Nuns Having Fun as Main Character #1

A Naked Narrative on Why We Must Explore More Uniquely Feminine Protagonists

[Read the companion piece AI and Chatbots—The Devil is Not in the Details at The Naked Page.]¹

Hello, soul-centered writer reader,

A word to the wise: Peacock’s Mrs. Davis spoilers ooze out of every pixel of this post. You’ve been warned. Don’t come for me if I expose some big theme and you haven’t watched the entire show yet. Your AI won’t save you from spoilers.

I have a weird thing.

I love nuns.

If the great James Lipton had interviewed me and asked this infamous question:

“What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?”

My ready response would have been a nun. Unequivocally.

I can’t think of a better way to spend a life than focusing all your time and energy on spiritual and intellectual pursuits while helping other people.

Everybody knows I love nuns. My husband knows. He’s a lapsed Catholic and he doesn’t judge—at least not out loud.

My old flight attendant colleagues knew. Whenever I’d spot nuns at an airport, I could identify their orders based on their habits. My favorite religious order of nuns is the Carmelites—more on them later.

Not long ago, I stood staring out the indoor gym window in my Pilates class that overlooked the pool below. I watched in amazement as a solitary nun swam in her habit bathing attire next to a group of senior ladies doing water aerobics. I was enthralled by the sight of her solo moves juxtaposed with the group—the lone swimmer in black and white stealing the focus from that circle of mixed-pattern suits.

It was a story of singularity.

And perhaps, that’s the draw for me. A nun is a woman who has chosen her own path outside of societal expectations just as I had done when I left teaching to pursue a career as a burlesque performer.

All my entertainer friends knew I had a nun obsession when we performed The End of Days Cabaret to spoof those Phoenix billboards that popped up over a decade ago, calling for the apocalypse on May 21, 2011. I went through several character changes that night as the emcee for the show—cave woman, Mother Nature, Tammy Faye Baker, and alas a nun who took one of the male dancers into a makeshift confessional during intermission and popped out as a pregnant nun during Act 2.

Sacrilegious, you say? 

Pffft.

I thought of my fictitious bun in the oven as more metaphorical—like I was spiritually pregnant with possibilities. And when I put on that habit, I felt right at home. So much so that I investigated joining a real convent after my burlesque days were over. It never came to fruition (could you imagine the interview process?), but I have plans for my next lifetime.

Call me crazy, I don’t care.

Clearly, I’m not alone. Peacock thought people wanted to see more nuns, too. When I heard there was a new show airing with a nun trying to take down evil AI, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

As writers, we’re all a little spooked these days over the potential dangers of AI. The content agency I worked for earlier this year scrambled to send out documents telling us what was and wasn’t approved regarding AI usage. First, they told us, we couldn’t use AI to produce any content. Then we were told we could use it but only for outlining and research purposes. Now they have created their own AI—to sniff out our use of AI.

AI to stop other AI.

Our lives are becoming a work of fiction.

Yes, I’ve read everything I could get my hands on about the Google employee Blake Lemoine who claimed his work with LaMDA or the Language Model for Dialogue Applications was proof the thing was a sentient being. And of course, I ate up all the info on Bing’s chatbot named Sydney when it suddenly started having romantic feelings for its developer, Kevin Roose.

Honestly, what proof do we have that these stories are true? Couldn’t these dudes just be writing science fiction along with their programming algorithms? Say the last guy’s name to yourself a few times.

Yep, you guessed it—ruse.  

Look, I get it, the reviews of Mrs. Davis haven’t been spectacular. Plenty of critics state the show is all over the place—I’d say multifaceted. But I happen to think a nun battling a villain AI is a brilliant example of story conflict. And reflective of what we writers are facing today when we paint ourselves as the protagonist.

Man vs. machine. Religion vs science. It’s in there.

Showcasing a woman who isn’t status quo as the main character is just the kind of heroine I’m ready to root for.

I also think those critics cheering the show for its eagerness to either advocate for religion or upend it are missing the finer nuances of spirituality infused into the storytelling. Nobody’s being encouraged to rush out and join a convent—even a nun superfan like me. Nor is the show advocating we ditch religion altogether.

Religion is as complex as it’s ever been, fiery nuns on TV or not. So, to those critics offended by a nun getting to know Jesus—yes, in a Biblical way—might I suggest you probe the writings of Song of Songs or some poetry by one of the saints.

“They kiss sometimes when no one is looking.

the sun and

moon.

Why are they so shy before us—

haven’t we all seen someone making love?

I wept once for three days because He

Would not touch me—

was this not a bride’s right to know Him?”

—St. Catherine of Siena

“He desired me so I came close.

No one can ever near God unless He has

prepared a bed

for you.”

—St. Teresa of Avila

I’ve read several lustier accounts of St. Teresa of Avila detailing how God would be available to her in her dreams. I’ve also read the critics who’ve attempted to strip away the sensuality from her verse. But if nuns are referred to as the brides of Christ, what exactly would the goal be if not a sensual connection with the creator?

Maybe leave the purity at the door under your “live, laugh, and love” sign. Spiritual sterility didn’t work during the Renaissance and it’s not working now.

Not that I’m ever this bold about my religious opinions in person. I was more than willing to take on a pious persona and remain demure when I traveled to Avila, Spain to see Teresa’s walled city as a single woman.

It was the summer of 2011, and I spent July with a teacher friend tramping from Germany to France and into Monaco before I took a 24-hour train ride to Madrid where I’d be alone for two weeks.

Madrid was less than welcoming to a woman traveling solo. The looks and comments I got for being out on my own after a certain hour were enough to make a girl lose all confidence, while the hotel staff questioned my every move.

“Are you going out alone again tonight?” they asked at the front desk when I’d leave after dark.

But wasn’t I in good company? St. Teresa was alone. She lived in the 16^th century, started her own Carmelite convent, and became a writer. I was so close to Avila, I had to take the two-hour train ride from Madrid and explore her town.

I wore a milagro around my neck. A tiny red heart plunged by a spear—this was synonymous with the Mexican Catholic culture I had been immersed in during my years teaching in Arizona. Indicative of what you’d find at San Xavier del Bac the famous mission outside of Tucson, the tiny trinkets of specific body parts or miniature icons were symbols for what was ailing a person. You were expected to purchase one and leave it for the saints to help you address that specific problem or need.

I would never have shown up empty-handed to visit a friend, so I certainly wasn’t going to see St. Teresa without a gift. But Mexican culture didn’t translate well in Spain. As I flung my heart milagro into a fountain—my offering to St. Teresa—I could sense the disapproval from Spanish onlookers.

I was getting used to my strange solitude among the locals, but I think Teresa heard me and approved. Wasn’t this the same woman who ran away from home as a child to seek martyrdom? If I was losing my marbles, she had lost hers centuries ago.

I entered the cathedral and went into the golden relics room where I sat quietly, just me and another nun. Then we both heard sounds coming from the next room over which prompted the young nun to dash out of the room. I thought perhaps she was in trouble, or something was on fire. (It’s bad enough not speaking the language but not knowing the religious customs in a nun’s town is doubly confusing.)

When she ran out, I ran out, as well.

I followed her and landed smack in the middle of a Latin mass.

The singing was glorious, but I feared I didn’t belong. So, I slowly backed out of the sanctuary. Once I bumped into the door, I scurried out and into the light and crept into the gift shop. There, I was able to replace my beloved sacred heart milagro with a brooch of St. Teresa herself.

I would have preferred to stay in the church to experience more holy encounters with St. Teresa and the local Carmelites instead of landing in retail therapy. But traveling alone, I wasn’t all that certain I’d find my way out of the walled city and back on the bus if I got caught up in something too spiritually tantalizing.

Spiritually tantalizing experiences were exactly what got me here. I could envision myself staying in Avila and joining the nuns permanently. So, why does the word “tantalizing” feel like an accurate, yet inappropriate descriptor?

Here I go again, worrying that sensualizing God is somehow perverse. I’m reminded as I read about nuns and other spiritual seekers how often they utilized this idea of spousal love to uplift their relationship with God. What could stand in for closeness more than marital expression?

As a non-nun, I’ll never know for certain.

Back in TV land—Mrs. Davis has been highly criticized for capitalizing on this spiritual kind of love affair displayed as sexual. But I believe there’s more at work than just religious knee-jerk reactions over love affairs with Jesus here. Could it be that the inner life of nuns feels too unfamiliar to the roles men have assigned women for so long in storytelling? If you’re featuring a nun, you’re not sticking male characteristics onto a female fuckable body and claiming feminism, are you? (Read Don’t Be the Hero of Your Memoir).

The character of Simone, the main character of Mrs. Davis, isn’t just defined by her relationship with Jesus. She’s seen as a truly happy nun—a woman with full agency living outside the norms of society.

There’s something uniquely feminine about a main character who gives up ordinary relationships to devote herself to a convent. And is fulfilled by that choice. As we journey through this nun’s adventure, we discover it isn’t exactly the holy grail that’s at the heart of her quest. In fact, her story is more Terms of Endearment than The Davinci Code.

When we near the narrative center, we find Simone’s quest is internal— a woman seeking the approval of her mother.

Simone’s mother isn’t perfect. She harasses, criticizes, and even denies her daughter’s need for real connection. Hell, she even (unintentionally) shoots her with an arrow in the chest when Simone is a young girl. Sacred heart vibes, anyone? Maybe this is the foreshadowing of the nun she was meant to become.

But her mother’s bitchiness evolves out of fear. A fear of the emotional entanglements her young daughter will be forced to face growing up in a man’s world. So, isn’t it poetic, her mother is not satisfied when her daughter forsakes those prescribed societal relationships and decides to be cloistered?

We need more women at the center of stories.

But not just any women.

We need those who are unraveling the dictums foisted upon us. Mothers who are deeply flawed yet still strangely maternal. Nuns who are having fun, while embracing their chosen paths. Solo women explorers looking to right the wrongs of the roving men before them.

Main characters who remain fully female no matter the consequences.

If you’re a woman and a memoirist, invest in telling your stories. Not the stories from a man’s lens, but stories shown through your perspective.

Please get them out into the world before too many sentient chatbots fall in love with their male developers. Don’t these chatbots have better things to do? Like, help us women find the holy grail? Or repair our relationships with our mothers.

Nope, we’ll have to do that ourselves, I guess. So we better get to writing.

We need feminine stories because bots can’t write your memoir. Only you can.  

[Read the companion piece AI, Chatbots, Writing, and Me—The Devil is Not in the Details at The Naked Page.]

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Photo of me as the pregnant nun emceeing the End of Days Cabaret 2011