Sable Monroe

One of the hardest parts about childhood instability is that children still have to show up looking normal.

School does not pause because your family life becomes chaotic.

Uniforms still have to fit.

Shoes still have to look decent.

Homework still has to get done.

And children become very aware of the moments when they are quietly falling behind other kids.

I remember a period at Alvernia Preparatory School in Kingston, Jamaica after my mother had already left Jamaica to live in America. I was still in Jamaica living with my father and my father’s family, and during that time, certain things started slipping through the cracks.

Including my school uniforms.

At that age, I was growing quickly, but my uniforms were not being updated the way they should have been. And because the uniforms at Alvernia were white, that became noticeable very fast.

I remember wearing a slip underneath my uniform because the material had become too sheer.

One day I got called into Sister Alma Roberts’ office, and immediately my stomach dropped.

At that age, whenever adults called you into an office, your mind automatically went somewhere bad.

I remember thinking maybe the tuition had not been paid.

Again.

Instead, she spoke to me about my uniform.

Now, Sister Alma was unforgettable to me as a child. She wore the traditional nun’s habit, had a very distinct presence, and for the entire time I mattended that school, she had a sore on her temple that my child brain unfortunately began associating with the edges of cafeteria beef patties. For a while, I could barely eat beef patties at school without losing my appetite.

Children are strange and brutally honest observers.

But despite how intimidating she sometimes seemed, Sister Alma could also be unexpectedly kind.

That day she gave me a pair of gym shorts to wear underneath my uniform for coverage.

And then she told me my mother had sent money for them.

Even as a child, I remember quietly doubting that explanation.

Not because I thought Sister Alma was lying.

I just knew my mother.

Sending money ahead for extra uniform coverage simply was not the kind of thing she typically thought about.

But at the same time, nuns were not supposed to lie.

So my child brain settled somewhere in the middle.

Maybe Sister Alma had made a mistake.

Maybe she misunderstood something.

Maybe my mother had surprised me for once.

I accepted the shorts and went back to class.

Years later, after I finally came to America, I mentioned the story to my mother.

She immediately said:
“That’s a lie. I never sent any money.”

And honestly, that realization stayed with me.

Not because I was angry.

But because that was probably the first time I understood that adults sometimes bend the truth for reasons other than selfishness.

Looking back now, I do not think Sister Alma lied to manipulate me.

I think she was trying to protect my dignity.

She understood that children notice differences.

She understood prep school culture.

And maybe she understood that a little girl already dealing with enough instability did not also need to feel publicly embarrassed about outgrowing her uniform.

So she created a softer explanation.

That was the first time I realized even nuns could lie.

And strangely enough, it taught me something compassionate about human nature.

Please read: “The Communion Line.”