In Chapter Sixteen of my work in Progress, I share my experience of sexual harassment as a public high school teacher by a government official. It was a period of my life that I had buried deep in my subconscious until my best friend insisted that my second novel should be about my life in the convent. Sadly, she passed away before I had completed the final revision of The Twisted Circle: A Novel, dedicated in her memory.

Although I had extensively explored my final year in the convent for the novel, I struggled over several months to complete this chapter. I even considered leaving it out altogether. To share the real-life experience of a dark period comes with its own challenges. To have failed and be rejected had left a deep emotional wound. To expose and uproot the shame requires self-forgiveness.

As I also share in Chapter Sixteen, harassment in the workplace is not limited to the male sexual pervert or predator. We can also suffer harassment from the female boss or colleague who, for a variety of reasons, perceive us as a threat. Sister Albertus, a fictitious name, was my female co-worker and tormentor.

Chapter Sixteen: Sexual Harassment as a Public High School Teacher

My move to our sister-convent in Guyana’s remote Northwest Region upended my life in unexpected ways. Up to that point, my five-year teaching experience was in a private parochial high school for girls run by the nuns with an all-female staff. The Northwest Government Secondary School in Mabaruma differed in every way: a male headteacher, male and female teaching staff, and a student body of girls and boys. After enjoying enclosed, individual classrooms, I now faced an open-floor plan with classrooms separated only by large blackboards.

Free education for all, I soon learned, did not mean an equal distribution of textbooks and materials for students and teaching staff nationwide. The shortages were glaring. I had to find creative ways to do my job. My small monthly stipend as a religious sister provided art materials for my students as well as sheets of cardboard for my geography projects.

The bombshell came in December at the end of the first term when the headmaster announced his transfer to another school.

“Until your new headteacher arrives in the New Year,” the headmaster said, “Sister Rosaliene will take over as acting head.”

Flabbergasted, I objected to a decision made without my consent. This was a new Guyana under an authoritarian government. I had no say in the matter. While the headmaster expressed confidence in my capacity to do the job because of my academic record, I regarded myself as unprepared to manage a school. Never mind we were a small staff of seven, including the secretary, with only 108 students.

Pushback to my acting appointment came from within our religious ranks: a white American nun serving in the Guyana Mission. I don’t recall her state of origin. About ten years older, she was our biology teacher with several years of teaching experience. I’ll call her Sister Albertus after Saint Albertus Magnus, also known as Saint Albert the Great, the Catholic patron saint of the natural sciences. In my estimation, she was an excellent teacher. I had a lot to learn from her. The students loved her. Having arrived in the region a year before I did, she was well-known and respected by the government officials in Mabaruma and the Indigenous peoples in the surrounding riverine villages.

The first sign of trouble occurred during a staff meeting in the second term. Sister Albertus criticized my lack of administrative skills, citing incidents of my failure to act appropriately. I went blank. Her derisive words disappeared into a void. The silence among the rest of the staff enveloped me. How wrong I was to think that we were getting along fine during the three months prior to my appointment as acting headteacher. I realized then that I could not count on her support in my new role.

I soon discovered that running a school, whatever its size, involved many day-to-day responsibilities, adding to my teacher workload: preparing the teachers’ class schedule, checking teachers’ lesson plans, general supervision, facilitating end-of-term and national certification exams, resolving student conflicts, maintaining the school and premises in good condition, requisitioning teaching materials and diverse school equipment, and ensuring that we received payment for our services from the Ministry of Education (MOE) in Georgetown. One month, I had to travel to the capital to collect our missing wages from the MOE payment division. Thankfully, it never happened again during my period as acting head. (In a twist of fate, the young man who assisted me that day would become my husband four years later.)

Moreover, directives from the MOE regarding both the curriculum and extracurricular activities could not be ignored, including student participation in the Guyana National Service (GNS). Then came the tricky part that required diplomatic skills I had yet to learn—dealing with the local government officials. The District Education Officer (DEO), the MOE representative for the region, was foremost among them. His residence was located within the perimeter of the school compound, close to the spot where Sister Albertus parked the convent jeep.

Since meeting the DEO shortly after my arrival in Mabaruma, I knew that he was the kind of man to avoid. An older man in his forties, he exuded the air of one who believed he was God’s gift to woman. What he lacked in height, physique, and looks, he made up for with his cocky gait and silky, seductive voice. His position as a senior government official also gave him the edge when dealing with young women under his control or influence. Young women like me.

That I was a religious sister was no impediment to him. “I’m a Don Juan,” he told me, without shame. As a celibate woman in my late twenties, with little experience in the games men play, I must’ve seemed an easy target to him. He knew nothing of my fighting spirit when faced with male abuse and violence. I knew nothing of the anger guarded deep within after years of emotional and physical abuse, as well as my sense of powerlessness against the injustices within my small world and beyond its frontiers.

One Monday morning, without prior notice, DEO Don Juan made his first visit to our school with me as acting head. I was teaching a class when our secretary brought the news. When I entered the office, he was seated in my chair, establishing control. I greeted him with a serious face. After perusing my face and bosom, he told me to have a seat. During the exchange that followed, I had to strain to hear his soft, purring voice. What’s worse, it became clear that the MOE had not yet assigned a new headteacher to our school. Only the Lord knew how long I would have to endure this detestable situation. I had to trust that He would give me the strength and courage to prevail.

At the end of the week, DEO Don Juan surprised me with yet another visit. This time, he came bearing gifts. Sports equipment to be precise. His face glowed with the glee of a schoolboy who had won a coveted prize as he unpacked the equipment on my desk. The individual items remain a blur.

“What’s all this?” I said, with a displeased tone and serious face.

“It’s for you…. There’s more where this came from.”

Refusing to fall victim to his ploy, I turned to the school secretary. “Did the headmaster requisition any sports equipment?”

“About a year ago, Sister. And we never got it.”

After playing his hand of tricks, Don Juan left.

The sports master was pleased to see the new acquisition. “Keep on doing whatever you’re doing, Sister.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I haven’t done anything. When we spoke on Monday, I didn’t even mention sports equipment.”

Over the weekend, I replayed the scene over and over in my mind. My male colleague’s remarks troubled me: Keep on doing whatever you’re doing. As a woman, I was somehow responsible for the DEO’s behavior. No one could claim that I was dressed provocatively. My simple white habit, tucked in at the waist, concealed my neck, upper arms, and knees. I did not consider myself a beauty, nor a flirtatious or seductive type. For my students, male and female alike, I offered a smile and encouraging words. I reserved my hearty laughter for our group of young sisters-in-training. I missed having them close for emotional support.

I should mention here that when I moved to our convent in the hinterlands, I no longer wore the religious head covering or veil. During the period I was an undergraduate at the University of Guyana, our local religious community received directives from the Provincialate in the United States regarding the optional use of the veil. While the Regional Coordinator and three members of her council led the way in going without the veil, I did not follow suit until my compulsory three-month stint in the Guyana National Service. After surviving the male gaze and commentary when dressed in the parrot-green paramilitary uniform, I gained confidence in exposing my short wavy hair.

Meanwhile, news of the sports equipment swept across the small government administrative center. The school secretary gave me the news on Monday morning. The headmaster of the Mabaruma Primary School was not at all happy. “He say is blatant favoritism,” she told me.

His negative response surprised me. I didn’t consider myself a rival. Besides, he had two daughters, both excellent students, studying at our school. I buried his remarks. Too many pressing matters needed my attention.

Whenever he was in Mabaruma, Don Juan never missed an opportunity to harass me with his sexual innuendos. Catching me outdoors, as I supervised the students in the playground, did not deter him. He slithered close to whisper in my ears, unnerving me. The scent of his cologne enveloped me.

“A woman like you shouldn’t be wasting away in a convent with frustrated old spinsters,” he told me on one encounter.

What a relief when the DEO was away visiting other schools in the region or in Georgetown! I could breathe freely. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder. I was unaware of anger coming to a boiling point deep within my core. Until the day a thirteen-year-old student in Form Two placed a firecracker under my chair. I’ll call him Raven because of his straight black hair that spilled over his forehead, partially hiding his shifty eyes.

Raven rarely spoke in the classroom. For reasons unknown, he did not like me. Whenever I spoke with him during class, he would mumble a reply without looking at me. After my efforts to connect with him failed, I learned to tolerate his sullen, devious behavior.

We had all gathered in the school hall for our Easter party. I was seated watching the celebration when a firecracker exploded near my feet. Filled with a rage released by the explosion, I leapt to my feet determined to catch the culprit. I pursued Raven out the side door into the playground. The sports master blocked my way.

“I’m going to kill that boy!” I shook with rage.

The sports master led me to my office. “Sit down, Sister. You need to calm down. Stay here while I get you some water.”

After returning with a glass of water, he stayed with me while my heartbeat and breathing returned to their normal state. “You can’t let Raven rile you up, Sister. That’s what he wants.”

My rage terrified me. My loss of control mortified me.

Rage of that magnitude knows no bounds. What a terrible example for my students! How could any parent trust me with their child? I was a failure. I was worthless.

As often happened, when I got home later that afternoon, the sisters had already heard about my outburst. The reactions to my shameful behavior from my House Coordinator and the Mabaruma community remain a blur. Perhaps, DEO Don Juan knew then that I was not a woman to meddle with.

What a win this must’ve been for Sister Albertus! What better proof of my failure as a school administrator.

When the Regional Coordinator and a council member visited our community a month later, I had no idea of Albertus’ long list of my transgressions, recorded in her black diary. During a meeting to discuss the conflict between us, Albertus also accused me of flirting with all the men, even our septuagenarian parish priest. My way of talking and smiling with men was “not becoming of a nun,” she said. Not so, her exclusive relationship with our assistant parish priest, Father Mahseer, an Indian Jesuit priest in his forties. (I described their relationship in Chapter Fourteen: The Men of God.) Did our parish priests defend my reputation?

After the confrontation with Albertus, I spoke in private with our Regional Coordinator about the DEO’s harassment. On her advice, I made an appointment to speak with his boss, the Chief Education Officer (CEO) at the Ministry of Education in Georgetown. At the embarrassing meeting with the CEO, I was shocked to learn that Sister Albertus had already spoken to him about being harassed. She never mentioned that she was also a victim. Did this begin before my arrival in Mabaruma? Was Don Juan still harassing her? I never asked her or the CEO. Since a cold front had settled between us, we never talked about our shared experience.

Another surprise awaited me that day after I left the CEO’s office. While walking along the corridor on my way out, I never expected to come face-to-face with DEO Don Juan. He couldn’t let me go by without a word. The CEO must’ve already told him about Sister Albertus’ accusation.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said with his customary seductive smile and silky tone. “The CEO will see for himself what I had to contend with.”

Only Don Juan knew what he had to contend with. I was no Marilyn Monroe or Farrah Fawcett. His sexual fantasies were beyond my control. I gave thanks to the Lord when the CEO relieved him of his duties in Mabaruma.

But my life did not return to normalcy. Albertus had broken my spirit and robbed me of joy. My smile was flirtatious. I was a failure as a religious woman. I questioned every administrative decision I made. I questioned my competence as a teacher. My worthlessness was evident.

During the final school term, the overworked engine of the convent jeep finally died, forcing me and Albertus to walk to and from school. The five-mile (eight-kilometer) walk took me an hour or more. Judging from Albertus’ behavior, the meeting with the Regional Coordinator did not achieve any reconciliation between us. From the very first day on foot, she left for Mabaruma without me. She did the same at the end of the school day.

The hot and humid afternoon air made the walk home more difficult than the cool early morning temperatures. Even the birds took refuge from the heat. An oppressive silence hung over the dense trees and bushes along the unpaved, red, two-lane-wide roadway. One section across the valley stretched for about a mile without any bend in the road, making it seem like an eternity ahead. Never had I felt so alone in the world…and so lonely. Did anyone care if I lived or died? God, in whom I placed my trust, seemed so distant.

My situation seemed hopeless. Sister Albertus held power within the religious community. I was a nobody to be crushed like sugarcane husk. To save myself, I had to leave the oppressive jungle that hemmed me in on all sides. I saw no other way. I was withering inside. My life had lost meaning and joy.

I held on until the end of the school year, fulfilling my responsibilities as acting headteacher. After advising the House Coordinator and other sisters in the Interior community, I packed the two suitcases—one with my textbooks, the other with my personal effects—that I had arrived with and flew out of Mabaruma. Never to return.

Back in Georgetown, the comrade at the Ministry of Education (MOE) responsible for teacher placements refused to transfer me back to a school in the capital. I told her that I had moved out of the sister-convent in the region and would have nowhere to live. “No problem,” she said. “You can live at the teachers’ hostel in Mabaruma.” I did not mention the strained relationship with the school’s biology teacher. Convent affairs between the nuns were not her concern.

My career in the teaching profession ended with a whimper. Returning to Mabaruma was not an option for me. My departure didn’t matter to the MOE. The Catholic Church, critical of the authoritarian regime, had become an enemy of the State.

“What will you do now?” the Regional Coordinator said when I told her the news.

I had no idea. I was trapped in a dark place.

My fate now rested in the hands of my religious superiors. Their verdict: I lacked emotional maturity for handling conflict situations in community life. Their sentence: It was best for me to leave the community. Conflict situations were a part of living with others.

I had failed to measure up. I did not belong. I was useless to them.

Fear gripped me at night with thoughts of returning to secular life.