades, the bond with the “uncles” and “aunts” of my youth remained as warm as when I was a child. They rejoiced in my marriage and shared in the joy of the two children that followed. A year before my children were born, my husband’s ex-wife died. I pondered the fact that my husband was now a widower, and in the eyes of the Catholic Church I was free to be married as a Catholic. But I let the idea percolate without acting upon it until I was closing in on my fiftieth birthday. My sister Peggy had organized the annual “Center Children” reunion. It was to be held on August 15, the day before my birthday. I told my husband that I would like to have our marriage receive a Catholic blessing by Abbot Gabriel, and he was all in favor of that. The abbot had been one of the Big Brothers who became ordained as a priest after the Center reconciled with the Catholic Church and subsequently was elected abbot when the community joined the Benedictine order. To me he remained one of my favorite “uncles.” When I reached out to the abbot and let him know of my wish, his response, not surprisingly, was one of elation. He promised a very quiet affair, as I requested—nothing that would get the attention of the rest of the large crowd that would be arriving for the picnic, and he reassured me that we would go off premises to the small Catholic church in the center of town. My dearest friend, Alexandra Trower, agreed to be my witness, and the only other attendants were my parents. [image file=Image00041.jpg] What I had not anticipated was the abbot’s decision to turn a requested “Catholic blessing” into a full Catholic wedding, concelebrated by one of the other priests from the abbey. I was on the verge of giggles when, during the ceremony, the abbot asked the question that is part of the Catholic wedding ceremony, “Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God?” I was about to be fifty and my husband was fifty-nine. I answered in the affirmative; I’m not sure my husband did.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  T 61 Martha’s Vineyard 1971 he midsummer sun broke from behind the towering plumes of white puffy clouds and flooded us with late-afternoon warmth, its light suffusing the deck in a hazy glow that invited us to bask. Clad in a pink bikini, I sat with my parents on the deck of the summer cottage on Martha’s Vineyard they had been offered for the weekend. Each of us was nursing a refreshing gin and tonic as we gazed out over the rolling dunes to the ocean beyond. My three sisters had headed out on a bike ride, and my brother was surf casting in an ill-fated attempt to surprise us with dinner. This was summer at its best—a family gathering in an idyllic setting. A casual observer looking upon this family by the sea might have thought the Walsh clan was on its annual August vacation, a long-married husband and wife bringing together the young adult siblings before a time they, too, would get married and have children of their own, creating the next generation of Walshes. But this get-together was hardly a yearly tradition. For us, it was the first time in more than seventeen years that we seven Walshes were together as a family under the same roof. It was our first family vacation, and the sheer newness of it was exhilarating. My father seemed particularly elated, like a king who is proud of what he has wrought in his kingdom. His joy was a family reunited, made complete only a couple of months earlier when the last two of his daughters left the Center and moved into the family home in Cambridge.

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

  Until I started gaining weight, I had a healthy attitude toward food. My mother is not a woman with a passion for cooking, but she harbors an intense passion for her family. Throughout my childhood, she prepared healthy, well-rounded meals for us, which we ate together at the dinner table. There were no rushed dinners sitting in front of the television or standing at the kitchen counter. We kids eagerly talked about our latest school projects, like a suspension bridge made out of balsa wood or a baking soda volcano. We shared our accomplishments, like a good report card—which was of course the expectation—or a goal scored in a soccer match. My brothers and I bickered toward the end of dinner, usually over who would do the dishes. My parents, Haitian immigrants, talked about things we only half understood, like the American neighbors or my father’s latest construction project. We talked about the goings-on of the world. We talked about what we wanted for ourselves. I took it for granted that this is what all families did—come together and become an island unto themselves, the kitchen table the sun around which we revolved. The food my mother cooked for us was good, but it was secondary to the way we invested in being so connected to one another. My parents always made it seem like my brothers and I were terribly interesting, asking us thoughtful questions about our childish musings, urging us to be our best selves. If we were slighted, they were offended on our behalf. When we had some small moment of glory, they reveled in it. I fell asleep most nights flush with the joy of knowing I belonged to these people and they belonged to me. Even as I became more and more withdrawn, my family remained strong, connected in these intimate, indelible ways. I have no doubt that my parents noticed the change in me. They would continue to notice, to worry over me, for the next twenty years and longer. But they didn’t know how to talk to me and I didn’t let them in. When they tried, I deflected, refusing to take the lifelines they offered me. The longer I kept my secret, the more attached I became to keeping my truth to myself, the more I nurtured my silence. 15The only way I know of moving through the world is as a Haitian American, a Haitian daughter. A Haitian daughter is a good girl. She is respectful, studious, hardworking. She never forgets the importance of her heritage. We are part of the first free black nation in the Western Hemisphere, my brothers and I were often told. No matter how far we have fallen, when it matters most, we rise.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  of an escort in his active social life and for several years in a row, we attended an annual ball at the Pierre Hotel. Sadly, he, too, died young, of a heart attack at the age of sixty-three. Over the next couple of decades, the bond with the “uncles” and “aunts” of my youth remained as warm as when I was a child. They rejoiced in my marriage and shared in the joy of the two children that followed. A year before my children were born, my husband’s ex-wife died. I pondered the fact that my husband was now a widower, and in the eyes of the Catholic Church I was free to be married as a Catholic. But I let the idea percolate without acting upon it until I was closing in on my fiftieth birthday. My sister Peggy had organized the annual “Center Children” reunion. It was to be held on August 15, the day before my birthday. I told my husband that I would like to have our marriage receive a Catholic blessing by Abbot Gabriel, and he was all in favor of that. The abbot had been one of the Big Brothers who became ordained as a priest after the Center reconciled with the Catholic Church and subsequently was elected abbot when the community joined the Benedictine order. To me he remained one of my favorite “uncles.” When I reached out to the abbot and let him know of my wish, his response, not surprisingly, was one of elation. He promised a very quiet affair, as I requested—nothing that would get the attention of the rest of the large crowd that would be arriving for the picnic, and he reassured me that we would go off premises to the small Catholic church in the center of town. My dearest friend, Alexandra Trower, agreed to be my witness, and the only other attendants were my parents.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  assigned to be a trumpet player, a role I detested. I thought my head would explode when I played the high notes, and in the winter, as we marched in frigid weather, my bony fingers ached and then lost all sense of feeling as I struggled to push the valves, frozen with frost. When I could no longer take the pain in my head and my fingers, I pretended to play, hoping the Little Sisters on either side of me couldn’t tell that no sound was coming from my trumpet. M 27 “Birthday” Present 1959 y eleventh birthday came in the middle of August on a hot and humid day. There would be no celebration, but I had become used to that. All I cared about was that I see Brother James Aloysius and hear his whispered, “Happy birthday, my little princess”—a secret tradition we’d established between just the two of us on each of our birthdays. It was Sunday, and this meant the garage where he worked would be closed and we would be playing down in the meadow far from St. Therese’s House. This made the prospect of finding each other more challenging, and by midafternoon, I was losing hope. Where is he? He couldn’t have forgotten, could he? As the other Little Sisters played cowboys and Indians, I paced the field, pretending to look for wildflowers, but all the while keeping an eagle eye on the long, sloping hill that stretched from the barns to our playing fields. Minutes passed like hours. Please, God, please make him come this way. I’ll never do anything bad again in my life. Scarcely had I finished my prayer for what had to have been the twentieth time that day when I looked up toward the barns. And there he was. I stopped and stared in disbelief. Yes, it was Brother James Aloysius, slowly making his way down the long, rutted road. He looked elegant in his long black cassock, the dress the Big Brothers wore when they weren’t working, the neatly folded cincture flapping to the side keeping time with his steps. He found me. He found me. My prayers had been answered.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  but better than before. My partner became an integral part of my large family, and he was particularly fond of my father. The three of us traveled together to places that included Haiti, Bermuda, and Mexico. While the two of them read and played chess together, I did things they thought insane—parasailing in Mexico (long before it was safe), trekking alone into the congested iron market of Port-au-Prince. The sybaritic atmosphere brought out the best in my father, and I reveled in the pleasure he took in acting like a man of leisure. I developed a deep friendship with my lover’s children, attending the weddings of three of his four children. But my closest relationship was with his mother, whom I came to adore, from that first visit in France and for years after when she moved back to New York and took up residency at the Gramercy Park Hotel. Tall and handsome, her daily attire was a pair of tan Chanel trousers topped with a white silk blouse and a hacking jacket. Her closely cropped white hair was complimented by elegant gold earrings and a bold shade of lipstick. Me at the Oloffson Hotel in Port-au-Prince, Haiti–1978. She was profoundly urbane, and we bonded despite our more than forty years’ difference in age. Sadly, I lacked the courage to share my childhood story with

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  her hair rolled up in a bun that looked like a half-moon and a tiny black hat pinned on her head. I was dressed in my postulant’s attire. What will my grandparents think of our clothes? But my mother seemed unperturbed as she walked up the front steps, turned the brass knob, and opened the heavy brown door without ringing the doorbell, as though it really were her own place. The hallway had mullioned windows at each floor that let in warm sunlight with a pink tinge. In the air was the scent of cooking, a sign of family life behind the closed doors. “Our apartment is on the third floor,” she said. “Follow me.” Together we climbed the broad wooden stairs, Sister Elizabeth Ann leading the way with a brisk and almost impatient stride, while I followed, holding my breath with anxious anticipation. We reached the second-floor landing, then headed up to the third. “Hello,” Sister Elizabeth Ann called out as we neared the top step. In an instant, the door flew open, as though my grandparents had been waiting for us with their ears pressed against the door. My spectacled grandfather, tall, broad chested, and bald, was dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt, and tie. He greeted my mother with outstretched arms, unable to speak, as tears streamed down his cheeks. She embraced him, and they hugged, the silence broken only by his sobs. My grandmother stood a bit behind him, dry-eyed but beaming. She was a tiny, white-haired woman, poised and upright, wearing an elegant pink suit and matching pink lipstick. “Betsy,” she said as they kissed. “It’s so good to see you.” I was taken aback at hearing my mother called Betsy. It seemed out of place, almost a mistake. After that first emotional moment passed, my mother turned to introduce me. “And this is my oldest daughter.” “Mary Pat,” said my grandmother, “you are some lovely young lady.” I was flattered, but also caught off-guard. I hadn’t been called Mary Pat since Father had changed my name to Anastasia when I was nearly five years old. It was strange to hear myself called by my real name. My grandmother’s accent was Southern, and she said my name as though it were one word: “Marepat.” Holding my hand and leading me into the living room, she cooed, “Now dearie, you just call us Grandma and Grandpa.”