In Chapter Thirteen of my work in progress, I share my failure in living the religious vows as a celibate and childless woman in a patriarchal church. In retrospect, I have come to realize that the Guyana Mission, established during the British colonial period and headquartered in the United States, was not prepared for dealing with young women who challenged the lingering colonial mindset within the community.

The 1970s was a decade of great social-political-economic upheavals in our fledgling nation. The 1976 government takeover of all schools owned and run by the Catholic Church and other Christian denominations struck a decisive blow for the religious community accustomed to its autonomy. By abandoning my teaching post in Guyana’s hinterlands, I unwittingly became the first casualty for the religious community, as discussed in more detail in Chapter 16.

While the sisters struggled to adapt to the country’s new ways of thinking and being, three of the youngest professed local nuns, all trained in the United States, left the community. Of the seven of us, trained at the newly established novitiate in Guyana, only three stayed to make final or perpetual vows.

Nowadays, here in the USA, the patriarchal religious right would like to turn back time to the “Golden 1950s.” Make America Great(er) Again, they implore, bowing down before their Anointed One. A faithful disciple, now sharing the pulpit, believes that “childless cat ladies” shouldn’t have the same civic rights as women with children. What an upside-down world for women who are childless by choice or for biological reasons!

Chapter Thirteen: Living the Religious Vows in a Patriarchal Church

The Novitiate was located on the top floor of an L-shaped building, in the Catholic Hospital compound, that had once served as the nurses’ hostel. The Nursing School occupied the ground floor. Celeste and I lived with six sisters, one of whom was our Novice or Formation Mistress. The oldest was a recently retired elementary school headmistress, three were high school teachers including a headteacher, an elementary teacher-trainee, and the youngest a nurse-trainee at the hospital. Released from our teaching jobs for a year, Celeste and I spent our days at study, prayer and meditation, and charitable work: visiting the sick in the hospital and assisting in the care of abandoned children at the Red Cross Children’s Convalescent Home, not far from the hospital.

As novices, we soon learned that listening to soap operas on the radio—we had no TV in Guyana at that time—was inappropriate for the religious woman.

“It’s escapism,” Sister Marian from New York told us. A petite white woman with the largest handwriting I’d ever seen, she was a teacher and student counselor at St. John’s High School, and our tutor for Psychology 101 during our Novitiate year (1971-1972).

Listening to the radio, so much a part of our lives as Guyanese, was scratched from our daily activities. Though disconnected from worldly affairs to focus on our spiritual formation, we had face-to-face connection with men on a similar journey. Four young Guyanese Jesuit Brothers—two black, one East Indian, and one Portuguese—also in formation, joined us for courses on the Bible, theology, and Church history given by British priests of the Society of Jesus, known as Jesuits. In Paris in 1540, the Spanish soldier-turned-mystic Ignatius of Loyola, together with six companions, founded the religious order of the Society of Jesus.

As early as 1810, before the foundation of British Guiana in 1831, the Anglican Church, also known as the Church of England, had already established itself as the first religious organization in the territory. The Catholic Church, represented by three Jesuit priests, did not arrive until 1857. They came to serve the needs of the growing Catholic Portuguese community who, in 1835, had begun arriving as indentured laborers for the sugar plantations. Eight months later, six more Jesuits joined them. In May 1866, when education became their priority, they opened a Catholic Grammar school for boys in their Georgetown presbytery. With growing enrollment, they relocated the school to a more spacious school building, a few blocks away. They started the Catholic Standard newspaper in 1905 as a monthly Catholic magazine. Instrumental in inviting the English Catholic Religious Sisters to the colony in 1894, the Jesuits maintained a close supportive role with the order. It came as no surprise, then, that the Jesuits would be involved in our (Celeste and I) spiritual training for the religious life.

Of our three Jesuit tutors, Father Gregory was my favorite. A deeply religious and rigidly self-disciplined, ex-military man in his forties, he never shared with us his conversion story to Catholicism. In his classes on the Bible, we learned, among other things, about the different narrative sources—often placed side by side, as in the two creation accounts in the Book of Genesis—for the books of the Old Testament. We also covered the contradictions contained between the four Gospels of the New Testament. This was intriguing information I hadn’t learned in high school. I was hooked.

The study of Church history brought its own revelations about when and how the early Church leaders—popes, papal legates, cardinals, archbishops, and bishops—came to the definition of the Catholic doctrine on the nature of Jesus, salvation, the sacraments, and even the books to be included in the Biblical canon. No doctrine had been fixed in stone as I was led to believe. What’s more, the role of women in the Church was based on archaic beliefs of male superiority over the voiceless and powerless female.

In one of our theology classes, I raised the question of God’s gender. The Jesuit dismissed my question with a smile. At that time in the 1970s, religious sisters in the United States and elsewhere had already begun to question the male gender of God. I shared their view that God is both male and female, as stated in Genesis 1: 27 (as quoted from the King James Bible, 1611): So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.

In what was then referred to as the Third World countries, there was also the question of God’s racial identity, a topic discussed among our study group but not raised with our white tutors. In Christian art and the statues adorning our churches, God is a depicted as a white European; His son, Jesus is white; Mary, the mother of Jesus is white; and all the angels of Heaven are white. I recall the energy of the young American singers of the Up With People organization during their visit to Guyana in the 1970s. Their song, “What Color is God’s Skin,” resonated with me as I began questioning our long-held colonial beliefs of white racial superiority.

During our free time together before each class, the six of us in formation had a chance to become acquainted and share our experiences about religious life. We chatted about the political changes taking place in our country and our place in the new socialist Guyana. We could not ignore our role as religious men and women serving the poor, sick, and ignorant in speaking out against the abuses of our growing authoritarian government.

During our lunchbreak, we also shared more playful moments. They teased me about my presumptuous manner when talking with Father Gregory, then the Father Superior of the Jesuits in Guyana.

“You have a fresh-up stand-up way of talking with him,” Celeste told me, using our Creole English expression. The others agreed.

“You’re Sister Seducia,” the tallest Jesuit Brother told Celeste with a twinkle in his bespectacled eyes.

“Who is seductive is that attractive American nun…Sister Joanna,” said the shortest and most playful of the Jesuit Brothers. “Her penetrating blue eyes leave a man weak-kneed.”

Sister Joanna, in her thirties, also happened to be our tutor in human sexuality. Our course textbook was titled Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But were Afraid to Ask by Dr. David Reuben (USA, 1969).

The Brothers didn’t join us for Sister Joanna’s course, nor Sister Marian’s psychology course. Our course on the religious vows—poverty, chastity, and obedience—conducted by our Novice Mistress, was also designed only for me and Celeste.

Regulated by the Code of Canon Law of the Catholic Church, the religious vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience are public vows witnessed and accepted in the name of the Church by the Mother Superior of the religious order and the Bishop of the diocese. After completion of our novitiate period, Celeste and I took temporary vows for a three-year duration (see captioned photo), and later renewed them for another three years. Final vows, like the Christian marriage vows, meant a commitment until death. As sacred promises, the vows free the religious sister to live for God and to be a witness of His love, compassion, and care for all people.

The vow of poverty means that the sisters not only live together under the same roof, but also hold everything for common use. As for all sisters, my earnings as a high school teacher went directly to the order for the benefit of all. A small monthly stipend covered expenses with items for personal use, such as clothing and toiletries. There were times when half of my stipend went towards art materials for my students whose parents couldn’t afford to buy them.

Demanding much more than a simple lifestyle, the vow of poverty calls for detachment from material things. Without such attachment, the religious makes a commitment to share her resources, time, and talents with those she served, especially the poorest and most needy. As such, my life became one of solidarity with the poor and remains so to this day.

The vow of chastity—really a vow of celibacy—is a promise before God to live without an exclusive or sexual relationship. The sister making such a vow is no longer free to marry. In dedicating all her energies to God, she frees herself for compassionate love towards the needs of others and the world. It became for me a vow of deep loving commitment for those I served.

Living a celibate life didn’t offer me immunity from attraction for men. And they were many during my four years as an undergraduate at the University of Guyana. I remained faithful through daily prayer and meditation, dedication to my work as a teacher and voluntary social services, as well as avoiding temptations of the flesh. Understanding my body’s menstrual and ovulation cycles also proved invaluable. When our parish priest asked me to teach the natural method of birth control to a group of couples preparing for their marriage vows, I began tracking my ovulation cycle: the woman’s most fertile period of her monthly cycle. I discovered that my sexual desires peaked during this period of natural programming for the propagation of our species. Forewarned is forearmed, as the wise saying goes.

The vow of obedience was for me the most challenging of the three vows. This vow was formulated when kings and queens ruled the world. Moreover, in those early days, bishops, abbots, and abbesses were generally more educated than the general population and believed that they knew best what their underlings needed. Like the monarch, these religious leaders expected those in their charge to obey them, especially in matters of the religious life and God’s ministry.

Before the Second Vatican Council (1962-1965), the Men of God had decided the needs—teaching, nursing, or other social services—of the diocese under their jurisdiction. In turn, following the directives of their bishops and archbishops, the superiors of religious orders had determined what ministry and which location each sister should be assigned.

Vatican II freed religious orders to choose their own ministries and living arrangements. They were freed, too, to modernize or do away with the traditional habit that revealed only the nun’s face and hands. The Guyanese community had opted to modernize the habit, making it less austere and lighter for the tropical heat and humidity. In addition, the sisters no longer had to choose a religious name, but could keep their given birth name, as Celeste and I did.

In accordance with the new directives, religious superiors stopped giving orders to the sisters in their charge. Sisters were encouraged to make their own decisions on where and how to best use their talents and skills to serve God. During the discernment process of prayer and meditation, sisters who needed further guidance could consult a spiritual director, usually their chaplain or parish priest. Wary of the exclusive relationship that could develop—based on my observations, presented in Chapter Fourteen on “The Men of God”—I was never inclined to seek a spiritual director.

Old ways of thinking and doing things can persist for a generation. After years of being told what to do, the older sisters continued to rely on Mother Superior, name later changed to Regional Coordinator, for direction. Some viewed us, the young generation of novices, as disruptive or “having it easy.”

On conclusion of my first year as a novice, at the directives of the Mother Superior and her Council of five sisters, I started studying at the University of Guyana (UG), where I majored in geography and minored in sociology, with an emphasis on Caribbean society. I had preferred to study art but, at the time, the visual arts were not offered at UG. During the mornings, I returned to teaching geography, art, and religious knowledge at St. John’s High School. From five to ten o’clock in the evenings, I attended classes at the university. Since I used public transport to get to and from the Turkeyen Campus, located over four miles (7 kilometers) away from downtown Georgetown, I didn’t return home until eleven at night.

Given my work and course schedules, I was often absent from community events, leading to complaints from some sisters that I was not participating in community life. Struggling to cope with the demands of my teaching job, university course load, parish work, as well as those of the sisters, I suffered my first bout of depression. Fearful of being sent home as unfit for the religious life, I told no one of my struggle to live up to the community’s expectations.

Help came during an official visit to the Guyana Mission, our Mother Provincial from the United States. She arranged to speak privately with every member of the community. When my turn came, I told her about my difficulty in doing everything required of me. Following her suggestion, I dropped one of my university courses. The sociology professor was not at all happy that I dropped out of his course.

My transfer to the convent nearest to the Turkeyen Campus did little to improve my mental health. The move separated me from my emotional supportive group of other young Guyanese women—then totaling seven of us—who, at various stages of religious formation, faced similar challenges.

The double standards within the community irked me. A privileged few could enjoy an exclusive relationship, referred to as a “particular friendship.” Use of the convent vehicle was also a contentious issue. Told not to get accustomed to being driven around, Celeste and I were given bicycles to move around town. No problem. I was used to getting around Georgetown on a bicycle or on foot. Yet, we were expected to learn to drive so that we could help with chauffeuring the older sisters. My refusal to learn to drive, in keeping with a life of poverty, didn’t go down well with my superiors. I was stubborn that way.

I also objected to being treated like a former colonial subject. At a silver jubilee celebration of one of the sisters, we the seven young Guyanese sisters in formation were assigned to a table in the back of the large dining hall of the Motherhouse. This wasn’t the usual buffet event. Our responsibility was to serve the sisters and invited guests, as done in the days before Vatican II. Under colonialism, such treatment might have been great in fostering humility and obedience among sisters of the privileged class. As a young working-class Guyanese of an independent socialist nation—forged in the fire of our struggle for independence—I found this antiquated religious practice offensive and belittling. To be sure, my attitude did not win me friends among the older sisters. One called me an “upstart.”

My interpretation of the virtue of humility conflicted with that of my religious superiors. Humility, in my mind, meant acknowledgment of my nothingness before God. It meant, too, treating ALL people as equal in God’s sight. To the patriarchal Church, humility meant total submission to God’s will as represented by my religious superiors.

We were also subjected to humiliating yearly evaluation sessions of our progress before the Mother Superior and her Council. I always fell short. It was not enough that I had given up everything I held dear to follow Jesus and live a religious life. I was still not worthy to serve Him.

With my acute sense of fairness and justice, I challenged the authority of both religious women and the Men of God. I paid the price.

“You have an authority problem,” a member of the Council once told me.

“You lack emotional maturity to deal with conflict situations in community life,” the Regional Coordinator told me, after she and her Council had discussed my case. In desperation, I had done the unacceptable: I had abandoned my teaching post in the Interior Mission and returned to the capital. (I share details in Chapter Sixteen: Sexual Harassment as a Public School Teacher.) Their final verdict: Not suited to the religious life. Must leave. Did any of them speak up on my behalf?

I left the convent during Christmas Week 1977. Nine months later, I returned to witness Celeste make her final vows in the presence of Guyana’s first local bishop—a descendant of East Indian indentured laborers.

The pain of inadequacy, failure, and rejection settled in my bones.