This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, Aug. 27, 2012 - At age 19, Gail Soliwoda left her home in Erie, Pa. – “escaped” as she thought of it, for troubling reasons – to join a missionary order of nuns who worked primarily in Africa. To her great dismay, instead of heading off to Africa, her dreamland, she was forced to first detour to St. Louis to attend college.
This is the first of five excerpts the Beacon will run from her autobiography, "Saltwater." Gail Cassilly is the co-founder of the City Museum, with her then-husband, Bob.
My sophomore year commenced in the art department of Fontbonne College, a previously all girls’ Catholic institution that had recently dipped its toes into co-ed waters. Handfuls of males drifted about campus in what could be interpreted as a hellish or a heavenly situation – several landed in the art studios.
I was accepted into the department based on talent and/or potential (so I was told), but I was, nonetheless, terrified of my place within it, terrified of failure, terrified of my teachers, terrified of the males so near. Around men – mostly older men, such as teachers – I was burdened by a self-conscious unease that could best be described as longing. I would have to contend with the unease day after day, accepting male guidance and criticism as if I had lived with such givens quite naturally all my life. And there were other uneasy confrontations that I had to accustom myself to.
Almost knocking over my own easel, I squirmed on my stool and averted my eyes the first time Big Mary mounted the model stand in figure drawing class and dropped her robe. My face was as blushed over in pink splotches as her body was in fleshy folds of gold-tinged cocoa brown. Fully naked, she paused to take in the space around her with nonchalant eyes, and then commenced with a litany of movements: stretching this way and that, raising and lowering arms, twisting her torso right then left, straddling a stool …. until … “Hold it!!! That’s it!” bellowed from the commanding voice of Mr. Torrini, our short but bigger-than-life drawing professor who was also the head of the art department.
Big Mary froze into the pose we would sketch from. She was named, pure and simple, for her size: pendulous breasts draped her abdomen and belly rolls layered over the triangular patch of her kinky black pubic area, which from then on I considered more public than pubic. Her head was regal and her full lips swelled with an expression of naked superiority. Big Mary was a fixture around the art departments in town; hundreds of students had been given the opportunity to explore her body with charcoal in hand. As Mary settled into my vision as a live organic shape, I came to forget about the startling nakedness of her, focusing instead on my interpretation of her: linking black lines of limbs and folds, gesture and attitude, expression and style into something my professor might view as promise. …
By the end of my sophomore year, I experienced a whiff of personal comfort – not up to par with the formidable comfort displayed in the moves of Big and naked Mary – but comfort, nonetheless, in my own skin. It had toughened nicely, making it clear to my professors that “the nun” just might work out after all and prove herself deserving of their time and effort. I edged my way into a select circle of the most promising.
It was just like another clique, actually, this one distinguished by an air of artistic superiority and a splash of arrogance. I clung to the outer rim of the inner circle because where I dwelled such traits were frowned upon.
A strikingly tall male student, the apprentice and protégé of the particularly short and Italian-mannered Mr. Torrini, captured the first prize for arrogance within the group. His long and muscular frame prowled through the sculpture studio – populated by a gaggle of female wannabe artists – on masterful paws like a lion king circling the den. His macho air was backed by the weight of pure talent, but still, I longed to see him take a second-rate tumble right in front of the rest of us and suffer an honest-to-goodness taste of humility - it would be good for him, I figured.
Possessing a fairly intuitive sense of others, however, I did consider the possibility that he could be 50 percent bluff: that deep down he was authentically shy and insecure like the rest of us – though I couldn’t intuit precisely why he would be. …
In what seemed like no time at all, my college years were suddenly being tallied, totaling a prolonged time of testing on multiple fronts, but a cherished time that I hadn’t expected to wrap my arms around and call my own. Each semester afforded me euphoric highs and despairing lows, but my destiny kept me anchored. With a degree in hand, I was ready to graduate on to another continent.
My exact assignment within the vast continent was due to arrive via the motherhouse in Frascati; I waited for it like an irrepressible 2 year old. Then … one day, as sure as the sun dotted the horizon on a clear dawn, it appeared in writing: Malawi! Maaa-la-wi. Ma-laaa-wi. Ma-la-wiiii. I pronounced the name of the elongated southeastern African country over and over again with melodious twists, until each variation inhabited my mouth as comfortably as my own tongue. My job would be that of establishing an art department in a secondary school in Likuni - Sr. Marie José D’or had precisely predicted such needs. The “department” would consist of me – a faculty of one.
Gail’s long awaited departure was complicated by an inexplicable delay in obtaining her visa and work papers for Malawi. She waited for months in Italy, and then in Belgium, and then in Burundi where she was introduced to the continent of Africa.
Flying over the verdant, ribbon terraced hills of Burundi was like spying on paradise, but upon landing at the airport the vision was crushed by a sea of faces that had known far too much horror and far too little paradise. Tribal wars had ravaged land, bodies, and minds, burning scars of caution into the somber and darkened eyes of the masses. It was the end of 1973; 1972 had been a year of abominable ethnic violence between the Hutu and Tutsi. History’s estimates now number killings well over 100,000 in as little as a three-month period of time. Both tribes had bloodied their hands for years, but 1972 took on the grim face of Hutu genocide. Bleak reality had never penetrated my dreams -- it now unnerved me.
Looking past stark stares, I caught a glimpse of a welcoming face, a face free of caution, coming my way: a fellow sister. We headed for the hills without delay. Tarred roads quickly disintegrated into potholed, rutted looking cow paths offering what little they could to any four-wheeled vehicle daring to roll over them. We weren’t traveling far in terms of miles – kilometers I should say – but it took over three hours to navigate the wily terrain; even without the customary flat tire along the way.
Mugera was couched in between hills, some appearing to sag with the clustered weight of plentiful banana trees, and others munched bare by scraggly cattle eking out a life in slow motion. The mission complex embodied the heart of Mugera: a convent, a primary and secondary school, an infirmary, a small orphanage, a work center for learning trades, a seminary, and a church. Village huts were scattered about, tucked into the folds of hills and hidden behind banana trees – nearly invisible when rotating full circle to drink in the panorama. WHAM! It finally hit me: I was in Africa! God Almighty ... I was in Africa! Shuffling my feet, dust scatter-jumped around me settling conspicuously on my sandal tops and between my toes, the colored earth licking me in welcome. How I loved the red dust – I could roll in the dust – I could eat the dust. ...
Christmas arrived about a week after I did in the hills of Mugera. An all-out liturgical and musical extravaganza was planned around a midnight mass certain to be over-crowded with those from remote villages journeying on foot for several hours to join in the praise making. Early in the day tiny moving specks appeared in the far distance like ants seeping from the hills in single file, growing incrementally in size as the day progressed and the peopled lines neared. At the stroke of midnight, when the church burst full and spilling with the crowd, the singing ignited with such volume and intensity that the potent harmony of it all but raised the roof.
After the service had sung and praised itself out, the assembly poured out into a darkened night pierced by spotty and flickering fires – dancing erupted and local beer was enthusiastically imbibed. Gyslaine and I were milling about enjoying the happy flavor of it all when I heard a “thunk” – maybe it was a “thud” – then closer to us, another “thunk-thud,” then closer yet, another. The eyes of those around us sparked with knowing. Gyslaine quickly caught on. She yanked on my arm and told me to start walking, quickly but calmly. More stones showered our path before our bodies disappeared down the hill, sufficiently away from the pitching arm of someone dusting up hatred on such a “Silent Night, holy night, all is calm…”