Wake Up With Purpose!, page 4
Most of all, I like that most sports require teamwork. That’s what life is all about. Families have to have teamwork. Husbands and wives have to have teamwork. Businesses have to have teamwork. Sports encourage all of that. We say all the time at Loyola, “No one person can do it alone. It has to be the whole group together.” You have to take things one game at a time. And if you lose, you have to be a good sport about it. You can’t mope around afterward. You have to pick up the pieces and get going again.
There are so many benefits to competition. It really helps develop life skills. If we sit back and don’t compete, our character doesn’t grow. That’s why I believe competition should start when children are young.
Losing is tough no matter how or when it happens. If you play a game, there is going to be a winner and a loser. But so long as that’s the case, I’d much rather win.
* * *
By the time I was a senior in high school, I was ready to convert my dream into a plan. Being a BVM sister required enrolling at the Mount Carmel Motherhouse in Dubuque, Iowa. I didn’t know anything about Iowa—I just knew that’s where my teachers had studied, and therefore I wanted to study there as well.
When I informed one of the sisters of my plan, she asked, “Did you write and ask if you could come?” I was confused. What did she mean, “write and ask”? I thought I could just show up.
She shook her head. “No, you need permission,” she said. “Write them a letter.” I did as she said, and a few weeks later I received an acceptance letter in the mail.
The BVM community was founded by five Irish women who opened a school in Dublin, Ireland, in 1831. Two years later, they met a Catholic priest from Philadelphia. He told them about the struggles of Irish Catholic immigrants in America and invited them to cross the Atlantic and plant their gospel. We were always told the story of Eliza Kelly, who was entrusted with the purse that held all their money. When the ladies arrived in Philadelphia harbor, Eliza walked down the rope ladder to take them to the boat that would carry them ashore, and she accidentally dropped the purse with all their money into the ocean. Imagine her despair!
The sisters taught the children of other Irish immigrants in Philadelphia. Several years later they moved to Iowa and established their community. As more and more women entered the congregation, the original building couldn’t contain them all, so they built a bigger place at Mount Carmel, and it grew from there.
Two other girls from my high school, Nora Sheehan and Dolores Black, also enrolled at Mount Carmel. We had to take a ferry boat from San Francisco to Oakland and then a train from Oakland to Grand Island, Nebraska. From there, we transferred to another train that transported us to Dubuque.
The area was gorgeous. The building was nice and the grounds were very well-kept. It sat on charming bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River. There was even an apple orchard on the property. Our own little garden of Eden!
Our entrance day was September 8, 1937. There were forty-five of us who entered the motherhouse that day. Most of us had just finished high school, although a few had gone to college. We had to bring with us all the things we needed, including blankets, pillows, and towels. Our moms also had to make our postulant habits. My mom learned to make mine with the help of a neighbor who had three daughters who became sisters. She packed it into my trunk with the rest of my belongings and shipped it to Dubuque.
Four days after we entered, we were given our habits. Eight to ten of us were assigned to each dormitory. For the next six months we served as postulants, beginning our education on what religious life was all about. Our Postulant Directress taught us the process of meditating. She wanted us to meditate for a half hour each morning, which at the time seemed like an eternity.
The facility in Dubuque has been described as a convent, but that is not true. It’s a motherhouse, created to educate future sisters. I’ve been called a nun so often that I use the word to describe myself, but it’s also inaccurate. Technically, I’m a sister, not a nun. The difference is that a nun lives more of a contemplative life in prayer and solitude. That would never have worked for me. I loved being around people too much, and I knew from the very beginning that I wanted to teach young kids. The BVM sisters were dedicated to doing just that.
Our days as postulants were very busy! They started with our wake-up call at 5 a.m. We were in the chapel by 5:20. Following prayers, meditation, and mass, we went to breakfast, which was served by the novices, who went table to table. After the meal, we all went out for a walk. That usually meant going down to the cemetery and praying for the deceased sisters. Then we put on what we called our “blues,” which were blue aprons, and did our chores, which took a couple of hours and usually meant cleaning around the dormitory or classrooms. Then we came back for instructions before lunch. That meal, like all the meals, was conducted in silence.
From there, we attended afternoon classes. Classes were always in between chores and activities. We’d have one or two in the morning and then several after lunch. The sisters from Clarke College came over and taught us. They would tease us that we should all get good grades because we didn’t go out like “normal” college students, but we let them know that we were kept plenty busy on that campus. We didn’t have a ton of free time!
When evening came, we had private prayer time in the chapel, followed by dinner and spiritual readings. After an hour or so of recreation, we had spiritual reading time and then our nightly prayers. At 9 p.m. it was time for bed. We rarely had trouble falling asleep.
I didn’t mind the work and the long hours, but I found myself wishing we had more time for studying. Besides our formation classes and other religious classes, we were taught English, history, and literature. Another priest from Loras College taught us philosophy of education and American education in order to get us ready to fulfill our mission of teaching.
We were also taught to be loving and to care for one another, and I honestly don’t remember any bickering, maybe because there was really nothing to argue about. I made lots of friends among my fellow novices, and we kept in touch for a long time afterward, although I’m sad to say I’m the only one still living out of my group.
On weekend afternoons we would go for walks over the hills. Sometimes we’d walk as far as Julien Dubuque’s grave, which was a couple of miles each way. It was lovely to be outside together on a sunny day with a soft breeze tickling the hills. We had various gardening projects where we turned some of the local land into gardens and responsible to keep them in proper shape. There wasn’t much water supply, so we’d have to fill up buckets and carry them. In the winter when it snowed, we’d get sleds and ride down the hills together.
We also had to abide by a rule against talking. That was the hardest part for me. (No kidding, right?) The motherhouse is still operational, and I heard they got rid of the no talking rule. Good riddance, I say. Fortunately, we had a very generous Postulant Directress who had taught in a high school. She was in residence with the girls, so she knew a lot about young people. When she saw we were getting antsy, she would put a sign on the board that read “High Party.” That meant we were to go up to the attic, have some treats, and socialize to our hearts’ content. We were supposed to keep this a secret from the older sisters, but I’m sure they found out about it. Because of these special treats and hearty meals, we all gained some weight. In college today they call it the “Freshman Fifteen” because new students tend to gain fifteen pounds that first year. It was the same for the motherhouse.
Because the curriculum was so challenging, it forced us to decide whether this religious life was for us. For some of the girls there, it was too much, and a few of them decided to leave. That thought never once occurred to me. I really believed this was my proper vocation. I wanted to serve God and serve God’s people.
I was there for two and a half years, and throughout that period I felt myself moving closer to God. What does that feel like? Well, for me, it’s a feeling of relaxation, and most of all, just knowing I was on the proper course. It helped that no one, least of all my family, ever forced me into this choice. I never felt pressured to do it. It came 100 percent from within. I owned it, and I never questioned it. I knew I was in the right place and that the sacrifices I was making would set me up for a happy, purposeful life.
* * *
I wouldn’t say I was homesick, but I definitely missed my family. My brother sent me Henry cartoons from the newspaper because he knew I loved them so much. I was pleasantly surprised when my mom came to see me one December. That was not the normal visiting time, but she had written to the Postulant Directress and said she missed her only daughter very much. She wanted to come and give me a Christmas present on her way to visiting her family in Philadelphia.
I was so delighted to see her. I met her in the Postulant Directress’s office, where my mom gave the Directress a Christmas present. It was a box of walnuts, cookies, and an assortment of goodies. A short while later the Directress, Sister Angelice, came back holding up a bottle of whiskey she had found in the box. “What did you expect me to do with this?” she asked.
My mom was so embarrassed! She had given the Directress the wrong box, one she intended to give her sister in Philadelphia. She suggested to Sister Angelice that she could keep the bottle because the whiskey would help settle stomachs if someone got sick. The sister took her up on the idea.
My mom was there for the selection of my religious name. The Mother General asked her, “What kind of name would you like for your daughter?” My mom said she didn’t want me to have her name. “That’s okay,” the Mother General said. “We already have a Sister Bertha.”
My mom mentioned that I had always liked the name Dolores, but that wasn’t an option because there were already a lot of combinations of that name. Finally, the Postulant Directress took her finger and ran it down a list of Christian names. She stopped it between Jane and Jean. She decided Jean sounded better. Sometimes I think about that moment and wonder how the Mother General would have reacted if she knew that some eighty years later millions of people would come to know the name “Sister Jean” just because a basketball team won a few games nobody thought it could win. I’m sure she would have gotten a kick out of it.
I was unable to visit my family during my stay at the motherhouse, but unlike many of the students who lived locally and were able to receive visits from their parents, I was allowed to talk on the phone to my parents several times. By that time my dad had become a deputy sheriff in San Francisco, and part of his job was to take prisoners back to their home cities after they got releases or for court dates. He took a few of them to Chicago, and when he did, he drove to Dubuque to see me.
I learned so much during my two and a half years at the motherhouse. For starters, I learned to get along with all kinds of people whose ideas were different from mine. I also learned the fundamentals of what it would take to become a good teacher. I knew this was the central part of my mission, and though I was looking forward to that, I had my doubts as to just how ready I was.
Most of all, my time in Dubuque taught me to love God even more. My relationship with God was evolving into a more mature one, less childlike. There’s something to be said for a child’s unabashed faith, but as we mature we understand what it really means to love God, just like we come to understand what it really means to love another person. I felt more invested in my relationship with God, and as a result I believed I could depend on Him more. It’s kind of like a courtship. At first it’s very intense, but as the relationship grows, it becomes deeper, more solid. It’s not puppy love anymore.
In March 1940, I made my vows and was declared a Sister of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary—just like I had dreamed about in third grade. When I look back at this time in my life, I honestly can’t believe that the dream that first came to me as a young girl put me on such a gratifying, godly path. All I ever wanted to do was serve God and teach children. I had my dream, but I also made my plans and worked very hard to see them through. This is what I try to teach the young people I talk to every day at Loyola. When one of them tells me about his or her dreams, I eagerly chime in, “Go for it! Go for your dreams! You’ll always regret it if you don’t.” But I am quick to add that a dream without a plan is just a dream. Plans require action, and action requires persistence.
If you’re lucky enough to have a dream that is so powerful you’re willing to work for it, you end up with a life that is teeming with purpose. I thank God every day that He planted such a beautiful dream in my heart all those years ago and then blessed me with the fortitude to make it come true.
Four
Becoming a Teacher
Sometimes you need to speak quietly to be heard.
My first assignment as BVM sister was at Saint Vincent’s school in Chicago teaching fifth grade. I was so nervous my first day, I overprepared for my reading lesson. I was worried I wouldn’t have enough time. At the end of the day a little girl, Evelyn, came up to me and said, “Sister Jean, it’s time to do the brushes.” The first one in each row was given a handheld brush so that each student could sweep under their desks. The school didn’t have a janitor, so they relied on the students to clean up at the end of the day. I was grateful for that little girl’s help on my first day because I had a lot to learn about the daily routine.
I would never have made it through those first few months without Sister Laurena. She taught the other fifth-grade class and helped me with my lesson plans. Every Sunday we mapped out the week on 3x5 index cards. We gave the same exams on Fridays for math and English. Some of the teachers at Saint Vincent’s were much older, and because of that, it seemed to me the children were running footloose and fancy-free. I felt that I needed to set a firmer tone. When I walked into the room, I made sure to get everybody settled. Then I could loosen things up as the school year went along.
I figured out early on that the key to being a good teacher was to make learning fun, especially when dealing with elementary school kids. There’s only so much they can do if they feel like they have to grind their way through the day. This is a common mistake that teachers make—it’s my way or the highway! I believe it’s more effective to meet the students halfway. Actually, most of the time you have to meet them all the way. But that was okay with me. If you make them understand that you want them not only to learn but to enjoy learning, then they will do what you want. Well, mostly, anyway.
I remember one boy named Patrick who was especially rowdy. He was the youngest of seven children, so he was used to having to stand up for himself all the time. I asked the principal if she had any advice. She suggested I take a holy picture of Saint John Bosco and slip it into one of his schoolbooks. I’m not sure what that was supposed to accomplish, but when Patrick found it, he tore it up. However, I stayed with it, and I eventually wore him down. One day we were working through a challenging lesson on fractions. I was trying to explain the concept of inversions, but the students were confused. So I asked Patrick to come to the front of the room. Then I lifted him up and turned him upside down. “Here,” I said. “This is what it means to invert fractions.” I think the students understood it a little better after that.
I stayed in a very old house that used to be part of the school. There were twenty-one sisters living there, and the older ones had private rooms. Since I was new, I had a roommate, Sister Mary of the Angels. I knew her because she was a year ahead of me at the motherhouse, and we got along quite well.
The school was big, but it didn’t have a playground. The streets had to be blocked off for recess so the children could play. The teachers were assigned what we called yard duty to make sure there weren’t any fights. There was another sister there two years ahead of me named Sister Margaret. She and I used to play marbles together at recess with the boys. We had our own marbles, and the kids would gather around us to watch.
We weren’t the only school in the area, so it was quite an active scene with all those rambunctious kids in the streets. Sometimes we let the kids from different schools play together. There would be a fight from time to time, but nothing too serious. I’d get in there and pull the kids apart, but I never got knocked over. I had brothers—I could more than hold my own.
Our students’ families were mostly Irish. These immigrant families wanted to maintain a semblance of community. They raised enough money to build their own churches, which is why there are so many Catholic churches in Chicago today. I wasn’t aware of any discrimination they faced, but I later learned it was happening.
The school was located in a poor neighborhood. A number of homeless men came to the house where we lived on Kenmore Avenue for lunch. We had a sister who cooked, and oftentimes she took care of the men. School tuition was around a dollar a month, and many of our families couldn’t afford even that. Sometimes the parents would show up with a quarter because that was all they had, and we accepted it. Many of them came from big families, and in those days the moms didn’t work, so it was up to the dads to feed all those hungry children.
We were blessed with a terrific principal and superior, Sister Mary Idus. She helped me learn that every little mishap was not a big tragedy. I was so young and eager, and I wanted everything to be perfect. I was not comfortable with my own limitations. Sister Mary Idus was a godsend. For example, she came to the rescue when it was time to put on a show for the school. The show didn’t raise a lot of money, but people brought supplies that lasted us throughout the school year.
That year the play had a Native American theme, and I was charged with providing all the costumes. We got the materials, and one of the songs in that play was “God Bless America.” I had never heard it before. Kate Smith had just recorded it, so I had to learn it along with the children. Even though we had what we needed, I was completely overwhelmed. Sister Mary Idus kept me calm and made sure I had all the resources I needed. Then when the night of the show came, I lost my voice, so Sister Mary Idus stepped in and made sure all the students knew where they were supposed to be. The show went beautifully.
