Reform School: Memoirs of a Nun

Reform School: Memoirs of a Nun

by Jill Crokett

Chapter Two

 

Author's Notes:

 

1) "Chapter One" of this story was originally erroneously posted by the

webmaster as "Chapter Two."  I have requested that this error by corrected.  This

is the real Chapter Two.  Please attempt to read my first posting, the true

"Chapter One", first. 

 

2) This story is a factually accurate historical narrative, but all names used

are fictitious, including the author's nom de plume.  While no humans were hurt

or abused in the writing of this sadly often too true historical narrative, the author wishes

to make it clear that she does not condone the institutionally-sponsored

activities recanted here, but only truthfully acknowledge that they existed.

 

 

It was just my second day at our order's reform school in Indianapolis, and I was just beginning to get acquainted with my new surroundings, but Sister Joseph wasted no time in breaking me in as her new Assistant Director of Discipline trainee.  I was soon to get more than just a glimpse of what my new life there was to be like.

 

After morning prayers I enjoyed breakfast in the sisters' private dining room.  We always ate in shifts, as some of us were always attending to the boys, but I dined congenially that morning with several other dark-gray-robed nuns, and was able to acquaint myself with several of the other sisters.

 

When we finished, Sister Joseph discreetly pulled me aside and informed me that I was to witness a 'house induction' that morning.  It would represent the beginning of my disciplinary training, and would serve as an orientation to my new job.

 

Sr. Joe said that "the courthouse" had called earlier her early that morning to refer a "condemned juvenile" and his mother to us. She said she had "spoken with the Judge himself" on the telephone regarding the seriousness of the case. Apparently some sort of serious robbery was involved.

 

The judge was "a very strict, Godly judge" Sister Joseph remarked, as if she was familiar with them all, adding "The court will be sending the boy directly to St. Michael's this morning, and I want you to witness his induction process." Her words, nearly whispered, gave me instant butterflies. 

 

We were informed that an 11-year-old boy, accompanied by with his mother, would arrive shortly, escorted directly from the judge's chambers by the police.  "We'll accommodate him immediately" Sr. Joseph quietly pronounced with her usual air of confidence and authority, adding "and I want you in my office so you can observe a proper induction into this facility."

 

"Observe, and learn" she said as she turned to hustle herself up the wide staircase to her third floor office.

 

"Yes, Sister" I affirmed as the 57-year-old nun quickly floated up the staircase.  I was amazed at how swiftly Sister Joseph escalated the three flights without hesitation.  I hurriedly followed as I lifted the hem of my long, gray habit as I clumsily negotiated the stairs behind her.

 

Upon entering Sr. Joe's office I couldn't help but notice Sister Anne tightly drawing down the window shades.  She had already closed the windows, even though it was mid-summer.  An overhead light fixture glared at down on what I thought was a previously empty spot in the center of her office, in front of Sr. Joe's desk. I had previously only been in the office once, the day before, but I noticed for the first time, directly under the light's illumination, what looked like a small, low, narrow table covered with a white sheet.

 

My heart raced slightly as Sister Joe's third-floor office telephone rang, notifying us that the new reformatory student and his mother were on their way.  As she hung up the telephone Sister Joseph reminded me to observe Sister Anne as she worked, as I was training for her position. She explained that after the boy's induction, his mother would be given a small cash welfare stipend, and she would be sent home in a taxi paid for by the school.  The boy would be left with us for at least several months, or "possibly several years if he resists reform."  "Hopefully", she added, "by the grace of God, I can save his young soul from a life of crime and prison."

 

I accompanied Sister Anne back downstairs to greet the new student and his mother at the reformatory's front entrance. Within minutes Mrs. Larsen and her 11-year-old son Brian arrived in a shiny black-and-white police cruiser.  As the officer drove off, Sr. Anne introduced herself in a cool but professional manner.

 

"Welcome to St. Michael of the Angels Boys Reformatory. I am Sister Anne, the Assistant Director of Discipline." She then turned to Brian and, with an intimidating smile, added "I believe I'm due to become very well acquainted with this young man."

 

Brian Larsen was a typical tossed-haired, slightly freckled boy of medium build. His struggling mom had made him as presentable as she could for court, neatly dressing her son in a pressed, clean white short-sleeve shirt and gray trousers. His brown hair was neatly combed with a few drops hair tonic, but his clean cut appearance betrayed his  history of juvenile disobedience, truancy, and theft.

 

Mrs. Larsen had gone to court that morning in a simple print dress, the nicest one she owned. The defeated look on her face betrayed a life that had seen much heartache in it's 33 years. Her alcoholic husband had abandoned her several months earlier, saying he was going west to look for work in California.  She had yet to hear from him, and she feared he had fallen to drink or taken up with another woman. She was struggling to

raise her three children in a small two-room flat on the depression-era salary of a part-time sandwich counter waitress.

 

Mrs. Larsen knew that St. Michael's would pay her a small welfare stipend for each month that her son was incarcerated there.  This act of charity, though small, would be enough to buy groceries for her two daughters', and in those days of the Great Depression, every extra crumb helped, not to mention that, with Brian away, there would be one less mouth to feed at home. She certainly favored the idea of sending the troublesome boy away.

 

Sister Anne escorted Mrs. Larsen and Brian up the wide staircase to the Department of Discipline office as I followed behind them.  She led them straight through the reception area and directly into Sister Joseph's large office. Once we were inside she shut the office door and quietly set the deadbolt so that we could not be interrupted.  As she did, Sr. Joseph picked up her telephone receiver and instructed the switchboard operator to hold her calls.

 

I remember swallowing hard an the anxious feeling at being an observer in a room now occupied by four adult women and one lone 11-year-old boy.  At that point in my young life as a nun I knew nothing about being a disciplinarian, but I knew even less about boys.

 

Sister Joseph politely introduced herself to the boy's mother, informing her that she was the Director of Discipline and the institution's second-in-command. Mrs. Larsen said nothing but forced a tense smile. Turning to Brian, Sister Joseph quipped "So, you've been to court today, haven't you young man?"

 

Brian only nodded a sad "yes."

 

"You're a bit young to be heading down that path, aren't you my son?" Sister Joseph snapped in her slight Irish brogue, a sudden look of anger displayed on her face. 

 

The boy did not reply to the 57-year-old nun, but only stared timidly at the floor.

 

"Answer her!" snapped his mother. 

 

Brian managed a timid "Yes, ma'am, uh, I mean Sister." 

 

Looking back up at Mrs. Larsen, Sister Joseph quipped a faint smile and said in benign resignation "Well, the younger they are ma'am, the better chance I have at saving them, in both in this world and the next."

 

Stepping aside, Sister Joseph, pointing to a spot on the floor, instructed the boy to stand in the center of the room, right in front of the narrow table covered with the white sheet.  Brian complied, saying nothing.  Sister Joseph and Sister Anne quietly moved to stand to either side of him.  I nervously remained on the sidelines, my sweaty palms lightly bracing a bookshelf behind me. 

 

"Young man” Sister Joseph commanded, “turn and face your mother".

 

As the boy turned his back to the covered table, Sister Anne, without prompting, reached behind him and, without his awareness, slowly lifted the white sheet up off the table, revealing the covered object for the first time.  I soon learned that the nuns referred to it as simply 'the halter'. 

 

A paddling bench had been my guess, but ‘the halter’ was not quite what I had expected.  Removing the sheet revealed a short, narrow, brown leather bench, less than three feet high and little more than a foot wide.  It was no more than two feet long.  The lightly padded, leather covered top was supported by four thick, sturdy, square oak legs, each of which had several leather restraint straps attached at various heights of the leg.  At one end of the bench, bolted to two of the legs, was a wide, leather padded kneeler.  This wide kneeler had knee restraints at the front of it, and ankle restraints at each back corner.  The pair of long leather belts dangling from each side of the bench were used to restrain the boys’ waist and chest.

 

Glancing at the mother, I could clearly see her bosoms raise and lower with rhythmic breathing as the paddling bench was revealed to her view, but not her son’s. It was directly behind him as he stood facing her, and she had to tilt her head slightly to get a glimpse of it.  Her eyes widened with a look of curiosity as she gazed around her son at the halter.  The moment the sheet was pulled away the woman’s face blushed and she grinned slightly with a look of satisfaction.

 

Sister Joseph, looking directly at the mother asked "Do you agree ma'am, to comply with the order of the court, and to place your son under our administration and guidance."

 

"Yes indeed, yes Sister, I do" the mother meekly replied, glancing at her son.

 

"Well then, it's in our hands now, not only to carry out the order of the court, but to help guide young Brian here so one day he will walk the straight and true path.  After he has spent his time here with us, Mrs. Larsen, it will be in your hands and the Lord's."

 

Without looking at Brian the senior nun then matter-of-factly ordered "Young man, raise your hands above your head and apologize to your mother."

 

As the boy hesitatingly complied, slowly surrendering to his mom as he and mumbled something, Sister Anne knelt down in front of him and, crouching low, began untying his shoes.  His mother smiled with nervous curiosity at both the boy’s submission and Sister Anne’s activity.  While Sister Anne quickly slipped his shoes off, Sister Joseph interjected "We're going to get you a uniform Brian, so you'll look just like all the other boys."  Sister Anne then lifted the boy's feet and, one at a time, slipped off his heel-worn socks.

 

Once Brian was barefoot, Sister Anne, still kneeling, straightened up a bit and made brief eye contact with Sister Joseph, but said nothing.  Sister Joe nodded an esoteric command as if granting her permission to proceed, then continued to lecture young Brian as he stood with his arms overhead.

 

"Young man, your behavior has led you in a serious criminal direction.  You have been a shame on your family, and have thoroughly humiliated your loving mother."

 

At almost the very moment Sister Joseph said the word "humiliated," kneeling Sister Anne slipped her fingers under the waistband of the frightened 11-year-old's pants.  His 32-year-old mother smirked with satisfaction as she watched the young nun unbuttoned her son's trousers.  Brian, shocked and embarrassed at the thought of being undressed in front of four grown women, glanced down and instinctively grabbed one of the nun's wrists.  Sister Anne quickly lifted the opened palm of her hand free and slapped his face, ordering the boy to raise his arms back high "and keep them there." 

 

Humiliated and ashamed, Brian’s eyes teared up as kneeling Sister Anne coldly unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers.  A single tear rolled down the boy’s cheek.  

 

"Oh yes, they'll be a more than a few tears in this room this morning, young man" Sister Joseph coldly exclaimed as she turned and picked up a short, fifteen-inch-long wooden-handled leather punishment strap off of her desk, casually brandishing it so that Brian would see it for the first time.  Major tears welled in the terrified boy’s eyes and dribbled down both of his now rosy, blushing cheeks.  His chest heaved with angst as his

throat hummed a slight gurgled.  To compound his shame, at the very moment Brian caught sight of the cruelly modified barber's strop, Sister Anne pulled his trousers down to his bare ankles as his mom watched.  His arms held high, the boy's face crumple, his lower lip quivering.

 

As Mrs. Larsen stared, Sister Anne slipped her son's trousers completely off, one leg at a time.  I, a newly vowed young nun, also felt my own cheeks reddening with embarrassment at the sight.  Chaste and modest, I was most ashamed of the pleasure I felt at witnessing another’s certain humiliation.  

 

Breaking the embarrassing silence, Sister Joseph resumed her lecture.

 

"Normally we start our new boys out with a dose of the paddle Mrs. Larsen, but for your son, the judge has specifically called for the barber's strop.”  

 

Turning to Brian she brandished the worn leather strap to adding “So don't be ashamed to cry young man, Lord knows we've seen plenty of tears here before, and I know we're going to see some this morning.  The Sisters and I know what's best for you, young man." 

 

Sister Joseph laid the frightening-looking leather implement back on her desk, then turned and walked straight up to the surrendering boy and began unbuttoning his shirt, starting at the collar and working down.  As the senior nun’s arthritic fingers meticulously worked the button holes, her kneeling protégé slipped her young nibble fingers under the waistband of Brian's underwear and lightly tugged the snug white briefs down to his ankles, baring a young male’s smooth, hairless masculinity to me for the first time in my life.

 

As Sister Anne bent down and slipped the cotton briefs off Brian’s bare feet, Sister Joseph pulled his simple linen shirt straight up over his up stretched arms.  Seeing his total white-skinned nakedness I blushed beet red with embarrassment, unable to look away as I curiously stared at a likeness of God's creation which I’d never before seen; the crisp ring of his circumcised penis, the almost slick dark head of his young dick with its tiny inverted eye-like pee-hole, and the boy’s smooth, twin-scooped, hairless bird-egg-like ball sack. 

 

Beyond my fascination with this new, yet unseen flesh, I actually felt the boy’s embarrassment, his shame at being naked, his humiliation at having his sex exposed chaste nuns.  It was palpable.  It was powerful.  I stared at this young male in both embarrassment at his nakedness and amazement at his unique maleness.  I had joined the convent as a teen, and, having never even kissed a boy, I had never seen such a display of a totally naked male.  I wanted to explore his creamy white skin, which was smooth and hairless from the neck down, with slight tan lines at his arms and legs. 

 

That moment was an epiphany of what my new life in Indianapolis would be like.  Sister Joseph and Sister Anne appeared unfazed at this display of male genitalia, and after an uncomfortably long moment of silence, Sister Joe spoke, as always, with an air of authority. 

 

"Brian, today the court has sentenced you to not less than four months here at the Reformatory of St. Michael of the Angels.  You know very well why you are here. It is because you've been involved in a serious crime, a burglary."

 

"The other participants in that crime, two slightly older boys, are being sent this morning to the state prison, a horrendous place I might add, for years. Because of your tender age, Brian, you have been spared. But the judge is very, very concerned about your involvement in such a serious crime at such a young age. He wants to make a clear impression on you, one you will never forget, and today we are going to do just that."

 

"The judge has instructed me to begin your time here with the application of 35 strokes of a specially shortened and narrowed barber's strop, applied to the bare skin of your backside from the waist to the knees.  He has authorized me to add strokes if you are uncooperative."

 

With those words Brian, his arms still in submission, began to shake with a hushed sob as the expression on his face crumpled and twisted.  As another tear rolled down his cheek Brian began to say "I'm sorry, ma'am" but Sister Joseph quickly cut him off, adding "My years of experience have shown me that boys your age usually try to cover their bottoms after the first stroke, especially when using the barber's strop, and since we don't wish to injure your fingers, before we proceed, Sister Anne and I are going to firmly buckle you to a little bench, a 'halter' we call it, so your hands can't cover your bottom during the

punishment.  If you resist Brian, or struggle in anyway as we buckle you in the halter, I will add ten strokes to your sentence.  If you persist, I will add twenty.  Do you understand young man?"  Brian only nodded, now quivering.

 

Taking Brian by the shoulders, the sisters physically turned the naked boy to face the bench.  As soon as he caught sight of the low bench his chin began to quiver, but his pride kept him from crying aloud.  The nuns made the stripped boy kneel on knee pads affixed to one end of the bench, then bent his chest completely over the length of the short leather covered contraption.  Sister Anne and Sister Joseph, bending over the boy at each side of the bench, began firmly buckling Brian into place as he knelt chest-down.

 

The boy's bare butt stuck upward, slightly higher than his back and shoulders.  His knees were buckled down first, to the kneeler, bent at a 90° angle and slightly apart, gently opening his butt crack and slightly exposing his asshole and smooth balls to both this female witness and the strap.  His ankles were strapped down fairly wide apart at the other end of the wide padded kneeler board.  Brian's thighs were buckled to the upper bench legs, pulling his upturned cheeks open and further exposing the most tender of his private parts to the reach of the old leather strop.

 

Sister Anne placed a long wide black belt over Brian’s bare back and buckled it across his shoulder blades.  Sister Joe did the same at his waist.  The nuns then strapped his arms to the front legs of the bench, securing them at multiple points.  The boy now could not move anything except his hands, feet, and head.  He arched his head up to look behind him just in time to see Sister Joseph pick up the strop and approach his bare bottom.

 

“Brian, you will count each stroke, then you will thank me, and then, with each one, apologize to your mother.”

 

As the 57-year-old nun rolled up the long gray sleeves of her habit she added “And if you miss just once, we start all over from the beginning.”