Sister Describes Campus Convent
Chapter In Sister Mary Gilbert's Book
Relates Experiences As Oregon Student
"The Convent on the Campus"
By MAMtINC OafMM
Sitter Mery Gilbert, S.N.J.M.
However pleasant it might have been to
linger always amid the repose of prayer or
within the quiet walls of the cloister, that
was not to be my life. As a member of an
active community, one dedicated to teach
ing, I had work to do in the Master's vin
yard.
• So it was that I found myself quite un
expectedly, and with only the barest of for
malities by way of introduction, enrolled in
a state university where I was to study
nouralism.
My name had been missing from the
regular summer appointment list and,
a day or so later, I had received a neat
little white envelope inscribed “Provin
cial Administration.” Inside was a brief
message saying that I had been granted
■ permission from the archbishop to study
journalism at the University of Oregon.
• The permission had been requested by
the provincial superior, and this note
was the first word I had heard of the
whole matter.
“I suppose that I felt a certain trepida
tion about embarking on this new venture,
for I have, tucked away somewhere in
a notebook of verse, a poem titled “Sojourn
on Alien Soil,” which I wrote shortly after
receiving my appointment.
Professorial Misgivings
Nor was I alone in my fear. After I be
came well adjusted to campus life, some of
my professors confided to me the misgiv
ings they had felt on learning that there
was to be a nun in their classes. Fortu
nately for them and for me, the experience
proved less painful than we had expected.
I found it a little hard to get used to
beginning classes without a preliminary
prayer, until I discovered that I could
- steal a quick minute for a silent offering, _
which in truly democratic fashion would
embrace the whole class: “Here we are,
dear God, ready to begin another battle
against deadlines. Take the tensions and
the trials and make them contribute to
your glory.”
I soon learned that our life was an
enigma to many otherwise well-educated
individuals, and I reasoned that since my
attendance at the university had not been
a matter of personal choice, there must be
some work for me to accomplish there.
That’s why I decided to join the faculty.
My name was never on the faculty pay
roll, of course, but I taught there all the
same. As a member of a teaching com
munity, I could hardly be expected to re
linquish one of the primary works of the
congregation.
Mine was a non-credit course, for the
most part strictly elective, and it was never
listed in the catalog. It was a queer blend
of public relations, philosophy, religion, and
poetry—with now and then a bit of logic
added. Open to professors and students, to
office personnel and maintenance men, it
met by request wherever and whenever
anyone asked to be taught.
'Born a Sister?*
“Were you bom a Sister or did you be
come one?” a Chinese graduate assistant
would ask, and all my professorial prowess
would rise to meet the challenge. Or an
English professor would startle me with
“Have you ever heard of spiritual dry
ness?” and we’d promptly have a “class”
on prayer.
Before many months had passed, I
felt quite at home with my fellow stu
dents, and they with me. The radio news
caster realized that I couldn’t hear his
seven o’clock show on the days we had
community prayer at that hour. A jour
nalism professor discovered that I wore
scissors suspended on a card at my side,
and delegated me to open all the exam
ination copies Of textbooks he received.
Now and then the process would be re
versed, and an alert instructor would
teach me a bit of convent strategy. For
example, the young man in charge of
our typography laboratory confided that
a nun in one of his previous classes had
used veil pins with great skill to remove
incorrect characters when she was set
ting type by hand.
The common bond that arises from mu
tual endurance soon drew my classmates
and me together. They discovered that I
could spell and punctuate, though I was a
novice at newswriting. I learned to rely on
them for data about the town and campus.
Gradually I formed friendships which were
to become a permanent part of my life.
SISTER MARY GILBERT
. . • oar life was an enigma . . , ”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Madeline DeFrees attended the University of
Oregon in 1949-50 as a graduate student in jour
nalism, obtaining her master M arts degree. She
wasn’t just an ordinary graduate student, how
ever; she was Sister Mary Gilbert of the relig
ious order of The Holy Names of Jesus and Mary.
Sister Mary Gilbert’s new book, “The Springs
of Silence,” contains one chapter On her exper
iences while attending Oregon. The chapter, “The
Convent on the Campus,” is here reprinted, by
special permission from the Prentice-Hall pub
lishing company, publishers of the autobiography.
The author, who will speak at the Matrix table
banquet of Theta Sigma Phi, women’s profession
al journalism honorary, Tuesday night, has been
a Sister for seventeen years, is a native of Oregon
and has taught in elementary schools here and in
Washington. She graduated from Marylhurst col
lege, got her M.A. at Oregon, and is now a mem
ber of the journalism faculty at Holy Names Col
lege in Spokane.
“The Springs of Silence” was written to dispel
the many misconceptions held about nuns and
answer questions that puzzle Catholics and non
Catholics alike. In it Sister Mary Gilbert gives a
picture of convent life. She relates that she had
hoped to evolve Into the “convent type” sort of
person, but soon discovered that there was nG
such thing.
The “I’ll say a prayer for you” that
falls so naturally from the Ups of the nun
soon found a place in the pattern of uni
versity Ufe; and even a few of the more
sophisticated individuals' who insisted
that they’d long since given up prayer,
grudgingly conceded: “But from yon, it
might count.” Around examination time
it was surprising to see how much in
terest could be generated in the subject
of prayer, and I soon learned that the
Emersonian doctrine of self-reliance has
its limitations even among the Intellec
tual eUte.
On certain subjects I was automatically
supposed to be an expert. When we studied
Newman in literature or needed an article
on the Holy Year for the campus daily, I
was expected to have the answers.
Discussion Nets 'A'
Once when a young man, who, I thought,
was a Catholic, asked me something about
Pope Pius XI’s encyclical on Christian
marriage, I discussed it with him at such
length that he came back gleefully to me
the next day with a test paper and a note
from the professor. “You must be a good
Roman,” the philosophy teacher had writ
ten just below a large, respectable “A”.
Perhaps the strongest single convic
tion with which the year at the Univer
sity left me was the belief that prejudice
stems chiefly from ignorance; and that
given half a chance to find out that we’
re human, the majority of persons will
evaluate us as individuals. 1 realized, too,
that the faith which was an essential
part of my life was completely missing
from the lives of many of those arhund
me. They were instinctively attracted
by it, even while they professed a cer
tain indifference.
Whenever I found a seemingly hostile
person, I made a special effort to break
down his opposition. I remember a sour
faced English professor whom I used to
pass every morning on my way to class.
I greeted him every time and he nodded
his head curtly, without ever returning the
broad smile I saved especially for him.
This went on for weeks, and he seemed
not to thaw in the least. Then one day I
wrote a sports column for the campus
newspaper. It was a whimsical bit of non
sense, representing the obtuse feminine
approach to certain popular sports.
The Ice Cracked
On my way to class the next day I heard
hasty steps behind me and turned to see
the uncommunicative English professor.
“Say,” he accosted me with an enthusiasm
I could never reconcile with his previously
frosty greetings, “I want to tell you how
much I enjoyed your sports column in the
Emerald.” As I smiled back, I could almost
hear the ice crack in the warm October
sunshine.
There was a Catholic hospital near the
campus, and I took my lunch in the nurses’
cafeteria. Then I’d slip away to the still
little chapel to make my daily visit to the
Blessed Sacrament and my noon examina
tion of conscience. The solitude and silence
were even more precious after a morning
of crowds and clamor, and I’d try to pack
into my fifteen minutes there enough quiet
and tranquillity to last through the long
afternoon. That done, I’d return to my
studies, physically nourished and spirit
ually refreshed. “If the university offi
cials only knew my secret,” I used to think,
“they’d take out the coke and cigarette
machines, build a chapel, and raise the
campus grade point average a good two
points.
Covered the Campus
Before the year was out, I had done a
fairly complete job of covering the cam
pus. I spent long afternoons in the law
school library doing research for a seminar
paper. I visited the schools of education,
music, and physical education on various
reporting assignments. I attended classes
in several other buildings, and I pried into
dusty and forgotten corners of the univer
sity library. Everywhere I found the same
friendliness and willingness to help.
When my class work was completed
and my thesis well on its way, I took a
part-time job in the university news
bureau to get some practical experience
in handling school publicity. The manag
er of the news bureau was a trim, sharp
witted little lady who took a roguish de
light in sending me on unusual errands
—all strictly within the lines of duty.
One morning, she decided to assign me
an ROTC story on candidates for military
honors. “I’ll bet it will be the first time
they’ve seen a nun over there,” she had
said to me by way of farewell. I began
to agree with her when I reached the build
ing and caught the startled glances that
greeted the intrusion of this new “unif
orm.” But by that time I had long since
learned to face strange situations almost
blithely. I no longer stood in the veterans’
line in the co-op when it was time to buy
books. And I had learned to wait patiently
every registration day in long lines, while
harassed student helpers searched succes
sively for my material under “D” as in “De
Frees,” “M” as in “Mary,” “G’ as in “Gil
bert, and “S” as in "Sister."
In the Colonel's Office
A blonde, boyish-looking sergeant show
ed me Into the colonel’s office and disap
peared in search of a typewritten list.
The colonel’s steel blue eyes gleamed
with more than usual kindness. He leaned
forward, resting his folded arms on the
dark polished surface of the desk.
“Tell me,” he said with a faintly amus
ed smile, “how did you happen to choose
this university?”
“How did I choose Oregon?” I coun
tered. “Why, I suppose the same way
you chose to head the ROTC unit here.
I was sent.”
He smiled almost imperceptably.
“What will you do when you finish?”
“I’ll be teaching in one of our two
colleges in this province,” I explained.
A few more well-directed questions, and
the colonel was on familiar territory. “I
see,” he interposed with a knowing glance,
“your life must be a lot like the Army.”
In some ways he was right. The organi
zation and the administration of religious
communities have certain features in com
mon with the methods employed by the
military. One of these is the annual "obed
ience" more often referred to as “appoint
ments" or "nominations." The provincial
superior and her council assign the Sisters
to the various local houses. A nun may be
re-appointed to the same house for several
years in succession, or she may be trans
ferred at need.
I couldn’t helping thinking how simple
my own life was, as 1 compared It with
that of many of my fellow students.
Some of them had heavy family respon
sibilities to worry about and the problem
of getting a job after graduation loomed
large. I opened my own little “placement
bureau” and did u thriving business In
terceding for my friends.
It's true that there were many other per
sons on the campus who had more direct
contacts with the working press. But few
others had such effective ones. I always
went directly to the Top Management, and
God seemed to have an extremely gracious
way of repaying my trust in Him.
'Sister Mary'
Everyone called me "Sister Mary," and
I answered to anything faintly reminiscent
of my name, although I could foresee diffi
culties when summer classes would bring
to the campus Sister Mary Noreen Clare,
Sister Mary Celeste, Sister Mary Louise
Ann, and a succession of others. Perhaps
it was because "Gilbert” seemed like a
surname that I became "Sister Mary,” but
I could never quite figure out why both
Sister Noreen Clare and Sister Kegina
Claire should be “Sister Claire;" and Sis
ter Edwin Maria, be "Sister Edwin.” Per
haps it was too much to look for logic in
the matter of nuns' nomenclature.
Besides, I had to admit that I’d met
nothing to equal the blessed ignorance of
the father of a second-grade boy in one
of our schools. He had taken Sister Su
perior and a companion for a ride one
afternoon, with his young son acting as
go-between. The little lad had done man
fully with the introductions and kept the
conversation at a gay pitch. But the two
nuns had to exercise heroic self-control
each time the father, following Billy's
lead, addressed the principal as “Sister
Perlor.”
Just as "Sister” is an adequate form of
address when speaking to any nun, so the
title "Sister Superior" will serve for any
nun who happens to hold that office. That's
why it's always amusing to hear someone
comment: "You know, there was a Sister
Superior in Minnesota where I came from."
The observation has about as much point
as noting that there is a Mr. Speaker in
every house of representatives.
Once when I smiled at an outsider’s mis
conceptions about nuns, I was startled
to hear him say: “Don't laugh at me. Aft
er all, how would I know anything about
nuns? You're the only nun I've ever
known."
A Marked Woman
The thought paralyzed me. It took little
reflection to convince me that I was a •
marked woman. There must be dozens of •
others here at the university whose no
tions of religious life would be determined '
by their notions about me. They would
generalize. It was inevitable. Whether I
liked it or not, I was on parade. My per
sonal mannerisms; my likes and dislikes;
my talents and weaknesses were no long- '
er merely mine. It made me think of the
little girl who went over to play with her
Catholic neighbors when Sister Terence ’
was visiting.
Sister had given the children some relig
ious pictures to color, and the little girl
was bent on writing a caption beneath
hers.
“How do yon spell ‘once’?” Sandra
asked Sister.
“Just like ‘one’ with ‘c-e’ on the end,” '
Sister said absently.
A few minutes later, when she was
surveying the children’s work, Sister re
alized that she had misinformed the *
. little girl.
“Pardon me, Sandra,” Sister said. "I
made a mistake. That should be ‘o-n-c-c’.”
Politely the little girl looked up at the
nun. “It looked funny at first,” she said
amiably, “but I thought maybe that was
the Catholic way of spelling it.”
I wondered how many observers would,
in the spirit of this child, fasten on my .
foibles and conclude that “It seems a little
strange, I’ll admit, but I suppose that’s the
convent way.”