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[Published in Girl Germs: Cunning Linguists, available here.]

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From the age of four to the age of sixteen, I attended an all-girls Dominican Order Convent.

Growing up in a Catholic community, I knew everyone as an extension of my family. I had been drawn to the idea of women in the church from the Holy Virgin Mary to the nuns who had nurtured me. On rainy days Sister Rose would take us into the PE hall and make us do jumping jacks, her habit bobbing up and down. When playing in the yard, Sister Assumpta would have a queue of confused girls who’s laces needed urgent tying.

On our uniform under a symbol of a cross with compass hands was the word “Veritas”, the latin for truth and the ethos of the Dominican order. Veritas, in Roman mythology was the Goddess of Truth, an inspirational woman, we were told.

Often, I received education from nuns in fields where they had never received a formal training in and could not give a contemporary education but administered something similar.

A lot of the nuns seemed completely disconnected from the real world. Up until the Eighties they were only allowed to the gates of the convent to drop a letter into the dual sided postbox. One side for public, and one side for the incarcerated.

By the time I reached Secondary School, there was a shift in the system. The school had it’s first non-nun become principal and due to the dwindling numbers of nuns their quarters became cold damp apartments for the new secular staff.

One nun remained in the school system though. She was the breezy Sister Jacinta, in her late sixties. Her long whiskery pale face poked through her baby blue habit. She had big watery sky-blue eyes to match. She smiled at everyone in the corridors as she ambled by. Sister Jacinta was a “spiritual guidance counsellor” and much to our delight of getting to miss a whole class, it was compulsory to go visit her at least once a term. There was no other form of guidance counsellor.

At age 12 I visited her, and found her completely unfulfilling in terms of guiding me spiritually. I wanted a petty argument about religion, that I knew Genesis was a lie and that Knock was a little too convenient but she told me to pray my angst away. I thought of her as being less connected with young people than my grandparents, who at least sparred back. She simply existed as an antique in the attic of the 5th floor.

One of her many visitors was a girl called Sandra Cary. Sandra was a blonde, medium height girl who had managed to wear runners with her uniform everyday and never get in trouble for it. She was an unruly pupil who had a sadistic fixation on humiliating staff and pupils. No matter how vicious she was to students it never seemed as affecting as her undermining of young teachers. Miss Cummin’s mouth quivered as Sandra claimed victory over her crooked lip. Mr. Byrne stumbled with his thick Cork Accent under her watchful gaze. She was vicious and picked up on every personal flaw a person could have, and would question them sweetly about it. No one was left unterrorised. Even her closest friends displayed a fear of her, as they always jogged a beat behind her during laps of the hockey field. The days when she was absent were utopian.

The day Sandra came to visit Sister Jacinta, she did so alone. It wasn’t a pre-organised session but an urgent request on Sandra’s part. She flew up the five flights of stairs ahead of Sister Jacinta, who struggled with them. Inside the room she disclosed some personal information to Sister Jacinta, who I can only imagine felt burdened with the thought.

Sandra claimed to have been raped by a young man in her village. She described the event to Sister Jacinta, who probably read of such things but had never heard them mentioned aloud. There was no spiritual advice she could give. I imagine she would’ve mentioned praying to God to Sandra, or that she would mention her in her prayers, but the floaty Sister Jacinta was also logical. About an hour after their meeting was finished Sister Jacinta went downstairs and made a phone call. Sandra was pulled out of class and brought to the principals office.

Standing in the principals office were two Gards, the new principal, hard-nosed but fair Margaret O’Toole and Sister Jacinta. Sandra was said to have gone pure white. She was made sit down, and every person in the room offered her comfort and empathy.

She said it was all a lie.

She gushed that Sister Jacinta had made it up. I could imagine Margaret O’Toole’s glare while Sandra froze.

In the aftermath, the school buzzed with people discussing whether she was innocent or not. A lot of 14 year olds with no idea of what rape was said that she “deserved it”, and the next year when she fell pregnant the same people said she “deserved it”.

I had no idea about the implications of rape. I watched RTE news every night and each day was another chapter in the emergence of the clerical sex abuse cases. I knew it was serious and was never deserved.

Despite this, I knew she hung around with older lads and boasted about her exploits. She could easily have ended up in a situation out of her control. If she was telling the truth, it was awful. If she was lying about it, it was still awful. I wondered if it was true and she was scared of feeling vulnerable in front of so many people she had marginalised. Did she confide this in Sister Jacinta because she really had no where to turn to? I wondered what kind of home she lived in. Did her mother falter on the word “rape”, like mine did?

Then there was also the possibility that she had tired of all her playthings from the 5th floor down and the secret jeering of Sister Jacinta had been a inspiration to ask for her spiritual guidance on something she could not possibly help with.

After being put “on report”, a severe punishment for those who cared or an inconvenience to those who didn’t, her case was forgotten about and her behaviour appeared normal once again.

Sister Jacinta was relieved of her post and her office was given to maintenance. For a short while she had a desk and a stack of documents outside a toilet in an obscure part of the school for drop in spiritual chats. Eventually she disappeared from the schools interior completely. During classes years after Sandra left, I would watch her float across the grounds with her hands behind her back.

Sandra lost interest in school. The teachers there held doors open for her and received her remarks with looks of sympathy. No one ever said “congratulations” to her on her pregnancy. She sat out PE and blankly stared at her classmates play netball.

Later, I watched her finish her cigarette and board the back of her mothers people carrier. Her stomach large and “Veritas” obscured forever.