Not Without My Passport: A Memoir

By Anne Marie Lunkenheimer

Anne Marie Lunkenheimer’s memoir is a breathtaking journey that takes readers from a small rural community in upstate New York to the far corners of the world. Driven by a passion for international development and a desire to make a difference, she became an active participant in the global peace and feminist movements of the tumultuous 1960s and 70s.

From her first experiences working in impoverished mountain villages in Mexico to a lifetime of commitments in Central America, Southeast Asia, the South Pacific, Africa, and the Caribbean, her journey was one of incredible danger and heartwarming experiences.

In this candid and unflinching memoir, Anne Marie shares her most intimate moments, bringing readers along with her on a journey that defies expectations. With an unshakable commitment to justice and equality, she dedicated her life to making a difference in the world, no matter how daunting the challenge.

A story of courage, perseverance, and the unbreakable human spirit, this memoir is a must-read for anyone who has ever felt the call to make a difference in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: May 16, 2023

Book preview

PART I

ESCAPING THE NUNNERY

It was a crisp sunny September afternoon. The smell of autumn leaves filled the air. I was sitting alone on the cold stone steps of the Sisters of St. Joseph Motherhouse, waving good-bye to my family. Dad’s eyes were teary, and Mother was smiling, as our 1962 Ford Country Squire pulled out of the driveway.

Where was the welcoming committee? I fought tears, and lost. On the rugged expanse of the giant wooden door, I didn’t know where to find the doorbell. I was seventeen.

The reality of being allowed a one-hour family visit per month alarmed me. No big sister to confide in anymore, no more exciting flights in the Piper Cub with my dear dad, no more sailing or water skiing on the bay in Fair Haven, or parties with my friends. I was giving up many pleasures for a life I could not fathom.

Next to me on the steps was a large black trunk containing the bare necessities I had been directed to bring with me. These were now my sole belongings. The day before, as instructed, I had given all my worldly possessions to my two sisters. Confused about what that had meant, I hoped that the roller skates and ukulele I’d packed would be allowed here at my new home. I had no idea what seven years without returning to Red Creek would be like.

Six months back, my parents had arranged a reception following my high school graduation, inviting their Catholic friends and relatives to celebrate my acceptance into the Order. Most everyone in attendance contributed to the dowry fund required by the convent, although a few came with religious gifts. Later, I discovered my family was compelled to contribute additional funds during my stay.

The reception was not a joyful occasion. I’d enjoyed the graduation beach party with my classmates at our cottage more, where we sat around a bonfire singing camp songs and telling stories, for the last time. I felt depressed after the reception but did not know how to confront my fears.

I grew up in a small country town in Upstate New York with no Catholic schools and a small mission church. On Saturday mornings, the children of the few Catholic families in town congregated there for religious instruction. Priests came and went, resulting in our limited understanding of what Catholicism was all about, including the role of nuns. Life in a nunnery was considered ‘secret business.’ The Sisters of St. Joseph came to stay for two weeks each year at our home, while we vacationed at a summer cottage on a Lake Ontario Bay nearby. I thought they were nice ladies in uncomfortable outfits unsuitable for the summer’s heat. They acted as substitute catechists during their stay, showering parish children with gifts of books, rosaries, and holy cards. I became a holy card fanatic, collecting every saint imaginable, amazed by their bravery and undeniable faith.

When I was seven, the Sisters suggested that someday I might join them in dedicating my life to God’s service. The suggestion was repeated in their letters over the coming years. ‘Our Lady’s Divine Son may be calling you to be His Bride’ wrote Sister Maureen. ‘Reverend Mother says she could place a thousand more Sisters tomorrow if she had them. Perhaps someday through you, more souls could be saved.’ This was reinforced by my mother, who agreed this would be a noble commitment. Our entire family would be proud if I responded to God’s calling.

Throughout adolescence, I privately considered a religious vocation. I was conflicted by a burning desire to experience life’s pleasures—teenage friendships, parties, stimulating travel, challenging sports, and to wear fashionable clothes. My mother always looked classy in expensive outfits and matching shoes. I was also aware of the obvious poverty in our small town and wished to live a less self-indulgent life if possible. At seventeen, I still soul searched Am I ready for such a serious choice? What if I make the wrong decision? I would have to part from my treasured boyfriend of the past three years and sensed heartbreak. He was ardent in his effort to convince me to not do this, but as the time approached, accepted. We both shed many tears.

I saw him once more before that September departure. I felt cruel. He was quiet, no words left to articulate his feelings. We sat side by side on the pier at our old cottage, in silence. He had given me a beautiful Valentine card that year, saying how much he loved me and would never take no for an answer. But there we were, no way out. Our mutual sadness felt overwhelming.

I thought to myself, with this choice I am making, I will never again have him to talk with about the joys and tragedies of daily life, nor will I ever be able to imagine bearing his children. What am I doing? Anxiety enveloped my seventeen-year-old mind.

But for me, a fantasy was becoming a reality.

A close friend was also entering a convent, of a different Order. In the weeks before my departure, I intimated that I wanted more time to think. I felt unprepared for such a monumental choice. At that moment my mother came out on the porch where we sat.

My friend stared at her for a few seconds and blurted, ‘I don’t think your daughter should go to the convent right now. She doesn’t feel ready and dreads making the wrong choice.’

‘Anne will go to the convent. It’s too late to change her mind,’ Mother declared. ‘We’ve already had her reception and paid the dowry.’ Her face was tense, her hands by her sides, curled in fists. ‘She is going and that’s that,’

I realized my mother couldn’t lose face among her friends and acquaintances. This added to the pressure I was experiencing. Could I disappoint so many people?

My friend, Barbara, challenged Mother. ‘Do you want her to be confused and unhappy?’

Mother didn’t answer. Her glaring eyes darted back and forth between my defender, and me. It was final.

The night before I left, my beloved father handed me a hand-written note. He was known for his illegible handwriting, but he had printed each letter of every word.

‘To my dear daughter Anne: It is hard to say how much I’ll miss you, words can never tell – But each day I’ll see your face before me and be so very proud to know my loving daughter is going to be a nun. When things are going wrong in business, I know I’ll have the courage to keep on trying, because I have someone helping and praying for me, because my daughter is a nun. Your wants have been few and your aim the highest, so keep on climbing, my dear. Your success there has no equal. You will never know how proud Mom and I are of you. You are with us forever… Dad.’

When the heavy wooden door behind me opened, my sponsor, Sister Agnes Mary was not there to meet me as promised.

Where is she? I wondered but did not ask.

In her place, I was greeted by Sister Hilda, the Mistress of Postulants. Although petite, I was struck by her piercing eyes and commanding voice. ‘Follow me,’ she ordered.

She escorted me to my cell, a six-foot-by-six-foot curtained space with a narrow single bed and a three-drawer wooden dresser. I was stunned but tried not to show any reaction. The curtained cells were situated head-to-head in a large dormitory. I hurried to arrange my immediate necessities in the dresser. The rest was left on top, to be taken away for storage in my trunk in the attic.

Sister Hilda continued, dictating convent regulations. ‘Postulants are not allowed to talk while in their cells,’ she barked. ‘You will fold your veil every night and place it under your mattress, pressed between two pieces of cardboard.’

Playing my prized ukulele while relaxing on my bed, like I did at home, seemed out of the question. It was now in the attic far from my reach, and for certain would break the rule of silence. Was the meditation ‘performed in our cell,’ Sister spoke of, the same as relaxation? I did not have a clue about half of what she was telling me.

An hour later, I met a few other chattering, cheerful Postulants, ecstatic about being admitted by the Order, after what they described as years of anticipation. Their emotions were foreign to me.

Sister Hilda announced, ‘You may now change into your new garments.’

I stared at the thick black stockings and shoes, reminiscent of my grandmothers’ footwear, to be worn under a long, plain black dress adorned by a black and white checked apron. I was not eager to don them. White starched collars pinched our necks, while on our heads were heavy black nylon veils requiring numerous pins to keep them from slipping off. I was shocked to discover there were no mirrors in the building. How would I pin my veil on, without a mirror?

Sister informed us, ‘Mirrors encourage vanity. You will never again use one.’

I developed such apprehension of Sister Hilda’s tyranny I would turn in the opposite direction when I saw her coming. It was clear that rules backed by punishment were the norm, but it was unclear what all the rules were. The others seemed to know.

I soon learned, the Motherhouse revolved around a major power imbalance between Superiors and Novices. Over the next few weeks, we began our strict schedule of classes and duties. We were allowed to converse for one scheduled hour per day. A rotating roster of chores was controlled by a bell, and we prepared food in the kitchen, washed and ironed in the laundry, cleaned the house and cared for the disabled in the infirmary if the nursing Sisters needed assistance. I discovered that if I completed my chores ahead of schedule, I could use the remaining time for recreational activities. I devised a game for myself called Beat the Bell, tackling each chore with great haste.

When I was discovered roller skating in the parking lot next door, I was punished for hiding a worldly possession, and for the holes in my stockings where my knees had grazed the macadam. I was caught playing my ukulele too, after I recovered it from the attic. Sitting on the front steps on a beautiful day, I was scolded for singing unacceptable songs. I had been gently warbling Ginny Come Lately.

My common punishment was to scrub marble floors and stairs throughout the Motherhouse. Worse than that came, when the Mistress of Novices grabbed my ukulele and smashed it over her knee, breaking its neck off.

‘There! We will not have to listen to that rubbish ever again.’

I was sickened. Doubt crept in. How could sheltering us from outside influences and denying us any fun be healthy? It created dullness and boredom. My cherished souvenir from my time as a foreign student in Spain the year I was sixteen, was irreplaceable.

Our religious obligations were numerous and onerous. We attended Mass at 6.30 am, and we prayed the Rosary, the Stations of the Cross and Rule prayers at other times, followed by our designated chores and sisterhood training. Occasionally, Benediction was held. Grand Silence began after breakfast, and we were chastised if it was broken. Our sisterhood subjects included studying the Liturgy, Dogmatic Theology, the Creed, and Apologetics, known as the study of the defense of the Catholic Faith. I was assigned college classes too, including, Math, English, Spanish, Western Civilization and Music Appreciation. Five fortunate Postulants were chosen to attend classes at a Catholic college nearby, with the ultimate intention that we would become secondary teachers. For me, they had in mind teaching secondary Spanish or music.

We were directed to sit in silence in the last row of each classroom and were not permitted to ask any questions or speak to any of our fellow classmates. Although pleased to be chosen, this experience was unfulfilling. I’d always been an inquisitive student and being forced to be still and quiet in class was excruciating, exhausting and isolating. Into this void, every day, I wrote a number of notes to another Postulant whose cell was across from mine. We shared our frustrations and communicated on paper whenever possible. We also sought each other out during that single hour of conversation. Meals required silence too, while a nun read excerpts from the Bible to us. After meals we washed our dishes at the table, in silence.

The rules had a noticeable effect on me. Silence was not the only troubling one. We had to remain at the bottom of a stairway for any nun who was our senior to descend before we could move ahead up the stairs. As the youngest person in the building, I waited at the bottom of the stairs for excessive amounts of time, and was late for scheduled obligations, often. This created an impression of irresponsibility, which contributed to my anxiety; I wanted to be accepted and obedient to convent expectations.

My unintentional actions were criticized and punished, on several occasions. One day when I was playing Beat the Bell with myself, I decided to use my extra time to go to the chapel to pray. The convent caretakers turned lights off to conserve electricity, and the chapel was pitch dark and hazy from candle smoke. I opened the door and saw a few outlines of nuns’ habits but had no idea how many were present. I genuflected and knelt in an empty pew.

Without warning, two arms were flung outstretched in front of me. A tiny, frail nun sighed as she leaned back. I interpreted the situation in an instant; this was an elderly, disabled Sister who needed immediate assistance. Fearing she was having a heart attack or a stroke, I grabbed her from behind, thinking I was intercepting her collapse. She let forth a piercing shriek. Lights went on, nuns appeared from every direction, and there I was, clinging to a screaming eighty-five-year-old.

An intent Novice appeared at my side and whispered, ‘Reverend Mother wants you to come to her office immediately.’

Scared and bewildered, I followed, to the familiar office.

Mother Superior declared, ‘Can you explain such disturbing behavior in the Chapel disrupting our Sisters’ prayers?’

I decided it was not an appropriate time to explain that I was responding in Girl Scout tradition, employing First-Aid techniques—and remained silent, head bowed. I was informed by an angry Reverend Mother that the nun had been performing a religious practice resembling Christ on the Cross, with arms outstretched. Embarrassed, I did not mention that I had been seconds away from performing cardio-pulmonary resuscitation.

That night at the dinner table, I faced curious looks from my colleagues. My doubt deepened, whether a naive girl from the countryside could survive in such a dogmatic environment.

My prayers were interrupted another day, when a Novice rushed in and whispered that I must accompany her to receive an emergency phone call. My heart pounded, thinking a family member may have passed away. I hurried to the telephone booth to accept the reverse charges. The call was from a high school classmate, phoning from a Texas Air Force Base, eager to chat.

‘George, you cannot call me here. I am in a convent.’

‘So, what is a convent?’ he sputtered.

He had no idea where I was or what I was doing there, and there was no time to explain. I hung up in a quandary. I never did discover how he acquired my telephone number. This incident only added to Reverend Mother’s distrust of me. She did not believe I’d had nothing to do with arranging that call. She again summoned me to her office for an explanation. Her tense expression and rigid stance warning of the chastisement to come.

‘How are you managing to communicate with the outside world right under my nose?’ she asked. ‘You must stop this deception.’

Our weekly mail was censored but my sister Lura and I had developed a private code. She was able to decipher from my few letters, that I was unhappy, and felt helpless from afar. She told my mother, who was surprised and did not agree. When discussing emotions, I had told Lura before I left home, ‘If you see positive descriptions in my letters, interpret them to mean the opposite.’

My frustration with being labelled a troublemaker surfaced, and addressing Reverend Mother, I suggested, ‘Maybe I am not meant for the Sisterhood.’

She objected, called it premature, knowing the convent’s numbers were waning.

‘You must try harder to be obedient to convent rules,’ she repeated. ‘Pray to the Holy Spirit for guidance.’

I did not find her supportive or consoling and left her office feeling worse than when I entered. She gave me the impression that I was a bother and was taking up far too much of her time. It was clear that we were being taught to be submissive and self-effacing. We were instructed to report other Postulants and Novices we witnessed breaking the rules, including spending too much time with one friend or showing signs of resentment toward another.

The repression and fear we experienced caused some to develop illnesses. Being cut off from family and friends when they were most needed, and the lack of access to conversations increased the suffering. I recalled a form letter that had been sent to me a few months before, by Reverend Mother. ‘Charity is the virtue Par Excellence. Be loyal to your Superior, to your mission, to each Sister who lives with you … Do not communicate your difficulties and misunderstandings to your friends. Bury them in the Heart of Christ, with the hope and prayer that others may do the same for you. Speak only what is good, avoid idle conversation, let your countenance and your voice speak love to all you meet.’

I now knew I must be a master of nonverbal communication to survive there.

In the next few days, I developed physical tremors, which worried me. This had never happened before. It crossed my mind that I might be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, trying to exist under so much pressure. More unusual incidents followed. I knocked over and broke a hand-carved, marble holy-water fount as I was backing out of the chapel after Mass. We were taught never to turn our backs on the main altar, which meant leaving the chapel backwards. I found that difficult. On another occasion, I forgot, and wore my veil into the shower, not noticing it until I poured shampoo on my head and started scrubbing. Because we were only allotted one veil apiece, my punishment was to continue wearing my decrepit veil, all crumpled and matted. It was another humiliation at a time I needed positive support.

I decided to return to Reverend Mother’s office to discuss my doubts and again, raise my desire to leave. She grimaced, annoyed, and recanted, ‘You need to fervently pray for God’s forgiveness and guidance.’ As if I wasn’t praying enough. She wanted me to pray more diligently and to consult with my novice mentor.

Each Postulant had been assigned a second-year Novice as an advisor. I did not know mine very well, but my impression of her advice and behavior was that she seemed unstable. I felt uncomfortable in her presence; she was living in a fantasy world very different from mine. I hope I don’t end up like her, I’d thought when we first met. She demonstrated traits of serious mental illness at a time when we both needed competent counselling support—but I did not know enough of life to understand that at the time. She was forced to leave the Order years later, due to a catastrophic murder charge.

There were other proceedings I did not understand. We were told to shun one of the novices who had come from Sri Lanka, because she would soon be undergoing an exorcism. I had bemoaned that I was sixty miles from my family and here she was, on the other side of the world and accused of being possessed by the devil. I sensed her suffering the few times I saw her. Her face was pinched, her body tense. She was hidden from us most of the time. We didn’t know what became of her after the exorcism ritual.

Other unfamiliar practices included communal confessions, where Postulants accused others of breaking convent rules or committing sins which they had observed. If these were serious, the accused would lay prostrate on the floor, while others reported their observations, until they were humiliated into confessing their sins. There was also a monthly individual confession required of us. When it was my turn, I told the priest who heard our confessions that I had nothing to confess. He urged me to re-confess past sins or to tell him any impure thoughts I was having. I was astonished and refused to do so.

‘If our sins have been forgiven, why is it necessary to re-confess them?’ I asked.

After that episode, I wanted nothing more to do with him.

I burst into Reverend Mother’s office unannounced one afternoon, in desperation after sobbing uncontrollably in the library during study hour.

I blurted ‘Mother, I think I must be going crazy. I don’t seem to be able to concentrate anymore. Everything seems confusing. I am so distracted I can’t remember things from moment to moment. I shake all the time. Please, Mother, I don’t want to end up like those old nuns next door in the infirmary when I am only seventeen.’

Raising her head after listening to me rant with her eyes cast down at her desk, she answered in a monotone. ‘My dear, have you ever thought Our Lord may have chosen you for a very special purpose, perhaps, to be a martyr?’

‘No, Mother, he wouldn’t be so cruel, would he?’ I tried to calm down. 'Maybe you’re right. Think of all the souls I could pray out of purgatory by offering up all of these sacrifices every day.’

She passed me a volume from her desktop. ‘Here’s a meditation book. I want you to go into the chapel and meditate. Ask God what he wants you to do.’

Still weeping, I went into the chapel and stared at the pages she had assigned. My tears not only blurred my vision but were also destroying the red print on the pages. I could not read, concentrate, or organize a thought. I ran back to Reverend Mother’s office.

‘Mother, I can’t meditate.’

In a fury, she shook with resolution. She pushed her aging body upward, pointing her outstretched arm like an arrow in front of me.

‘Young lady,’ she shouted, ‘there’s the door!’

For me, this Motherhouse was a prison. The spiked iron gates at its entrance were locked except when the fruit and vegetable truck arrived very early in the morning, a few days each week. I had thought about an escape, but where would I go and how would I get there? I had no real-world clothes or money, and I was miles away from the village where I grew up. My family would be ashamed if I ran away, and what would I do for work to earn money, as a high school graduate? I was overcome by uncertainty.

A few more weeks passed. My tremors worsened. I no longer slept well, and my appetite vanished. Managing the daily routine was taxing. My family had visited for their allotted one-hour, a few times. I could not hide my unhappiness and poor health. Later, I found out from my sister that my father cried on the way home to Red Creek. He perceived how unsettled I was becoming. Like most Catholic parents, he had been guided by the Church to be proud to have given up a daughter to serve God. A parental dilemma, and very little contact allowed.

If a Postulant left the Motherhouse, the first we would know of their lack of perseverance, as it was named, was observing an empty chair at the dinner table. There was no discussion or mention of this person ever again, no good-byes allowed, or further explanation offered.

As I glanced out of Mother Superior’s office window, I saw the fruit and vegetable truck arrive and the front gate was momentarily left open. This was my chance. I ran out of her office through the convent gate and down the lane to the main highway with my veil flying high. I’d been a fast runner at school, and I thought I could make it to the nearby college where I was studying. There, I would look for a kind face to beg for the sixty cents I needed to phone Red Creek. My impromptu plan was to call home from a pay phone, and if my mother answered, I’d hang up and consider a new plan. If my father answered, I would ask him to come and fetch me.

The phone rang and when I heard my mother’s voice, I burst into an uncontrollable sob. I was already fearing her judgement and disappointment. I could not speak, nor could I hang up. My voice was frozen. She went through a checklist of names, trying to detect who this broken-up person was on the other end, then passed the phone to my father. I felt horrid shame. What was my running away going to mean to her? Maybe I should go back to the Motherhouse before they sent the police after me. As soon as I heard Dad’s voice, I felt such relief. Dad would come and get me. He wouldn’t make me go back.

I choked out ‘Daaad’ and he guessed. ‘Anne is that you?’

He knew we were not allowed to make phone calls in the convent. I could hear and feel fear and worry in his voice.

‘Don’t move from that telephone booth,’ he said. ‘I can be there in less than two hours.’

The trauma of what I had done was draining me, and I wondered if the Motherhouse had missed me and if anyone was out scouting for me. But I had agreed to stay where I was, so I remained hidden near the phone booth. My mind was racing as time dragged. What if Reverend Mother sends nuns to look for me, where will I hide? If I don’t stay here, Dad may never find me. I decided, sixty miles was not too far to walk if I had to get away, but I didn’t have a dime in my pocket. Wearing my habit, surely someone will stop and offer a ride? My mind was flitting from one thought to another.

In less than two hours, as Dad had promised, both my parents pulled into the college driveway, pale-faced and distressed. My heart sank when I saw my mother. I was sure she would want to take me back to the convent. And so, they did, although my father protested. He claimed they were returning only for an apology and would then take me home. I began planning my next move, determined not to go back inside, including how I would run away from home in the next two weeks if necessary.

When we reached the locked gate, both the Mother Superior and Mistress of Postulants came outside and peered through the window, assuring themselves that I was in the car. Then both parents shifted outside while, in an instant I locked all four doors, motor still running, and refused to get out. Sister Hilda glared through the window and demanded I get out, but I refused. I would not be forced to re-enter the Motherhouse. I had made up my mind.

Both the nuns comforted my mother by saying that after a two-week respite at home, they could bring me back, when I had settled down. Relieved and exhausted, we headed back to Red Creek. My mother questioned why I had decided to be so impulsive, while my father seemed quiet and pensive. I said nothing the entire trip home, worried that I might make matters worse if I tried to explain that I was not excited about martyrdom.

Back home after four months away, Dad asked me many questions about life on the inside, as if I were a prisoner returning from doing time after committing a punishable offense. Foremost on my mind, was trying to contact my former boyfriend, to let him know I had left the convent and was at home. And when I did, I could not have predicted his reaction. My feeling of liberation and longing to reinstate the past had blinded me. He made it clear. It was OVER for him. He was bitterly angry that I had put him through agonizing months of doubt, only to return expecting our relationship could be revived. His first words were that I would probably change my mind and return to the convent out of guilt. He vowed he would never again take a chance on being so deeply hurt and did not want to restore our relationship or see me anymore. He tossed my class ring at me as he left.

It was my turn to experience the depths of devastation and remorse. Feeling lost and aimless, without hope for the future was an understatement. I did not want to see anyone, go anywhere, or analyze my situation. I was unable to hold my head up or look at anyone for several months. What I needed was professional counselling, but this was not available in rural villages in those days, apart from consulting the parish priest. I didn’t think that was such a good idea.

I waited patiently for something in my life to change. My father called several business acquaintances to see if any of them might have an employment opportunity I could undertake, to provide an outlet and possible direction I might pursue. He was able to arrange a position in the bookkeeping department of a nearby bank. I had no experience in the banking field nor did I have a clue about bookkeeping, but I was willing to learn.

I continued to have difficulty with face-to-face interactions, especially when meeting people, smiling, and maintaining eye contact, so my supervisor chose to start my training on a check-posting machine rather than a teller’s window. I gradually regained self-confidence and was elated with the idea of earning a salary for the first time, even though it was a pittance. Next to me, at another check-posting machine, sat a young man in his mid-twenties who never uttered a word, and appeared glazed in his facial expression. After a few weeks I asked another bank teller about him. Only a few months earlier, he had lost his entire family of five in a house fire. He was grieving. I felt ashamed that I had been feeling so sorry for myself compared to what he was suffering. Everything is relative I thought, and my life wasn’t so bad in comparison. Over time, we began to converse, and I think we helped each other to get over some rough times in both our lives.

I still had nightmares about Sister Hilda’s humiliations and punishments, as well as the strict routine of convent life. I missed my friend who passed me the daily notes that helped to lift my spirits, which I had sensed were slipping away. I wondered what had become of her. I also wondered what had become of the Postulant whose deserted boyfriend parked his flaming red convertible outside our dormitory window on Sunday afternoons, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face at the window. He would stay there for hours. And she would cry for hours too. It was heart wrenching and reminded me of the man I left behind as well.

But not all my memories were so hurtful. I missed the beauty of the Motherhouse Chapel with its Gothic arches and trusses decorated with gold leaf icons surrounded by brightly colored stained-glass windows. I could still hear the angelic voices of the Sisters chanting the Divine Office, detect the scent of incense, and feel the mystical essence of solemn prayer within this majestic space.

With hindsight, I recall that year of my high school graduation, 1962, was historically significant in many ways. Within the Catholic Church, a new Pope, John XXIII was convening a landmark Second Vatican Council, which would establish major changes in respect to convent rules and regulations. For example, the habit or conventional dress would be modernized, and nuns would not be required to cut or shave their hair, considered in the past, a sign of true commitment to sisterhood. Sisters would be allowed home visits to attend weddings and funerals and other important family events before they completed their vows.

That year was also marked by the Cuban Missile Crisis. Although we were not permitted to watch television in the convent, we were made aware that the Russian threat of nuclear confrontation was imminent. The United States was facing potential annihilation. This added to the mounting anxieties associated with uncertainty, exacerbated by the censoring of incoming mail from our families, where key information was blacked out by our superiors. Such a controlled environment drove me further away from religious life.

Upon reflection I considered how current psychologists were suggesting that in our transition to adulthood we commonly leave our parents, to integrate into a new group. I questioned what happens when you can’t successfully integrate into the next group, and can’t psychologically return home to your parents? The tendency is to compare yourself to others who have made successful transitions rather than focus on the specific issues that are holding you back. This was true in my case. I viewed my friends and former classmates moving along with their lives, their choices of work, college, or military enlistment, and I was still floundering.

I found myself also questioning my values in light of the demand for strict adherence to rules of obedience, poverty, and chastity that did not fully make sense to me. I had to ask myself how much leisure, companionship, emotional support, conversation, and challenges did I require to feel complete? What were my needs in relation to what I felt was a duty to others?

In the face of authoritarianism, I needed to find my voice, because the consequences of silence were too destructive. And so, I did find my voice regarding Reverend Mother. I did leave the convent on my own initiative, although not in a socially acceptable way. It was the right decision for me at that time, and I found the courage, or perhaps desperation, to express my voice through action.

It was the beginning of a long road ahead.

And to understand how I got to this point in my life, we have to return to the beginning, where it all began.

FAMILY FOOTPRINTS

The science of genetics is constantly evolving and new findings about our genetic inheritance are ongoing. Aside from physical characteristics such as eye color and length of our noses, we now know there is evidence that our DNA is more complex and such traits as musicality and empathy, for instance, are examples of traits that may be passed on to future generations. Still the Nature versus Nurture debate continues, and we still have much to learn about the influence of our environment on our personality development.

Appreciating one’s parents commonly occurs after their departure from this world. This was true with my father and mother. I felt especially close to my dad, Charles Fay Lunkenheimer (1918-1997), who had a pleasant friendly personality and was well-liked by all who knew him. He was an avid outdoorsman, a hunter and fisherman, and sported an adventurous spirit until he succumbed to cancer in his late seventies. I had the privilege of caring for him those last few months sharing many hours of heartfelt conversations. At a young age he would take me with him on exciting flights in his Piper Cub. He taught us how to ride our bikes, catch fish, hunt for crabs, drive a boat, operate a snowmobile, and eventually handle a car. More importantly, he was an exemplary compassionate human being with a sound sense of social responsibility. I was amazed how many people he found time to help in their hour of need.

Dad was born on a farm in Victory, New York in 1918. I remember visiting it decades after it had been abandoned; we picked apples from the orchard and peered into the broken windows at the few pieces of crumbling furniture in the old first-floor kitchen. He told me how his father, Charles Godfrey Lunkenheimer (1896-1965) was away in Europe fighting in World War I at the time of his birth. Over a year later, having been wounded and with lungs damaged by mustard gas he returned home to meet his son (my father). Dad’s mother, Beulah Henrietta nee Haws (1898-1954) lived with her parents during the war, Eugene Haws (1866-1945) and Mary Goss Haws (1869-1945). Dad often reminisced about his grandfather and how fond he became of him during those early years when he had not yet become acquainted with his own father.

He later was blessed with two brothers Leo and Bob with whom he stayed in close contact his entire life along with their families. We celebrated an extended Lunkenheimer family Christmas every year together, when we looked forward to playing with our many first cousins. I still have a heart-shaped bracelet my grandmother gave me when I was five years old as a keepsake from one of those Christmas gatherings.

Dad attended school in Red Creek, New York and developed an inseparable friendship with a classmate, the son of the village postmaster Jay Stafford. Dad’s friend was a quiet, serious young man, unlike Dad who was an outgoing playful personality. He enjoyed sports, played the trumpet in the school band and was a featured actor in the Senior Play before he graduated from high school. Sadly, in his senior year, his best friend became infatuated with one of the new young teachers and committed suicide when he was rejected by her.

Upon graduation, Dad pursued a car salesman position in Red Creek which was where he met my mother, Gertrude Irene Luke (1918-2008). Her father was searching for a used car on her behalf because she was busy working at the time. Dad was immediately attracted to ‘Gertie’ but continued to party and date other women.

My mother’s story was quite different. She was born in the town of Cicero, N.Y. the same year as my dad, 1918, and was only a day older.

Mother was the second oldest of five children born to Lura Agaretha Hazard (1895-1930) and Clarence Arthur Luke (1893-1986). Ernest was the oldest and remained a bachelor until his early forties and established a career as a blacksmith. He was followed by my mother and my aunts, Margaret, Helen Patricia, and Mary Alice, all of whom married and raised families of their own. Their mother, a piano teacher, died when she was 35 years old of complications from a mastoid ear infection following the birth of her fifth child, leaving her husband with four children and an infant to raise on his own. A childless wealthy family living nearby, offered to raise Mary Alice, the baby, an offer which my grandfather reluctantly accepted. They were happy for her to stay in touch with her biological family over the coming years and she grew to be an attractive young woman. Our family attended her elegant wedding as my sister Lura was invited to be her flower girl.

My mother claimed that after her mother’s death her father turned to alcohol and was unable to maintain any steady employment. She acquired many emotional scars from that adolescent period recounting many agonizing situations of poverty. She was only 12 years old herself and forced to act as head of the household since her older brother declined all responsibility and abandoned his sisters to manage on their own. I recall Christmas was never a joyous time of year for her, as it was for most families. Her memories were painful, as she’d been responsible for trying to fill Christmas stockings without any money, as her father normally became inebriated on Christmas Eve.

She diligently studied and graduated from high school a year earlier than her peers at the age of sixteen. She found a junior bookkeeping position with the Benedict family who operated a small business in a town nearby. They were so impressed with her willingness to learn accounting they paid her tuition at a local business school which she attended at night for two years.

Realizing her situation, my dad was quite impressed with my mother’s intelligence and her commitment to help her father support their family. He continued to date her when she had free time from her busy schedule and became increasingly fond of her. My paternal grandparents were also impressed with her skills, but Grampa Lunkenheimer, a relentless practical joker, didn’t appreciate her judgmental nature and eagerness to speak her mind. My grandmother was a kind, gentle soul and was amused by the fact my mother said exactly what she thought, even if it was not too kindlily received. She retained this trait for as long as I can remember. She exuded a strong presence and discipline that worked both in her favor and at times, against her.

My parents married the day after both their birthdays in 1941, and by 1942 my father was drafted into the Army at the start of World War II. Instead of serving overseas, he was assigned a position as a ‘trainer’ stateside, due to his superior communication skills as a salesman. That same year my older sister, Lura, was born and my mother agreed to accompany Dad wherever he was stationed, with my sister in tow. Their first destination was an Army base in Austin, Texas.

Soon after arriving, my father’s parents contacted the local Draft Board back in New York and requested an early dismissal from military service for my dad, claiming he was needed on their farm to assist with the farm’s operation. The Board agreed to this, and Dad was dismissed to return home. My mother was adamantly opposed to my grandfather’s cunning plan, knowing full well that returning to farm work would aggravate my father’s severe plant allergies. His immune system had never recovered from his boyhood bout with poison sumac, causing frequent allergic reactions. These arrangements were less than successful and my dad, still wanting to serve his country, re-enlisted a few months after he returned home. He was re-assigned to a base in Tacoma, Washington and by this time, he and my mother had a second child to accompany the family - me.

I was born in 1944, into a country at war which boasted the B-17 ‘Flying Fortress’ bomber, the latest aeronautic technology. According to my parents, I came ‘flying in’ myself with no minutes to spare! The relentless snowstorm blowing between Red Creek and Auburn, New York made road travel treacherous. Broken snow-chains on the winter-worn tires of our family car were savagely beating against the metal side panels yet my mother would not let my father pull over to change them. Keep going, she yelled, the baby’s coming! He pulled up outside the hospital’s entrance and was met by a maternity nurse pushing a wheelchair to collect my mother.

Dad raced to the parking lot to deposit his