This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, Aug. 28, 2012 - After 10 years of life in the convent, Gail comes to the gut-wrenching and soul-barring realization that she must leave her beloved community of sisters, leave her life in Malawi − her dreamland − and return to a secular life. With two suitcases in hand, she heads to the only place she can think to go: back to St. Louis and Fontbonne College. Back to the studio. There she reconnects with the 'arrogant' young sculptor, who she comes to think of as "Chainsaw."
This is the second of five excerpts the Beacon will run from her autobiography, "Saltwater." Gail Cassilly co-founded the City Museum, with her then-husband, Bob.
As the seasons weathered on in their orchestrated ways, the official start of the graduate program arrived, re-kindling in me the hope of belonging to something, if not someone. I finagled a teaching assistantship in drawing to contribute further to paying down my tuition. Between full-time classes, teaching, and checking groceries, I had considerably less time left for lolling about on my dreary fire escape landing with a tall glass of my jug wine, morosely pining for Malawi and my White Sister family.
Along with the welcome familiarity of studio classes, the intimidating, arrogant male of my Fontbonne undergrad past reappeared with an unwelcome familiarity. In déjà vu mode, he made a beeline for the sculpture studio he had previously reigned over. Following graduation, he’d gone off and married a fellow student; but according to him, they were now separated. She was in Hawaii, where they’d been living for the past year. He seemed back to roost.
One afternoon there was a startling and determined knock on my apartment door. The peephole configured none other than him in the circle with a chain saw in hand. True, there were times when I felt miserable enough to quit on life, but a chain saw ending troubled me.
Though perpetually fierce looking in demeanor, he was a mumbler. He commenced to mumble something to the effect that he was there to lend me his saw; it might help with my latest woodcarving project. He guaranteed that it would save me tons of time and effort in the blocking-out stage of the carving process. This gesture was akin to the Lone Ranger lending Tonto, or Roy Rogers lending Trigger; a chain saw was personal to a sculptor, treasured. His massive man body coupled with the monster chain saw ate up the entire space of what I referred to as my living room. He insisted on demonstrating its use, but one lift of it from me confirmed that, even with my above-average female strength, I would quite likely kill myself with it.
Blushing wildly, I thanked him for the kind offer and shooed him and his petrol-smelling tool out the door as fast as I could. He had a history of rattling me on the surface, but his stab at thoughtfulness extended it deeper…
A part-time position opened up in the sculpture department of John Burroughs, a prestigious private high school. A couple of my fellow students applied for the job, but I was focused on checking groceries and what not. Not being native to St. Louis –a city where what high school you attended matters throughout your life –I wasn’t zeroed in on the school’s clout or the golden opportunity at hand.
Mr. T [sculptor and Fontbonne art department head Rudy Torrini] got on my case, insisting that I interview for the post with the head of the art department there, someone he knew personally. So, I went, feeling neither savvy, nor ambitious, nor professional. I interviewed in humble fashion, displaying my portfolio with lackluster enthusiasm. The interview took place in a contemporary glass-enclosed Fine Arts Building, which housed an entire level dedicated to sculpture alone –quite some high school!
Painting village huts, digging creek clay, boiling roots and leaves for glazes … seemed authentically primitive qualifications as I scanned the wealth of pottery wheels, kilns, welding equipment … at each and every student’s disposal. However, my second interview with the school headmaster proved me wrong. Supposedly, my exotic missionary background held a quirky value equated to a plus in the overall composite of the faculty profile. I was hired on for the part-time position.
Goodbye to memorized codes for bok choy, endive, ginger root, okra, shitakes …. Hello to checking out intellect and wealth. The intellect portion applied to the faculty and the students, but the wealth portion rested mainly with the students and their affluent families.
As I lectured one day on the works of painter sculptors such as Picasso, a slouching, half-yawning boy offered up, “Hey, we have a couple of those.” No one raised an eyebrow except me. This high-end environment of privilege was a blend of misfit all together different from my Erie, Pa., misfit: I didn’t feel pressure to run from it. In fact, I managed to navigate it with a semblance of ease, once I sagely came to value my unique decade of experience as my own measure of priceless wealth.
The artistic and academic camaraderie at the school was rewarding to me, as were the free lunches I gobbled up as my main meal for the day.
In no time at all I found myself hanging out with (dating?) an adorably cute painting teacher who spoke with a hint of honey Southern drawl, and becoming quick best friends with Debbie, a new hire in the painting department. Debbie arrived in St. Louis with her soon-to-be-husband, John, a talented and relatively successful potter. Miraculously – like manna from the sky – I found myself nestled in a close-to-my-age, foot-loose-and-fancy-free group of bohemian types ready to party; I belonged socially and professionally; I could mouth with credibility that I was a “teacher,” a respected member of society.
My convent life continued to inhabit my dreams, but upon waking the habit of the night would vanish as soon as I peered in the bathroom mirror, for my hair was permed and curly, thanks to my mom doing it up tight and frizzy on one of her visits. On top of that I’d hi-lighted the curls with sun-blonde streaks. But I didn’t resort to any other fussiness in sculpting a new image of me, no make-up or such.
Continuing on with faculty members, after the painting teacher, a poetry loving English teacher, best physically defined as an all-around catch, corralled my interest. He was nuts about hiking and I was eager and willing to follow. One balmy autumn weekend we ventured off together to hike, camp, and romanticize in step with nature. Back at school on Monday morning I discovered a page of tender, hand-penned verse in my mail cubicle in the teachers’ lounge. Reading his poetry made me break out in the hot blush of a 16 year old. I found myself teetering on the edge of falling in love.
A formidable obstacle, however, intervened to break my fall. Let me call that obstacle Chainsaw for the time being - I trust that you know who I mean. His re-insertion in my life, likewise, managed to induce blushing, but not from poetry.
Here’s what happened.
Back on campus, I had taken a curious interest in observing Chainsaw as he turned on the charm with a smattering of female students inhabiting the sculpture studio. One tall, ivory colored gal in particular caught his fancy. I witnessed him driving off with her on more than one occasion. It bothered me … I mean … he was still married and all … even if separated, or whatever. Certainly, cruising off with a pretty thing tucked close could never help salvage his marriage. Was it the residual nun-social worker in me that wanted to save him from himself, or just the residual Catholic?
Talking was something he and I had done little of because despite his blustering arrogance, he was awkward with his words (on top of mumbling). Though he intimidated me to the core, I decided that, indeed, a talking to was in order. Someone had to step forward and flash a caution sign in front of his face. Bolstering myself with a pseudo air of authority and righteousness, I garnered the courage to corner him alone in the studio one afternoon.
There, I laid out my concerns in a motherly manner, ending with an authenticating touch to his cheek. He stared down at me through the piercing slits of his blackish eyes; I fidgeted but held my ground. And then, without a blink of warning, he took a step towards me, set his calloused hands upon my face, and kissed me smack on the lips. If forbidden came in a flavor, I’d just tasted it. My wide blue eyes held to the darkness of his for the most imperceptible measure of time before breaking away. I was stricken! He turned and walked out of the studio with his swagger in tact, leaving me to nearly wet my Goodwill pants.
That’s what happened.