Phoebe Kate

When I was a kid, I was sent to a school taught by nuns.  Hell, my parents were Catholics — what choice did I have?

Nuns, somehow, have always seemed to strike terror even in people who have never met one, much less been taught by them.  They’re spooky, alien creatures who seem mummified in off-putting outfits (usually black) with their hair hidden under ponderous headpieces designed either by misogynists or mad scientists.  The order of nuns that ran my school wore Dracula capes and weird caps with deep, wide, flaring folds that looked like they were meant to receive messages from other parts of the galaxy.

Which, I suppose in a certain sense, they were.  Nuns, like priests, were in DIRECT COMMUNICATION WITH GOD ALMIGHTY.

Or so we Catholic kids thought.

Of course, nowadays many orders of nuns wear miniskirts and makeup and live in condos instead of convents.  Once I met a rather attractive lady enjoying a Margarita at a summer house party held poolside.  I said, “Hi, I’m Phoebe Kate.”  She said, “Hi, I’m Sister Lucy Marie.”  She was wearing a snazzy little 2-piece hot pink bathing suit and had lots of tousled streaky blonde hair cascading over her well-tanned shoulders.     

I don’t doubt that good Sister’s sanctity and holy vocation, but I’m still reeling from the sight of a nun’s boobs and belly button.  And the funny thing is, in spite of her fashionable and people-friendly exterior, she still struck terror in me, because nuns are MARRIED TO JESUS CHRIST and he’s the SON OF GOD.

Yikes.

Anyway, I learned many things of value from the women of the cloth who taught me when I was in grade school, but paramount among those lessons was THE FURRY LOOK, which was anything but warm and fuzzy and comforting.  

Moreover, it was the look of a wild animal just a second or two away from going on a rampage. The nuns had perfected it and it was how they controlled a classroom of 30 unruly kids without having to raise their voices or resort to the ruler to rap knuckles or any other body part in convenient reach. 

They’d just focus their eyes on the miscreant students in such a way that it raised the hairs on your body and made you break out in a cold sweat.  The stare was palpable — you could feel it even if your head was turned in the opposite direction.  It was akin to being stared at by a grizzly bear who had every intention of chewing off a limb or two of yours if you didn’t respect its territory RIGHT NOW.

And it worked.  Even the most obstreperous, incorrigible, yahoo boys froze in the midst of their misconduct and mended their ways when nailed by that Look.

When I was a teenager, I practiced that skill on my parents whenever they told me I couldn’t stay out until 1 A.M. on Saturday night or I had to go bring joy to Great-Aunt Carolyn who was cantankerous, contentious and incontinent.  ”Don’t give me that Furry Look,” my mother or father would say.  ”It won’t do you any good.” 

Well, it may not have helped my case back then, but I’m finding that it sure does now.  Not so long ago, I was with someone who made some remarks that were totally out of line.  My usual response to such infringements is a verbal one, but I was too tired to engage in further conversation.  So I just narrowed my eyes and stared at the person.  

Without blinking.  For a long time. 

Very long. 

So long, in fact, that the individual got flustered, stopped mid-sentence, had to look away and quickly changed not only the subject but the tone of voice.  An unproductive conversation ended without my getting upset or wearing myself out with useless emotion and disagreement.

Thanks, Sister Angelica and Sister Rosalie and Sister Beatrice and Sister Josita and especially Sister Regina.  I may not remember any geometric theorems or all those dates in history, but you taught me one thing I’ll never forget.

–phoebe kate