Black and Blue Ivy

St. Vincent's

St. Vincent's was from another time when smartphones did not exist, and the only computer I ever spotted was an IBM dinosaur behind the librarian's desk. It usually had a nasty plastic cover thrown over it as if the very sight of it offended Sister Ida, who hunched over the tall desk and occasionally threw disgusted glances at us through cloudy bifocals. At times, an older student named Debbie, who worked the library desk, would sit behind the computer, clicking away. But her grim face was intimidating, discouraging me from asking if I could use it. I was desperate to find out what was going on with Morningstar. A city counselor named Mrs. Tyson was assigned to my case. We were to meet once a week until I was "settled," but whenever I asked about Morningstar, Mrs. Tyson brusquely told me that my job, for now, was to focus on adjusting to the new routine.

And what a routine it was. For someone who had no discipline growing up, my first few weeks at St. Vincent's were challenging, and the sisters, as well as the ward monitors, older girls who wore special red badges attached to our ugly brown uniforms, assailed me with sharp rebukes and even sharper elbow jabs whenever I stepped out of line.

When I informed Naomi, our ward monitor, that she didn't have a right to touch me after she slapped me upside the head when I lingered too long in the bathroom one morning, she laughed in my face. Blasting me with breath that smelled of rancid bologna, Naomi informed me that disciplining me was her job, her sacred duty bestowed on her by the Sisters of Notre Dame who ran the school, and that if I continued to show disrespect, she'd "write me up." I was about to tell her where to stick it when she reached out and gave my hair a hard tug right at the temple.

I knew instinctually that Naomi was the jealous type, that her sallow complexion and thin, colorless hair were a source of shame, and that any girl showing any gifts of natural beauty was considered a threat.

"And if you don't braid your hair properly," Naomi said with an ugly sneer. "I'll get Mother Superior's permission to chop it off!"

With that edict, she turned on the heels of her shiny black shoes and stomped from the room with two of her minions in tow.

Despite my resolution not to show any weakness, I sat on my bed and sobbed while my roommates snickered behind my back. A bell rang down the hall, signaling us to morning prayers, a two-hour ordeal where audible stomach growls were heard over whispered Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and Glory Be's. We were required to recite all five decades of the rosary and devotions before we were allowed to eat breakfast, usually oatmeal with milk and instant coffee. Honey appeared on the table as a special treat on Sundays.

One of my roommates, a girl named Joelle who wore her jet black hair in tight braids, slowed her pace as we walked single-file down the hall.

"Naomi's not joking," Joelle whispered, cocking her head toward Naomi's beanpole frame, making a sharp corner at the end of the hall. "There was this girl named Cora who she shaved bald last semester. Cora couldn't take it anymore and split. Guess she ended up in juvie or the streets."

"How the hell did she get out of here?" I whispered behind my hands, pressed in a tight prayer pose required of us anytime we traversed the halls. "I thought this place was a prison." I looked askance at the barred window facing an elevated section of I95. The cars zipping by seemed like alien spaceships while I remained trapped in an alternate medieval universe.

"It is a prison," Joelle said with a deep sigh as we reached the end of the hall where statues of saints Theresa and Rita stood sentinel. Joelle made a quick sign of the cross as we cut the corner to catch up with the rest of our group, now tramping down the stairwell. "But it's better than juvie. Believe me, I know."

I decided it was best not to ask how Joell ended up in juvie. Every girl had a story, including me. But why was I being punished for something my mother did?