Saint Training (15 page)

“It looks like we’ve just been invaded by the Communists or something,” Tina said.

“It sure doesn’t look like this is our country,” Sandy said.

“To think it’s only an hour and a half away,” Joannie said.

“The Negroes did this to their own neighborhood,” Jen said.

Mary Clare leaned forward to hear the announcer.

“There remains speculation that this violence is related to the civil rights activism of Father James Groppi, a white Catholic priest who serves as the youth advisor for the local NAACP chapter,” the newscaster was saying.

Mary Clare had heard of Father Groppi before. Everybody had. He had marched with Martin Luther King in Selma, Alabama. But now she wanted to know more about him.

M
ary Clare preened and pampered herself over the next several days, enjoying her glorious hair and how it flipped perfectly at the ends with just a little bit of coaxing. She had been afraid to rest her head on the pillow those first few nights for fear that her glorious hair would wind its way into curls while she was sleeping. The first night she had awakened several times to look at her glorious hair in the hand mirror she kept under her pillow. But when, after several nights, her glorious hair had remained gloriously perfect, she had relaxed and allowed herself to fall into a deep sleep.

But tonight was different. Tonight brought with it the anxiety of tomorrow. She would wash her hair for the first time since the perm, knowing there was a chance it would surrender to the water and shampoo and curl up. Tomorrow brought with it the trip to Milwaukee she both dreaded and looked forward to. Dreaded because she didn’t know what Mother Superior would be like in person. Looked forward to because of the excitement of going to the place where Father Groppi was brave enough to lead the march for civil rights.

Mary Clare remembered how Mother Superior sounded on the phone. That tone in her voice. At first she had reasoned that
the Reverend Mother was just irritated because she’d had to change the date she was going to Milwaukee, but she’d made that comment about Religious probably not being very popular in Milwaukee at the moment. Now that Mary Clare had been keeping up with the news, she realized that Mother Superior had been talking about Father Groppi. She hoped that Mother Superior was talking about how other people felt. Surely she didn’t blame Father Groppi for the riots. He was a man of peace.

Mary Clare yawned. She was tired, but the idea that Mother Superior might disapprove of Father Groppi made her wonder. If she wasn’t going to be the Mother Superior right away, she’d have to be obedient to the Mother Superior. Could she really be obedient to someone who didn’t approve of fighting for what you believed in? Did she really want to give up boys? Her thoughts flashed to Flipper. He’d winked at Mary Clare the other night at dinner while he was home on leave, and Mary Clare had melted into her chair. She’d had a warm glow ever since and wondered if he could ever like her.

And anyway, now that her hair was straight she felt practically pretty. Maybe she didn’t need to keep it covered with a veil.

She yawned again and knew that she needed to say her prayers before she got too sleepy. She said a quick prayer for her family, another for her meeting with Mother Monica, three Our Father’s for the civil rights movement, and a whole Rosary for the outcome of her hair. She was almost asleep when she remembered to pray for Matthew to get his conscientious objector approval.

The next morning Mary Clare stepped into the shower with the same courage and trepidation she imagined Saint Joan of Arc had felt when facing the enemy. She prayed for straight hair the whole time she washed it. But by the time she emerged from the shower, she knew she was in trouble. She couldn’t see her hair at first because of the fog on the mirror, but she could feel
it curling and frizzing the minute she patted it with a towel. As it dried, it got worse.

“Whoa, check out the afro,” Luke said when she walked into the kitchen. It was early morning and Luke, Mom, and Dad were the only ones at the kitchen table.

“Have a heart,” Dad said to Luke when he caught a glimpse of Mary Clare.

“Oh no,” Mom said. “Come here and let me help you.”

Mary Clare squatted in front of her mother and let her finger the mess of hair. She held back tears, but just barely.

By the time Mary Clare and her father left for Milwaukee, she felt a little better. Mom had combed through her hair using Dippity-do so that her hair was a little flatter and a bit less curly. She hoped the headband would help keep it in place.

She was dressed in a pink sleeveless shift that had to be let down so it fell just above her knees. Her shoes were the same old Sunday shoes she always wore, and since Mom insisted on it, she carried a small white purse that held a pair of white gloves. Mom had tried to make her wear a pillbox hat but Mary Clare refused. At least the headband kept the curls off her face. A hat would just draw attention to her hair.

Mary Clare’s stomach felt funny when she got into the car alone with her father. She wasn’t used to conversing with him about much beyond what they were having for dinner, or which one of the kids she had nursed for a cut or a bruise. She knew almost nothing about his business world, and he certainly knew little about her world. Now, she figured, she’d have to think of something to talk to him about for an hour and a half.

It turned out not to be a problem. Dad turned the radio on even before they got out of the driveway.

“I hope you don’t mind if we listen to the speech Archbishop Cousins is going to give. It should be on all the main radio
stations in a few minutes,” Dad said. He flipped through several stations until he found what he was looking for.

“I read about that,” Mary Clare said. “He’s going to talk about the racial riots in Milwaukee!”

Dad gave Mary Clare a startled look. “I had no idea you were following that story,” he said. Mary Clare kept a straight face but inside she smiled. It was good to see her father surprised. Now maybe he’d realize that boys weren’t the only ones interested in politics. Now maybe he’d realize that she was growing up.

A broadcaster was talking about the upcoming speech. “There are seven hundred thousand Catholics in the Milwaukee area, and Archbishop Cousins has his hands full with this address. Many Milwaukeeans feel that Negroes wouldn’t be pushing so hard for fair housing without Father Groppi’s involvement in the NAACP, and that Milwaukee wouldn’t have had a riot without him. Father Groppi’s involvement in the civil rights movement has resulted in hoards of letters requesting Father’s resignation and even excommunication from the church. Archbishop Cousins is expected to address prejudice and take a stand on the role of Catholic Religious in protests.”

Dad shook his head. “Archbishop Cousins is totally behind the civil rights movement,” he said. “But I don’t know what he’s going to say after all the senseless violence.”

“But Father Groppi isn’t responsible for the riot. He only wants peaceful protests to help Negroes get their rights.”

Dad furrowed his brow and looked at Mary Clare as if she were a stranger. It was fun surprising him with information he didn’t expect her to know. So she kept right on going.

“He cares about them getting fair housing and jobs. They live in the oldest and most run-down part of Milwaukee, and did you know that the police force has only eighteen black cops out of hundreds?”

“That’s true,” Dad said. “But try to see it from the perspective of the Polish people in Milwaukee. They’ve worked hard for many years to build a community. They made sacrifices to be able to build beautiful, elaborate churches. They’re afraid of losing everything to the Negroes. To them, Father Groppi is a rabble-rouser.” He sighed. “The Catholic Church has stayed neutral about civil rights. Now Father Groppi is forcing the Church to take a stand.”

Mary Clare focused her eyes on the glove compartment, not wanting to look at her father. Did his sympathy for the Milwaukee South-siders mean he was against Father Groppi and the Negroes he was trying to help?

She continued to avert her eyes but drew up courage to ask a question. “What do you want the Archbishop to do?”

“Oh, I hope, and I pray, that he’ll stand up for Father Groppi. I hope and I pray that he’ll tell us that it is the duty of Catholics to pursue justice—not by rioting, but by peaceful demonstrations.”

Mary Clare felt a swell of pride in her father. Something new and fragile was taking shape in her relationship with him. A union of minds. A kinship she hadn’t felt until now.

“The Archbishop’s speech is about to begin,” the broadcaster said.

Mary Clare turned up the volume.

In a soft-spoken voice, Archbishop Cousins began:

“We have known the horrors and fears and anxieties of something that many believed ‘couldn’t happen here.’ Unfortunately, it happened. And we must face the inevitable fact. I grieve with the victims. I extend sincerest sympathy to the families of officers and others who died or were injured in the performance of their duty to uphold law and order, without which justice is impossible.”

Mary Clare looked at her father. She could see that he was
barely breathing as he listened. Archbishop Cousins continued by praising the public officials for their quick response and the news media for preventing the spread of rumors that might have incensed more violence.

“Wanton destruction, arson, potential murder can never be condoned. They are offenses against the law of God and the law we rely upon to protect us all. Yet through them we have been dramatically made aware of conditions we might have ignored, or problems we might have continued to disregard.”

He spoke of the confusion in the Church regarding their role, and reminded listeners that Pope John XXIII and Pope VI encouraged everyone to work together to eradicate discrimination and injustice.

Mary Clare and her father exchanged smiles. Mary Clare stretched her arms over the dashboard to relax a little and watched a colt tromp behind its mother in the field they were passing. When she tuned back in she heard “…Permit me to say that it is the sacred duty of the faithful, the priests, and the Religious of our time and of our Archdiocese to root out of their hearts and to free their communities of any prejudice that would make men anti-Jewish, anti-Negro, anti-Mexican or anti- anything else that would render them anti-Christian in practice.”

Mary Clare tuned in and out of the long speech without meaning to. Her mind just wandered to the upcoming meeting, and her hair, and other important things. But she was tuned in when he made his verdict on priests and nuns being involved in protests.

“From all this it follows that all Catholics, priests, sisters, and laity must take an active and intelligent part in the promotion of Christ’s teachings in the field of belief, in social doctrine, in relieving poverty. We are all part of the apostolic mission of the Church. We should not be surprised then to find priests and
Religious joining with our lay brothers and sisters in espousing equal rights for all.”

Mary Clare let out a cheer that was matched by that of her father. In the rest of the speech Archbishop Cousins didn’t mention Father Groppi by name, but he firmly supported the nuns and priests who protested for justice. She watched her father’s head nod in agreement. He swallowed hard a few times, which brought Mary Clare to tears. She wished she could protest with them.

When the speech ended Dad switched off the radio. In the silence that followed, Mary Clare couldn’t stop thinking about Father Groppi and the other nuns and priests who were fighting for equal education opportunities and fair housing and other civil rights. She thought about the civil rights workers who had lost their lives in Alabama trying to help the Negros get voting rights.

“Dad,” Mary Clare said, “do you think that civil rights workers are saints?”

“Whew!” Dad’s whistle was piercing. He thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I do,” he said. “They’re putting their lives in danger for what they know is right—for what they believe in their hearts is God’s will. Yes, I do think they’re saints.”

Both remained silent for a while. Mary Clare couldn’t help but think about Matthew. His was a different kind of fight. Though she knew she was getting into dangerous territory, she had to say something to her father. Had to, if she were going to be brave like Father Groppi. Finally she summoned the courage. “You know, Dad, conscientious objectors and all the protesters are fighting for what they believe God wants, too—to end an unjust war, to stop the killing.”

Dad didn’t say a word. But he removed his hand from the steering wheel and cupped his chin, as if stroking an imaginary beard.

As they approached the city that was still in a state of national emergency, that still had a nighttime curfew and National Guardsmen everywhere, Mary Clare had visions of the shooting, looting, and fires of one week earlier. She prayed for peace in Milwaukee. She prayed that Mother Superior would like her enough to ask her to apply to Saint Mary Magdalene Convent, even though she might not choose to go. She ran a hand through her hair and prayed that the Dippity-do would hold it down.

Once in the city, National Guardsmen and police were everywhere in their uniforms and helmets. Most of the people on the street were white, but Mary Clare counted ten black people over the next several blocks. It was the most Negroes she had ever seen in one day. Most were men but when Mary Clare and Dad stopped at a red light a black woman about her mother’s age crossed the street. She was wearing a flowered miniskirt and pink blouse. She clutched a shopping bag against her thigh and gave a nervous smile to Mary Clare and her father as she walked past them.

Mary Clare leaned forward, smiling too broadly, too enthusiastically for the circumstances. The woman averted her eyes and darted to the other side of the street, leaving Mary Clare feeling small, foolish, deflated. She couldn’t make up for all the prejudiced people by smiling.

“Have you noticed that some of the police are wearing black helmets instead of white?” Dad asked, motioning with his head to a policeman standing on the corner.

Mary Clare noticed and nodded.

“I heard that on the first night of the riots, the police put on their white riot helmets and quickly realized that they were sitting ducks. So a few of them raced into a hardware store, picked up black spray paint, and started painting as many helmets as they could.”

Mary Clare nodded again, too overwhelmed by the subdued tension that filled the atmosphere. All these people, black and white, trying to go about their business as usual with such a strong undercurrent of anger and fear.

“Don’t be nervous,” Dad said.

Mary Clare realized that she’d been fiddling with her purse, opening and closing it. Taking out the gloves and putting them back in again.