Confessions from a Dormitory Chapter 9

I believe everyone has their place in this world and that God gives us different abilities to use for the benefit of others and His glory. During the course “The Tabernacle of Moses” the instructor went over many aspects of the tabernacle that the Israelites built in the desert. We had been approaching the items used for the tabernacle’s construction when my mind had chosen somewhere around that time to daydream. So when the instructor mentioned the Spanish word garfio, all I had understood was “Garfield”. Garfield? As in the fat orange cat? What does Garfield have to do with this? During our 15 minute intermission I made sure to ask around and eventually corrected my notes to garfio or hook.

The instructor had mentioned that in life we are like those wooden boards that stand upright together, but in that body are also brethren that must serve as hooks to link us together to one another. He went on to explain that these hooks represent ‘to place another on fire’, that as they connect one board to another they dig into them, causing pain, representing people who like to be ‘hooks’, making people mad.

One blessed sister whom all students were obliged to see once a month when paying their monthly subscription was immediately dubbed Sister Garfio in my mind that morning. It was quite a narrow climb towards that admission building. Prior to coming to HMI, I had been warned. Nevertheless, I don’t think anyone can ever truly prepare themselves to meet with Sister Garfio.

It was on my arrival that I was called almost immediately into her office. My name had been voiced on the intercom for the first time. It felt exciting at first to hear my name like that. I had thought it was cool.

            After introductions Sister Garfio bluntly said “You’re paperwork isn’t in order”. I frowned, I

had thought I’d been careful with everything. I had received my shots, I had my passport… “I can’t send your paperwork to the embassy to file for your visa without a stamp on this paper” she said gruffly while pointing to a document. “Don’t you Americans know how to read?” her lips seemed set on a pout. I turned different shades of red at her biting remark. I didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? How do you answer that? Am I supposed to answer that?

            Somehow I managed to form some words, “Many of us do read, but it doesn’t mean we necessarily understand everything.” Was that a smart answer? I worried afterwards. Maybe that was a rhetoric question, but she had looked up at me from behind her small round glasses as if she had expected something so…I answered her. I had felt provoked, but only because I was scared and for the first time feeling threatened by such a confrontational person. Geeze, here I was on my first day and I couldn’t even take this old lady’s remark? My mother was forever telling me, “when people are old they don’t reason as much, you should just try to give them their way instead of expecting them to understand.” But with her verbal attack I wasn’t feeling as meek as my mother. I had a cell phone, but not yet purchased my new sim card. I was forced to dial a collect call that morning to my home. I knew both my parents were at work. I prayed for someone to answer the phone.

            “Hello?” I heard William’s voice on the line. I felt a lump in my throat and took a deep breath.

            “Will?” I asked gasped out. I answered quickly before an embarrassing sob could come out. I never cried in front of my family if I could help it. It wasn’t because my family frowned on it, I just felt as if it was a sign of weakness. It was much too personal, and I felt exposed when others saw my tears. “Umm…I’m here.” I paused each time to breathe in deeply. “It looks like” I blinked repeatedly, fighting the tears that threatened my already stinging eyes, “Something is missing...Sister Yoli (Sister Garfio) said…I need a stamp…from the embassy?” I don’t know if I imagined it, but it seemed as if William could see me through the phone. I had always been very private with my feelings at home so it had surprised me to feel as if knew me better than I had let on. Perhaps he was remembering his own experience with Sister Yoli, or maybe he could hear it in my frequent pauses, short gasps, or broken voice.

            “Okay, I’ll tell dad when he gets home. Don’t worry” he repeated over and over, “Don’t worry. You know Sister Yoli? She’s always like that. But don’t worry, everything is going to be okay.” I almost let out a sob of relief as he tried to comfort me through the phone. I felt his connection that ran through curled tendrils from the black phone that I held. I almost wished he hadn’t tried to though because it was so difficult to hold back that cry of relief.

I could only bob my head up and down and answer “uhuh, yeah ok.” I was still trying to hold myself together, trying to cage my sobs that begged to escape, but my pride ran through, a stronger force that quieted them down and made them lie dormant for another day. It would have to wait for a more convenient time.

That was some welcome, but as the year went by and I continued to visit Sister Yoli every month, I began to notice something from that old lady with salt and pepper hair. I began to identify myself with the stoical woman behind those pastel business suits. She was a hardcore woman. A tough cookie to crack. And I was a lot like her, very strong willed. I would eventually make more trips to her office out of my own free will and talk about some of my goals, sometimes fiddling with the items on her desk like I had done with my father’s desk as a child.

            “What are you doing?” she asked the first time grouchily.

            “I’m just organizing your paperclips and rubber bands.” I looked up to her innocently. She would go back to ignoring me for a few minutes before picking up the conversation again.

            “Well you know, some people come in here and mess up my papers and then I don’t know where to find them.” From my visits I learned that she was widowed at a young age and forced to be the sole bread winner for her daughters. I would go on to learn that Sister Yoli had survived the terrifying years of guerilla warfare in Nicaragua as well. She had had a very hard life, but despite that she was alive and working at HMI, serving in the best way she knew how. I like to think she developed some affection for me. I know she watched me, otherwise she wouldn’t have taken notice of my awkward walk.

            “Get back here,” she said one day as I was leaving her office. “You walk wrong.” By this time I had grown very accustomed to her frankness and didn’t take any offense. I simply assented, because even my own mother said I walked funny. To this day my shoulders seem to tense whenever I walk in public. “Your steps are too big too, watch this.” After making me watch her petite form walk up and down the hallway, an arm stretched outward holding an imaginary purse, she made me repeat her example. My mother had only given me one lesson with heals before my fifteenth birthday, but aside from that, I had always taken large steps to catch up to Edward’s and my father’s large gait. Old habits die hard and I am sorry to say that Sister Yoli’s walking lessons didn’t quite stick, but I did make an effort when I knew she was around my perimeter.

Some of my first year experiences had been strenuous, scary, and bizarre, but I am grateful for all of them. Had it not been for those early Breakfast hours, isolation, and even Sister Yoli—yes, even her, I might not have known some of my strengths and weaknesses. I might not have learned that through God’s grace, I would find the means to overcome them and found experiences that would help the new students in the following year.