Julie Kerton - She Named You Donna: - a memoir -

She Named You Donna, Copyright 2015 by Julie Kerton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Julie Kerton

www.shenamedyoudonna.blogspost.com

Publisher: Paper and Prose Publishing

Publishers Note: Some of the characters names have been changed in order to protect their identities.

Cover Design by Jody S. Kerton

She Named You Donna/ Julie Kerton. -- 1st edition.

ISBN 978-0-692-37112-1

For my children - all of them -

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Maya Angelou

I have changed the names of some of the characters to protect their identities. Some characters names were invented as they were not fixed in my memory. I have documented places and events as accurately as possible. In some scenes, timelines were adjusted in order to move the events forward, but these adjustments do not compromise the truthfulness of the scenes or the fact that this is a true story.

Part I

Adoptions, Births, Jesus and Julie

There are seasons in life that stand apart, a course for change, securely etched in memory. Autumn of 1973 was my season. I was fifteen and had just begun sophomore year at an all-girls Catholic high school. 1973, the year that the military withdrew from Vietnam; Roe v. Wade went to the Supreme Court and Watergate was the lead story on the evening news. But the most important events in my world were shared with my friends, our world no bigger than our small city thirty miles north of Manhattan. We listened to Carole King and Elton John, hid our cigarettes in our knee socks and lived on Kit Kats and TAB. And though I thought life would be like this forever, not unlike the world around me, I would soon experience shame and scandal, long for choices and hope for closure.

***

I get a ride to school most mornings from my neighbor. My books and purse, really a green canvas mess kit that my grandfather carried during World War I, sit on the small hallway table. Im wearing my regulation navy blue skirt to my knees, white collared blouse, blue blazer and blue knee socks with black platform shoes. I dont know how Ive gotten away with the platforms, but so far no one has said anything. The horn blows as the silvery blue Mustang pulls in front. Alice is driving, shes a senior and her friend is in the bucket seat next to her. I squeeze in the back with the other riders and within seconds we are racing across town. I study Alices moves as she simultaneously smokes, juggles a cup of coffee, pushes down on the clutch and shifts gears all with the grace and flow of a prima ballerina. I inhale the smoke as it drifts to the back seat, while we drive through the iron gates of Our Lady of Good Counsel Academy, or just Good Counsel, its unofficial name. We pass the stone chapel, final resting place for the founder of the order of nuns entombed below the altar, and a strange gray ranch style house that looks like it landed sometime around 1960. Thats where the English classes are held. The buildings, except for the chapel, are not particularly pretty; most are from the turn of the century and have a haunted sort of quality, with narrow back staircases, mahogany banisters that sweep the main stairwells, wood floors, dark wainscoting and painted tin ceilings. The only other new building is the gym, where we are forced to wear something that resembles prison garb; one - piece mustard colored shorts and striped top combination, surely designed as some sort of punishment. You might say there is a mishmash quality to this school, though the grounds are beautiful with their walkways that meander under the majestic trees.

We park in the lot behind the cafeteria, and I have to run a few buildings down to my locker before the first bell. To be late means a trip to the office, which must be avoided. The nuns are what make a Catholic school a Catholic school; their expectations, intolerance for disrespect, uniformity of beliefs. For the most part, I have lived within these guidelines, but at fifteen, I feel temptation tugging at my soul. Im much more interested in fun than in work, and Im having a difficult time doing more than just enough.

I really do love my Religion class. It holds my attention for the entire period. This is a class like none I have experienced, and Sr. Rosemary is unlike any nun I have known. She inspires me and allows the freedom to question. Question God. One day she announced to the class, I had a fight with Jesus last night, I was screaming at him, throwing things. It was quite an argument. My friends thought she was crazy. I thought she was deep. We had an understanding. I dont hold the same enthusiasm for Sr. Alphonse who is determined to make my artwork her own by taking a brush to my paintings in their final stages. The Guidance Counselor is Sr. Therese. She also teaches a course on relevant topics, health, and social issues.

Sr. Therese showed a film in class that was very vague, very confusing. She kept turning the volume down and talking about being selfish and the M word. I didnt get it until lunch when I asked the girls at my table. Eileen saw it during first period and revealed that M stands for masturbation and apparently its selfish. After lunch, which usually is not much more than a yogurt and a Tab, Debbie and I leave to have a cigarette. Our school shares its campus with a college. We have figured a way to enter the dorm from behind and have claimed a small lounge, which is always empty, has two maroon couches and a coffee table. While most girls are smoking in the cafeteria bathroom and getting caught by a random check, we have a birds eye view of any incoming nuns. At the end of the day, I meet my group of friends at my locker; Melissa, our moral compass, Debbie, whose motto is lets have some good clean fun, Eileen the savvy one, Susan the giddy, high strung friend and Colleen who is always happy and carefree. As we walk onto North Broadway, we roll up our skirts, light up and head to downtown White Plains to catch the bus.

***

Lately Ive been going to my new friend Melanies house after school. She goes to public school and gets out before I do. As I turn onto her block, I can see her sitting on the front stoop, where she always waits for me. Shes wearing her hooded blue sweat jacket with her blond hair tucked in. I follow the perfectly formed smoke rings that she has blown toward the street. Her house is like most of the houses in Prospect Park; stucco with a slate roof, a yard full of oversized bushes and a hoop that hangs over the garage door. Her parents are divorced or getting divorced and her mom works full time. Melanies older sister and her boyfriend are always down in the basement. Their song is Stairway to Heaven, which they turn up really loud every time it comes on the radio. Melanie and I usually just hang out in her room where Mark Spitz leers at us in his American Flag Speedo. She thinks he is really cute. I think hes gross. We sit on the floor and talk. She talks about the guys she knows. Shes really worried about her friend Scott. He was hit by a car as he made his way along the Bronx River Parkway. She wants to visit him, but she thinks hes in a coma. No visitors if youre in a coma. She really wants to introduce me to her friend John one of these days. She thinks hes small and cute like me. I tell her that I want my ears pierced, but my mother said I have to wait until Im eighteen.

Ill do it. My friend Valerie did it herself. She just used a regular sewing needle, but first you have to freeze your ear, Melanie offers.