12-10-2025, 08:01 PM
Early Memories
I was born on November 1, 1950, All Saints' Day. It is often thought that being born on this date brings good luck, but an exception must have occurred in my case. Shortly after my birth, I was baptized in a nearby parish to avoid the neighbors' attention. After that, I was quickly placed in the care of the Sisters of Charity at St. Philomena's Home in Stillorgan, County Dublin.
My very first memory is of a large room where I was locked, its walls covered with images of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. I was terrified by their constant gaze upon me. As soon as the door opened, I would rush into the corridor. Nuns would then appear from other rooms to try to grab me. They would eventually corner me at the end of the corridor, and I would be escorted back to my room where the lock would close behind me.
I vaguely remember potty training, sitting on a yellow potty, gazing up at a clear blue sky. To distract myself, I amused myself by transforming the few white clouds that drifted by into imaginary animals.
My best friend was named Jimmy. He was an adorable boy with blond hair, with whom I shared everything. We were inseparable all day long, whether in class, on the playground, in the cafeteria, or in the chapel; at night, he slept in the bed next to mine. I remember learning the alphabet and then the multiplication tables by his side. There were also those few days when all the windows were covered with blankets after Jimmy and I, along with some other boys, caught the mumps.
My last name annoyed the nuns, who had great difficulty pronouncing it in class. To this day, I don't remember the names of any of the women who cared for me at Saint Philomena. Overall, they treated me in a completely impersonal way, showing very little affection, tenderness, or even kindness. I found them very strict and distant. Talk about the love of Jesus and his mother Mary was frequent, but it didn't go much further than that. Their efforts were focused more on spiritual matters, especially in the chapel. I noticed that their faces only lit up when they were praying. Only then could one hope to get even a half-smile from them, if one caught their eye at the right moment. Prayer was the very essence of their being, and they made it their duty to teach me to pray with similar enthusiasm. With this in mind, they pinned pictures of Jesus and Mary above my bed and encouraged me to kiss them before going to sleep. For me, a smile from Jimmy was enough to give me a good night's rest.
I don't remember the nuns ever reading me a bedtime story, tucking me into bed, or giving me a single kiss. Physical contact was forbidden, except as punishment. Throughout all those years, I felt they were too preoccupied with their prayers to care about my emotions and personal growth. In any case, I had Jimmy, whom I loved more than Jesus and Mary combined, whatever that might mean.
One evening, as I was leaving the chapel after the blessing, I asked the Reverend Mother what a mother was. My question seemed to embarrass her, and she quickly ushered me out into the hallway to get supper. Outraged, I vowed never to ask her another question. A few days later, a priest entered the classroom, and we all stood up as one. With great solemnity, he announced that we would soon receive our First Communion. This didn't mean much to me, except that the image of Jesus hanging on the wall would soon be alive in my womb.
Jesus, the man said, would indeed soon come to us, for He loved us passionately, even unto death. I wanted to ask what death was, but the teaching sister threw a