Brazen Hussies Presents ~ Sally Sheklow ~ My Habit

My Habit

by Sally Sheklow

(802 words)

Crow's feet, dog jowls, and turkey wattles. Despite my menagerie of aging signs, the inner me is still a kid‹immature, impulsive and impertinent.

When I was little I couldn't wait for the freedom I expected would come with growing up. Once, at 16, I had adult power for a brief moment. It was my high school drama class final exam performance. I hoped to pass, even if just barely. Wearing an authentic nun's habit I'd borrowed from an authentic nun, I stepped onto the stage as Sister Felicity in a hastily-rehearsed scene from Suddenly Last Summer. All I had to do was stand there in that heavy habit with my hands clasped and deliver my lines. For a rambunctious cut-up like me, holding still required serious acting.

Miracle of miracles, my portrayal garnered me an instant A. Maybe I really had talent. Either that or our faggy drama teacher recognized my budding queerness and wanted to encourage me to get into theater where I'd find kindred spirits.

I was so stoked about getting the A, I stayed in costume after class. I felt invincible inside those massive folds of fabric. A voluminous veil and starched white headpiece hid my tell-tale high forehead and curly hair. Any hint of my Jewishness was pretty well concealed by the giant crucifix hanging solemnly against my black-draped teenage bosom. My robes rustled with purpose as I strode across campus to assembly. A sea of schoolmates hushed and parted to let me pass.

Mr. Mendez was on hall monitor duty outside the auditorium. I knew from his economics class that he considered himself a good Catholic and didn't tolerate any joking around on the subject. (Needless to say, I never got an A from Mr. Mendez.) He guarded the entrance in his typical authoritarian stance. What an opportunity. I walked up and looked him sternly in the eye. "May I help you, Sister?" Courtesy dripped from his usually reprimanding tongue. I stared, thrilled he didn't see past my wimple and recognize me‹the smart aleck kid he'd busted passing notes featuring my less-than-flattering likenesses of him. All Mr. Mendez saw was a nun. A nun who apparently expected something from him. Had I thrown him into a Catholic School flashback? Sweat beaded onto his forehead and upper lip. My stringent economics teacher was at a loss. Did I have Mr. Mendez scared? What a potent feeling!

Poor Mr. Mendez shifted, fidgeted like one of his daydreaming economics students suddenly called on to explain supply and demand. I must have broken character for a second, because a tentative recognition furrowed Mr. Mendez's already frown-creased brow. Was he seeing the real me behind the veneer? He wasn't totally sure. "Sheklow, is that you?"

I flashed a grin. Mr. Mendez's reverent look drooped into his standard scowl. Before he could respond I rustled past him, glided into the auditorium, and slipped into the back row. Heads turned. The lights dimmed. Eventually the murmur subsided.

After assembly, I drove myself home. My brother had loaned me his 1940 Dodge coupe for the day. People in passing cars did double takes at the nun behind the wheel of a rusty old wreck. Just before I turned onto our street I lifted my berobed arm out the window, black gabardine flapping in the wind. When I was sure plenty of gawking drivers and passengers were looking my way, I held up my hand and raised my middle finger. The old car's tires squealed as I gunned it around the corner. God, that was fun!

I parked in our driveway, checked the mail box, and waved at our next-door neighbor as if it were any other after-school day. On my way to the front door, my reflection in the living room window startled me. How authentically nunly I looked. Not schoolkid-ish at all. Before I'd finished admiring myself the telephone rang and I ran inside. My mom's frantic voice boomed through the receiver, "What's going on there? Is everything all right?" Old Mrs.Vineberg, our strictly-kosher next door neighbor, had freaked and called my mom at work to report a nun on the premises.

" It's okay, Mom. I'm still wearing my habit costume." While I chatted with my mother I spotted our neighbor looking in from across the driveway. I smiled, waved, and remembering I still wore the habit, blessed Mrs. Vineberg with the sign of the cross.

Even now, in my mid-fifties, nothing's really changed. It's still the same wiseacre-me inside. Being middle-aged is like a costume, a disguise that confers an automatic status we don't have as young people. Getting older is fun, thrilling, actually. Like being a nun and flipping the bird from a speeding jalopy.

Writer Sally Sheklow and her wife pretend to be grownups in Eugene, Oregon.