Holy Quinceañera

All her life, her parents had made elaborate preparations to celebrate the day Inés had been born.  “You were a miracle baby,” her mother gushed and then kissed her on the forehead. Doña Daniela turned to the few school friends she had been able to invite to the small gathering. “No sabíamos que nombre ponerle, si Gloria o Agradecida, pero su madrina le puso el nombre de Inés.  Llenó el certificado y yo lo firmé, sin fijarme.” She sighed and went back into the kitchen to finish putting the frosting on the birthday cake. Inés thanked her Madrina Donisia quietly and prayed for her soul's eternal peace.

--“Nesi, why aren't you getting a big quinceañera  like everybody else?” asked Provi.

--“Porque le pedí a mami que me dejara pasar este año en el convento como regalo de cumpleaño. I don't need a quinceañera.”

The arrangements had been made with the Mother Superior of the Monastery of the Poor Clares. Inés would spend Holy Week in the cloister with the rest of the postulants and candidates.  She would observe all the liturgies, pray the Holy Hours in the Choir with the Community, clean the small chapel with Sor Carmen and eat in the refectory as if she had been admitted already.  There was only one year left before a papal dispensation to join the Order officially could be requested.

Her classmates were confused although not shocked.  Inés had become the resident santurrona in their small class at the Catholic Academy The Queen of Angels.  Her mom dropped her off an hour earlier on her way to work and Inesita had made a habit of going to Mass at the parish church which ended in time for their first class. Early in the cool morning, dressed in her white, starched, and perfectly ironed blouse, burgundy skirt and vest (dry-cleaned every week), thick cotton white socks, and brown Sebago loafers (polished every Sunday and wiped every day like her dad had taught her), Inesita walked down the path that led to the chapel dedicated to El Cristo de los Milagros.  She would hear Mass on her knees, only getting up to receive communion.  She would stay for a few minutes after everyone had left and raise her eyes to the bug eyed bleeding wooden Christ on top of the altar and pray: “Please God, make me into a saint.” Then she would kiss the medal of La Milagrosa hanging around her neck, genuflect, and rush to her first class with Mr. Spittle.

She loved Mr. Spittle's classroom.  As soon as she walked in, she stood by the tall brown shelf he had filled with the books she enjoyed touching and smelling, hefty texts like the multi-volume Catholic Encyclopedia with its thousand thin pages lined in gold. Sometimes she would carry one of the tomes to her desk and browse the delicious entries on monastic architecture. She could taste the solitude of the white monks of the Chartreuse (white chocolate mousse caressing her tongue) or the deep contemplation of the brown Trappists of Citeaux (dark chocolate bar melting slowly on her finger before she lapped it off).  She secretly wanted to be a monk but her anatomy was a hindrance to her plans of escape. She contented herself with fantasies of monastic holiness, daydreaming of herself as a young man hungry for God, morphing into the one body God seemed to prefer.

Her vocation had erupted in her heart a year before her quince the moment she saw the diminutive nun in her dark brown habit and black veil praying in the back pew of the chapel one morning.  The nun was deep in prayer, hands folded together in front of her chest, head slightly bent, back perfectly erect.  Inesita quickly perused her mental archive for monastic attire identification. At first she guessed a Carmelite, but the scapular was missing. Then she remembered a picture of Saint Clare carrying a Monstrance to stop infidel invaders from penetrating the monastery enclosure.  Bingo.

The only nuns she thought had an authentic monastic bite were the Carmelites. The Poor Clares came a close second only because they were under Saint Francis's protection. Besides, she thought it was brilliant to have active and contemplatives in the same Order. Francis was smart in allowing the young Clare to join his band of dangerous nutcases. She liked Francis not because he was the patron saint of the animals (how pedestrian, she thought) but because his chest burned to love what was not loved: women, lepers, and murderous wolves.  She spent hours meditating on the tale of the leper, when Francis, newly converted, forced himself to kiss the very thing that disgusted him the most. Even though she knew she was missing clarity of understanding, she instinctually felt a preference for the lunatic of Assissi and if he thought Clare was to be admired, then, so would Inés. 

Any other Order founded after the Middle Ages was not exciting enough, anyway.

She was pretty sure the short sister was a Poor Clare and waited outside the door to catch another glance of the beatific apparition before running to Spittle's class. The Poor Lady stepped into the sun-drenched morning, a soft breeze lifting her veil to reveal tufts of gray hair escaping the tight coif.  She smiled at Inesita.

--I like your habit.

--Thank you.  What do you like about it?

Inés gasped at the unexpected question.  It was certainly not about Inés's peculiar fashion taste. She gazed into the nun's chestnut eyes and smiling cheeks and simply said, “Everything.”

A year after this fateful meeting, Inesita was yearning for her chance to spend her Holy Week vacation at the convent. She had been many times, hanging out in the front balcony with other candidates after Mass, having coffee and quesitos in the parlor when she decided to drop by after school, straining her neck to see what was beyond the closed white gate. 

--“You are so weird, Nesi. Don't you want to get married?” Mari asked.

--“Or to go to college? Be a doctor?” Provi countered.

--“I never want to get married.”

--“Why do you have a boyfriend then? I don't get it. You got me sooo confused.”

Before Inés could reply, the snap of the kitchen's screen door had all the classmates looking at Doña Daniela, holding the pink and white birthday cake with two candles in the shape of a 1 and a 5 burning bright, grinning as if it was her own quinceañera she was celebrating.  “Vamos a cantarle a Inesita. Avanzen, avanzen. Happy Birthday to you…” Doña Daniela began.  Her friends joined in song, adding a few lyrics joking about Inés advancing years, momentarily forgetting how strange she was, and prodding her to make her birthday wish.

Inés blew her candles and wished for Holy Week at the Poor Clare Monastery to be the answer to everything. 

Bio

Liza Ann Acosta teaches Comparative Literature at North Park University and is an artistic associate of Chicago's only all-Latina theater company, Teatro Luna.