The bicentennial catholic nun

In 1976, I came to the United States of America to spend the summer. The funny part is that my mom, after my father died, decided to hire a Catholic nun from the United States. When I said “hire,” she actually sought an agency to see if there was a nun that could come and live in our house so we could practice English while my mother was working and would help us with our homework.

Alas, that didn’t last very long because we drove the nun, Sister Mary Hubert, crazy. She was probably around 55 years old, a good woman, a good nun, but maybe her ways were too stiff for these four little devils that, after my father died, unconsciously unleashed the worst possible behavior that any children could have, ages 4 to 10.

What happened in the following months upon her arrival was like a tug of war between kids who did not want to be disciplined and a mother who was constantly absent because she was in the office taking care of her affairs, so she could not be the authority she would like to be. She gave the reins to the nun, and the nun lost her grip within six weeks. We got her drunk, saw her naked while she took a shower when we hid in the bathroom closet. One after another incident led her asking for asylum in a nearby convent/Catholic school that was next door to our house. That worked perfectly, because then the nun was sleeping there. I think my mother was paying the school for her stay and her food, and she would come in the afternoon, so that made the arrangements a little bit better.

By the end of the first year contract, she stayed in Colombia, but she went to work in another school. From time to time, I would see her at the school bus on my way to school, and sometimes we would meet in that corner. I was a little devil, so I don’t know, but anyway.

Some of the things that happened with her coming to our house were that the first year that she was in Colombia, my brother was sent the first summer to her hometown, St. Louis, Missouri. He stayed there for two months in the house of some kids. My mother paid for that, and my brother was amazing. He just had the best of times making friends. My mom had given him some money for the trip, and he came back with almost all of it still in his pocket. He hadn’t spent a thing.

It was my turn to be there in 1976. I had heard about a bicentennial commemoration of 200 years from the 1776 Declaration of Independence. I didn’t actually know what contract my mom had negotiated before she put me inside of that plane, or whether what followed was part of her arrangement or a direct reaction to my outrageous behavior. The nun actually came along with me on the flight, and we started by staying a few days with her sister, an older woman. But then her niece and grandchildren started coming over, and things got chaotic. I made friends with Theresa, and we ended up having wild fights with pillows and baby powder until, I think, new arrangements had to be made. They sent me to Theresa’s house, and from her house, I was handed off to the house of Mr. Baine, a father of the household who was running for the state Senate. I think he was from the Democratic Party, so it was interesting for me, my first long summer in the United States. I was there with this family campaigning for the elections, getting $2 bills, having barbecues, and waving United States flags. In a way, it was a very beautiful way to understand what it means to be in this country for the Fourth of July, which is today.

Long story short, I stayed the whole summer. I had a blast. We ended up going to a house they had in the Ozarks. I learned how to water ski. But what stayed with me is this relationship that a lot of born Americans, unlike an immigrant like me, have with a flag, with the First Amendment, the 1791 Bill of Rights, and the Declaration of Independence. The First Amendment and freedom of speech, the Second Amendment and the right to bear arms, the Fourth Amendment and the right to be secure in your person, house, and effects, t