catholicism

Gladdy’s Wake

mandy — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 08:00:00 +0000

It took me a while to really sink my teeth into Gladdy’s Wake. The book weaves in and out of three generations, each tying together through family, hints of religion, and the story of Nawal Habib, a devout Muslim. Nawal (once Janie Kelly) is suspected of terrorism, an act that reunites her with her estranged brother, Frank (now a priest) and hospitalized father, Daniel (a once devout Catholic); both of whom she left to eventually reinvent herself as Nawal Habib. The story runs through Nawal’s family tragedy, her rebellion, the birth of her son, and eventual religious transformation, all the while introducing the reader to her grandfather, James Kelly, a womanizing Irish immigrant interested in fast cash with no real ethical principles, lest it regard his passion: Gladdy Sage.

Though each story is captivating, the book is fractured and difficult to engage in. It seemed that each time I fell into the story, the author interfered with an abrupt switch from one narrator to the next. It was not until the near end of the novel that Anderson’s transitions became fluid and absorbing, the way a book should really grab your attention and not let go.

Nevertheless, the story is a unique twist on the post-9/11 novel and introduces the reader to the challenges of belief systems and the interconnectedness of the human race through the passion of moral conviction. While the protagonists devote their lives to different ideologies, from Islam to Catholicism, atheism and the idolization of romantic love, each struggle with the reality of their idols and the conflicts that exist within themselves and their systems of belief. In this way, Gladdy’s Wake takes a critical look into how we follow faith and why we accepts conceptions of the “moral life” that contradict our character.

Nawal struggles with jihad and the role of women in Islam; Frank with the Catholic vilification of his hidden sexual orientation; Michael Kaminsky (Gladdy’s object of affection and James Kelly’s match) struggles with his Jewish heritage in the Communist revolution; and James Kelly with the real Gladdy Sage – an alcoholic escapist, devoted to Michael Kaminsky and the drink. None of the characters in Anderson’s novel are able to see their deities for what they are. Each blinds himself or herself, excusing as a way of maintaining the pedestal upon which they have placed their flawed idea of morality.

In turn, the story employs a seemingly fractured start to reveal the connection between the disconnected by relating the characters on a moral level. In this way, the author recovers her initial shortcomings. Though this lends the question, what makes a book? Its ability to capture its audience upfront, or to engage its reader with a critical approach to a heavy issue?

Written by: Ani Colekessian, April 22nd 2011

Indigenous Writings from the Convent: Negotiating Ethnic Autonomy in Colonial Mexico

mandy — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 20:00:00 +0000

By Monica Diaz

University of Arizona Press

After the Spanish invasion of Mexico, the invaders converted the existing noble class of Indians to Catholicism so that the church could regulate the lives of its subjects and help the Spanish colonial administration. The noble class in colonial Mexico had special status and though never equal to the Spanish, they sometimes allied with them against the indigenous people. The nobles wanted to maintain their status and property, they had education and language, and the Spanish wanted to use them as intermediaries to govern the natives. Women lost power and authority under Spanish rule, but noble women tried to maintain their place, at least in the convent.

Many nobles quickly converted to the Catholic religion but women were unable to enter convents except as servants until 1724 when a convent was established specifically for noble indigenous women. Their lives were even more restricted than the Spanish nuns, and their regime in the convent resembles torture more than worship. Monica Diaz, author of Indigenous Writings from the Convent, argues that the women maintained their identity as Indians and nobles by defining themselves in opposition to the Spanish nuns, and when the Indian convent was threatened by allowing Spanish nuns to enter, the noble indigenous women used the tools of language that the colonial system had given them to their advantage.

The author’s stated intent was to focus on the structure of discourse and the agency of the Indian nuns during the battle to keep the convent for Indians. The nobles relied on the colonial focus of “otherness” that had been used to discriminate against them, to argue that the convent should exclude Spanish nuns, a separate but equal argument, but of course they weren’t equal. The argument put the church into a tough spot to claim on the one hand that the Indians were capable of being nuns but on the other hand that they were incapable of running their own convent. The church wanted to minimize the antagonism, because they wanted to continue to control the women and manipulate them as a model minority. Because the church insisted on hierarchy and ethnic difference, the Indian women could use those same arguments to their benefit.

Diaz compared the writings of nuns and priests to show how the priests re-wrote the women’s work and published it without attribution. However, few writings by noble Indians existed so most of the data was from Spanish nuns. A chapter about sermon writing illustrated that when priests talked about Indian nuns, they eliminated any personal history and portrayed their good behavior as a miracle and their main positive attribute as obedience.

Because the noble Indians could write in the style of the oppressor, the author argued that they had agency other indigenous women did not have. According to Diaz, they knew how to create and manipulate alliances, they understood hierarchy and power struggles, and they used this to defend the Indian-only convent. She claims that the elites found a way to maintain their political autonomy by creating a place in the new religious order. The point of the book is that the noble women adapted to new reality but maintained an Indian identity. Since few writings of the noble Indians survived, the sample is quite small and the author’s assumptions and deductions are not fully supported. Whether the actions of the women were positive agency or defensive survival and whether they maintained their Indian heritage is questionable. As with most academic books, one must stumble over the style of writing and use of words.

Written by: Dianne Post, February 16th 2011

A World Apart (2/4/2011)

mandy — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 09:00:00 +0000

The Flea Theater

New York, New York

As Susan Mosakowski’s A World Apart opens, Mother Augustina, an abbess in a Cistercian monastery, is deeply engrossed in reading a religious text. Once interrupted, she explains that she is searching for answers to a host of troubling questions. Doubts about all kinds of things have begun to creep in, she says. Take the issue of heaven and hell. Common assumptions posit one above and the other below us. But why?

“Heaven and hell do not have that kind of geography,” the abbess (beautifully performed by Antoinette LaVecchia) tells a stunned Sister Cornelia (played with graceful torment by Amelia Workman). “Maybe heaven is right next to us, shoulder to shoulder, or in front of us, or behind, and that anyone who wanted to go to heaven could be there in a minute, if only they had the desire. It’s all about desire.”

Ah yes, desire. When Father Daniel Byrne (an intense Andy Paris) arrives at the convent to lecture the sisters, he and Sister Augustina trade smoldering glances. Not only that, his presentation further ignites the uncertainty that Sister Augustina has been grappling with. She finds one query particularly provocative: “Are we doing more for others by being inside our monastic world, or should we be outside and active, a part of everyday life, a part of every life that needs us?”

In short order Father Byrne confides that he has decided to leave the priesthood and—surprise—after a few brief encounters he asks Sister Augustina to remove her wimple and join him. He presents the option matter-of-factly, as if it’s a no-brainer for her to renounce her vows and leave the cloistered, celibate life she’s led for decades. Much to the priest’s annoyance, the request provokes crises of faith and commitment in Augustina, crises that spill into the lives of the nuns in her care. So what to do?

While A World Apart might have delved into the roots of the Sister Augustina’s angst more deeply—for example, it’s hard to imagine that her lust had been completely dormant before Father Byrne’s arrival or that it took decades for her to become curious about world events—the play raises issues that continue to nag at the Catholic Church. To its credit, A World Apart does not offer an oversimplified resolution of these concerns. Is there a place for monastic life in the twenty-first century? Does requiring celibacy make sense today? You decide.

Lee Savage’s spare set and Mark Barton and Ryan Seelig’s lighting design create a haunting environment for this eighty-minute play. It’s a serious work with ample humor, delving into what it means to be mindful and make conscious choices. Well acted and resonant, A World Apart addresses the human need for authenticity, love, and meaning. In the end, regardless of whether Sister Augustina’s religious order chooses to remain cloistered or opts to frolic in the muck of earthly delights, Father Byrne’s admonition rings true: “Sometimes you have to go outside to get more on the inside.” At the same time, what he doesn’t say is also true: Sometimes quiet contemplation and solitude can be enough.

*A World Apart will run through February 26, 2011 at The Flea Theater in Manhattan. Tickets are $18 and can be ordered by calling 212.352.3101 or by going to theatermania.com.

Photo credit: Jim Baldassare

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, February 7th 2011

Mädchen in Uniform (Girls in Uniform)

payal — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

Directed by Géza von Radványi

Wolfe Video

Manuela von Meinhardis despondently lays flowers on the grave of her mother. It is Prussia in 1910, and as an orphaned teenager, she isn’t left with many options.

Manuela’s aunt takes her to a convent, which is described as a citadel by the Headmistress, Sister Superior. “Poverty is an honor,” she barks at Manuela upon the girl’s arrival. “Get used to tragic blows—you are being trained to be the future mother of soldiers.” The militaristic attitude of Prussian culture is shown in various manners throughout the film: the girls march in formation to enter the convent, they eat in a mess hall, and they regard Sister Superior as their sergeant. Superior tells the students that the values of the school align with those of Prussian women: children, church, and kitchen. The convent is not a scholarly institution; the female students are being trained to serve man, God, and country.

A source of kindness and hope that the girls experience is in the form of Fraeulein von Bernburg. Sister Superior and the teacher von Bernburg are respectful to each other, although they are clearly at odds with each other. Superior welcomes rigidity, rules, and repercussions, while Fraeulein favors empathy and guidance. After a minor disagreement about student behavior, Superior predicts that she and von Bernburg’s paths will inevitably part some day. She fails to realize how quickly that day will arrive.

Manuela is in a new environment and still grieving the loss of her recently deceased mother, so it is easy to see why she gravitates towards Fraeulein von Bernburg. Not only is the teacher beautiful and kind; she genuinely cares about Manuela and wants her to thrive. But the relationship between the teacher and student is not destined to be gentle or effortless. Within the confines of the convent, feelings of repression, jealousy, and sexual curiosity stew among the girls and the all-female staff. This combination turns into a powder keg of sorts, with Manuela and her teacher directly at the center.

The relationship between the two is fraught with angst and drama, but it’s a relationship worth remembering. Despite the fact that the feelings between Manuela and her teacher are not accepted by the society in which they live, both women have a clear conscience about their actions—a lesson that should be noted by anyone, regardless of the culture or time period.

At first I doubted that I would enjoy the film. Honestly, I thought, will I care about a movie that takes place in a pre-World War I Prussian convent that is in German and barely qualifies as being rated PG? However, I was pleasantly surprised at the emotions I found myself experiencing throughout the course of the film: sadness, curiosity, and joy were just a few. And I was genuinely interested in the plight of the characters. The actions of the women at the convent reminded me that people always seem to fulfill roles that help them to cope with difficult situations. Sister Superior was the ailing but brutal general, commanding the troops. Fraeulein von Bernberg was the mother figure, offering tender support and comfort to the girls. One student even took on the role of class clown. Her morale-raising antics caused me to laugh out loud each time she took the screen.

Mädchen in Uniform offers viewers an honest and beautiful look at the relationships between women who are all at different, yet equally trying times in their lives. Its message rings true even fifty years after the original release.

Written by: Rachel Scheib, October 28th 2010

The Red Blazer Girls: The Ring of Rocamadour

admin — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 23:32:00 +0000

By Michael D. Beil

Knopf

I should come clean about this now: I was a total mystery addict as a kid. Nancy Drew, Encyclopedia Brown, and The Boxcar Children were my favorites. I jumped at the chance to review a new mystery that claimed to follow in the same tradition.

The Red Blazer Girls: The Ring of Rocamadour, by New York City high school teacher Michael D. Beil, has the requisite Nancy Drew cover homage: three girls sneaking through dark shadows. A call-out graphic promises, “A puzzling mystery! A mystery with puzzles!” Three hundred pages made for a satisfying heft in my hand. Before I started reading, I found myself wondering if a story written by a male teacher could realistically communicate the distinct voices of three modern young women.

The answer is... sort of. The way the girls act is modern, funny, and intelligent, but I found the dialogue a bit flat. It’s like a pastiche of the slightly stilted cadence more associated with Nancy Drew and her sidekicks, Bess and George. Once I accepted this, the book was a fun, well-paced blast. Encouragements to have a go at solving clues made up of word puzzles and numerical equations before turning the page are good-natured and persuasive. I found myself willingly stretching my brain into mathematical shapes I hadn’t attempted since eighth grade, and was rewarded by more twists and excitement as the story led to its gripping and well-constructed conclusion.

Beil’s characterizations are thoughtful and thorough. The three young detectives are strong, positive role models. They are seen working hard at several academic subjects and looking cool doing so, challenging bullying behavior within their own friendship group, and supporting friends to pursue their ambitions. Their client, introduced as a "mad old lady," could easily have remained one-dimensional, but is instead developed into a quirky and capable character in her own right. Beil also seems to have written himself into the story as the girls’ Dickens-loving English teacher who regularly supports their escapades, which, while indulgent, makes their adventures more plausible.

I discovered fairly quickly that the girls attend a Catholic school. The story swiftly introduces the school, its affiliated church, and likable clergymen--all of which become important to the plot. Indeed, the mystery itself involves treasure hunters searching for an ancient relic. Organized religion in general and Catholicism in particular can be divisive topics, particularly when viewing this book from a feminist perspective, so I felt it was important to mention it. The book’s promotional material and website leave this information out, which seems slightly, but needlessly, clandestine. It was actually very refreshing to read a book where cultural, rather than religious, Catholicism is presented in a way that felt realistic and honest to me as a New Yorker from a half-Catholic (both practicing and ‘recovering’) background.

Speaking of the website, it was pretty sparse in general, which isn’t in keeping with the gadget-tastic lives of these modern girls. Knopf is doing Beil and his readers a disservice and should up their web presence to maintain interest until the next book. (Jasper Fforde’s playful, literary-based mysteries for grownups have outstanding supporting material online, for example.)

By the end of the book, I’d decided that The Red Blazer Girls: The Ring of Rocamadour did live up to its promises, and was clearly written by a fan of the genre. I think it would best suit ten- to twelve-year-olds. I’d also certainly recommend this book to Catholic school libraries in the U.S. and abroad, because it does present a very hip and modern image of the school, teachers, and priests. Parents who choose to limit their children’s organized religion intake shouldn’t dismiss The Red Blazer Girls: The Ring of Rocamadour, though; it doesn’t proselytize, and its setting provides a unique world that will make this series stand out.

I suspect even Nancy Drew would enjoy it.

Written by: Chella Quint, October 15th 2009