I made a promise to The Sisters. Thank you, Mother Joseph and Emilie Gamelin.
I've been slacking on the writing as other things happened that required my immediate attention.
It's also PRIDE month for a few more days. So here's the beginning.
Introduction
In 2019 while browsing the booths of a local antique store, I found a handsome, cherry red brick with "1871" stamped on it, bearing a tag that said "Local Hidden Brick". A fan of old building materials and oddities in particular, I gladly paid $10 and went home mildly curious about my new prize. At the time I couldn't have had any idea how important that particular brick would become in my life.
It's a total cliche, but my childhood experience is important to this story. I was born in the 1970's when the concepts of feminism and gender equality had begun to seep into the general consciousness of American society. My family of origin had zero interest in anything outside of traditional gender roles. My father worked and my mother stayed home and kept the home in order as he didn't want her to work.
When I was three years old I demanded to be turned back into a boy. When asked why I wanted to be a boy, I remarked that being a girl was boring and that I missed my tools. My father, a talented hobby mechanic, found this hilarious and began to nurture my natural interest in all things mechanical and to do with construction. He was thrilled that even though I was a girl he almost had another son.
He was a General Superintendent for a construction company, and looking back now I'm amazed at the amount of access I was granted to this world as a kid. All it would take was enough begging about his work and he'd eventually satisfy my curiosity. We'd jump in the truck, he would slap a too-large hardhat on my head and lead me through the mud to gawk at whatever he was building. I toured aluminum factories, grain plants, silos, railroads, warehouses, and occasionally had the thrill of operating a digger or other equipment. The 1980's were a different time. OSHA would be horrified.
At home he always had at least one classic car he was restoring and soon time with him in the garage became a regular part of my routine. I had a natural aptitude for understanding mechanics and how things worked, so he took the time to teach me names of the various tools and their purposes. I had my own coveralls and creeper and used to hand him tools as he needed them when he was under the car. He was also a champion clay pigeon shooter and gunsmith, making many guns and reloading all of his shells himself with my assistance. I learned to read at age three sounding out "The Shotgun News" in his lap.
This was all done to the displeasure of my mother, who was herself a crown-winning beauty queen in the 1960s and would have loved nothing more than to have her one and only daughter follow in her footsteps. Complicating matters was that she was also very much under my chauvinist father's thumb, and his odd permissiveness of my wildness despite being female led her to a level of bitterness that she still can't fully acknowledge. My daddy was my hero, but he also was beating her. This violence was turned onto me by her. It was a mess.
I learned very quickly that allying myself with males was the way I could survive not only in my own home, but in school and throughout life. I'm not proud to admit that I was one of those that fell into the impossible self-hating trap of "I'm not like other girls," even though it felt absolutely true at the time. I felt like an alien on Planet Girl, an imposter. I hated my breasts as soon as they grew in, lying awake at night fantasizing about cutting them off with a knife from the kitchen's butcher block. I bought minimizer bras that old ladies would wear from Walmart and hid them layered underneath sports bras in shame.
I straight out wanted to die when my first period came. The sweet old lady that lived next door (my parents were divorced and my mother was never around by then) threw me a "Moon Party" to try to cheer me up and I just sat there and sobbed inconsolably. I obviously looked like a girl but didn't feel like a girl, and spent a great amount of time staring in mirrors trying to understand myself and wishing I could disappear. Dysphoria wasn't acknowledged yet as a thing anywhere, but even early on I felt like I'd been somehow cheated of the "real" me.
When Brandon Teena and Matthew Shepard were murdered my Catholic family expressed thoughts that they somehow deserved it by baiting people and "lying" about their gender or sexuality. My beloved father was homophobic as well. I had no one to talk to about my complicated feelings and just gradually hated myself more and more, a confused mess trying to be the boys and get with the boys at the same time. I felt like I just never fit.
You would think that the fact that most of my best friends in high school were gay and I faced being grounded for trying to wear a tux to my Junior Prom would have clued my mother in. Even years later when she inquired why my "roommate" Liz was asleep in my bed when she dropped by my place unannounced she wasn't ready to face the truth about who her daughter was. I liked virtually all genders when it came to dating but was always powerfully attracted to androgyny in all forms. The girls I liked were masculine leaning types, and it was not uncommon to share makeup with guys I dated either. I think I recognized myself as belonging comfortably somewhere in the middle and steered that way naturally.
My story isn't unique, and it isn't even as traumatic as a lot of LGBTQ kids that grow up in non-supportive environments. I was able to fly under the radar a lot of the time until the war at home was brutal enough that my mother finally gave me the boot at age seventeen. The point of all of this disclosure is thus: growing up like that primed me for was noticing how some non-conforming people have managed to hide in plain sight since the beginning of time. Additionally, the closer women were able to ally themselves with men throughout history, the further they achieved some of their own goals. This adoption into a circle of men becomes even more critical for survival if the woman in question is gender non-conforming, which has always been a delicate balance.
I think about the tragedy of Jeanne D'Arc, later canonized as a Saint for her unjust execution due to her contributions to France's Hundred Years' War. Burned at the stake at a tender 19 years of age, her gender ensured she would never have the opportunity to learn to read or write. This beloved revolutionary hero even needed assistance signing her own name.
Taken to court for politically-motivated heresy charges, the government brought an additional charge of "cross-dressing" against Jeanne. If she was found guilty on multiple charges she could be tried as a capital case and executed. It is a terrible irony that the male clothes and short hair Jeanne adapted as a technique to avoid rape on both the battlefield and while in prison served as the "proof" that helped doom her.
Another example native to the Pacific Northwest would be Josephine Monaghan, better known as "Little Joe." Born in 1847 in Buffalo, New York, to a prominent family, Josephine found herself pregnant and abandoned by her lover as a teen. She fled her family in disgrace after giving birth, leaving her child with her sister Helen to raise. Heading West to start a new life, realizing it was too dangerous for a woman to travel alone, Josephine dressed in drag and began calling themselves "Little Joe (1)".
Joe headed to Idaho and mined gold, tried their hand at sheep herding, became a "cowhand and noted marksman (2)". For seventeen years Little Joe worked alongside men, as a man, saving funds to buy their own ranch. After a setback of being robbed of their life savings by someone they considered their friend, Little Joe eventually was able to take a homestead on Succor Creek in Southern Oregon near the town of Rockville. Little Joe lived there over two decades, voted and served on juries years before those rights were granted to women. It was only upon their death from pneumonia as their body was prepared for burial in 1903 that Little Joe's secret was discovered.
I firmly believe this phenomenon of women adopting "maleness" happened more frequently than was officially documented. Plain and simple, queer people have always existed. Because of our patriarchal society, "tomboys" are always seen as more permissible than "sissies". It is seen as odd and yet admirable novelty when a woman is interested in taking up traditionally male interests. Women aligning with groups of men was also encouraged as it was common practice for men to take credit for the ideas and discoveries of their female counterparts, particularly in traditionally male occupations.
In science, Mary Anning's (b:1799-1847) work laid the foundation for Charles Darwin's Theory of Evolution, for which she gets little credit. Few people know about 1892 Seattle-born Alice Ball, the first female and Black American to obtain a Master's degree and whose work led to a cutting-edge leprosy treatment, or about Netta Maria Stevens, who in 1905 developed the current XY chromosome system. It happened with Medicine, Dentistry, Construction, entrepreneurship of all kinds. Many women worked behind the scenes alongside men who were taking credit for their accomplishments.
I believe that Mother Joseph of the Sacred Heart was also one of these deeply under-credited women. When I discovered that Mother Joseph herself directly led to the creation of the 1871 brick I bought at the antique store, I began to look into her life. What I didn't expect was to have an undeniable, visceral connection to this remarkable Sister of Providence. Additionally, I believe that the open expression of her non-conforming gender deserves to be celebrated, much like her above mentioned counterparts.
There are many myths surrounding Mother Joseph and I became interested in digging out the actual truth to who she was. It is important to me to state that I firmly believe that all people (living or dead) have the right to keep their own sexuality and gender as private as they desire. In no way am I interested in speculating on either about Mother Joseph. However, as a gender non-conforming born-female I cannot deny that I instantly sensed her as kindred.
What's fascinating to me is that somehow, as a Catholic Nun, she managed to live her truth as a masculine-leaning individual, without apology, consequence, or regret. She was very aware of gender, often manipulating men by taking younger, prettier nuns with her to beg for funds for the communities she managed. Everyone whom encountered her knew she was different from other women, and she essentially dared anyone (well, other than God) to tell her this was a problem. Her life was a long series of rule-breaking, defiance, struggles with humility and other fascinating contradictions.
Born Esther Pariseau on April 17, 1823, she was the eldest daughter of ten. Esther grew up learning both traditionally female taught skills like sewing and embroidery from her mother Francoise and the construction skills that shaped her life's work from her carriage-maker father Joseph Pariseau.
Much like our friend Jeanne d'Arc, Esther's revolutionary spirit made itself known early in life. She admired her older brother, another Joseph, who led a Patriote militia allied with the Sons of Liberty in response to the political turmoil in French Canada. The Napoleonic Wars were raging in France, and over in "new world" French Canada the Catholics were fighting for the right to practice their religion.
Soon young Joseph's oversized ego due his new leadership role irritated Esther so badly that she founded a chapter of what she called Younger Sons and Daughters of Liberty as a home guard militia. Over 40 ten-to-fourteen year old boys and girls were then trained by Esther, including her older brother Stanislaus. Stanislaus, being male, was technically in charge of the brigade but Esther herself frequently took over command without complaint (3). It was only when her father advised her that he had received a message directly from God to cease their revolutionary activities that Esther agreed to give up the fight and disband their brigade (4).
It's telling that when she joined the Sisters of Providence at age twenty she named herself Joseph, after her father, brother, and the father of Jesus in lieu of the typical female names nuns adorn themselves with. Saint Joseph is also known as "The Worker" and she felt a special connection to Him throughout her life. Her particularly varied set of skills was unusual for the time, reflected in the way her father proudly introduces Esther to Mother Emilie Gamelin, the first Superior of the House of Providence, to Esther's reported embarrassment in December 1844:
"She can read and write and figure accurately. She can cook and sew and spin and do all manner of housework as well. She has learned carpentry from me and can handle tools as well as I can. Moreover, she can plan and supervise the work of others, and I assure you, Madame, she will someday make a very good superior (5)".
She also knew how to identify appropriate quality timber for various uses, farm, draw up architectural plans, construct buildings...and make bricks. She's often incorrectly listed as the First Female Architect in North America, an honor that actually goes to Louise Blanchard Bethune. The confusion persists partly due to disagreement of what is considered to be an architect's job description.
"Architect" comes from the Greek architekton, which translates loosely to "master carpenter". Later, 1734's The Builder's Dictionary calls an architect: "a Master Workman in a Building, he who designs the Model or draws the Plot, Plan or Draught of the whole Fabrick; whose Business it is to consider the whole Manner and Method of the Building; and also to compute the Charge and Expence (6)". Mother Joseph did all of this of course, but since she was both female and her projects were all public works through the Sisters of Providence there were few official offices or positions to be noted.
Both Bethune and Mother Joseph were actively credited with important architectural buildings by 1881, but Bethune opened her own office as a married woman in 1885, making her the official first professional female Architect (7). Both women were using similar Parisian Beaux-Arts principles in their designs even though the School of Fine Arts didn't admit women until 1898(8). The best way to gain skills as an architect in the 19th century was through apprenticeship, and these positions were only open to men at the time unless a rare male family member agreed to take a woman under their wing. It was difficult if not impossible for women to conduct any sort of business transactions without a trusted male assisting them. Women could not buy or sell property, vote, or engage in legal contracts at the time Mother Joseph was living.
I discovered during research that Mother Joseph was particularly intuitive and skilled at making and keeping the kind of relationships she needed with men to get what she saw as God's work done. Additionally, her known mastery of many carpentry and masonry skills have helped her reach an almost mythical status as a six-foot tall nun who always wore tools around her religious habit:
"She could use the saw and hammer with the skill of a trained artisan. Once she even sawed the head of the statue of St. Joseph that it might be replaced by one more becoming to the saint. This was but an accidental display of skill, but the workmen she employed knew and felt that they were in the service of a master architect, and that nothing short of the best would escape her critical eye (9)".
Repeatedly, it noted in original sources who knew her how masculine Mother Joseph was, typically paired with breathless descriptions of her skills as a worker with restless drive:
"Immensely occupied ever with creatures and the material interests of the community, Mother Joseph never lost the presence of the Creator. A vein of spiritual energy ran from action to action... her masculine energy and her devotion to the growing West...(10)". This admired energy directly powered a career of over 46 years, building over 30 schools and hospitals here in the Pacific Northwest, and the rise of the Providence Health System that still serves the West today.
My fascination with Mother Joseph reached a fever pitch when I happened upon the following nugget in "The Bell And The River", a biography of her life written by Sister Mary of the Blessed Sacrament McCrosson:
"By the time she was twelve she knew the name and purpose of each of her father's tools; moreover, her hands knew the feel of them. Sometimes he permitted her to put them carefully in place for him in the meticulous order which is the mark of the craftsman. Very early he taught her how to grasp the hickory-handled hammer to best advantage. She loved the power that came to her with its sturdy strength, and she liked to keep it with her, hooked over her belt when not in use. She also learned to use the knife, the saw, the chisel, the drawknife, the spokeshave, the bit brace, the plane, the square. She watched iron become white-hot in the forge and shower sparks as it was shaped and hammered on the anvil. Sometimes, even, she was allowed to take Joseph's place with the bellows. She was not only fascinated and awed as something serviceable and practical emerged from her father's workmanship; she was also kindled to emulate his creative achievements" (p.18).
I had a visceral reaction to reading about Esther's time with her father, slamming me back to being a kid in the garage with my own dad with a whiplash level of deja vu. This passage in otherwise admittedly dry text about the life of a nun whetted my appetite with a portrait of a woman who defied both odds and expectations of her time. As I researched Mother Joseph's life, I found myself dumbfounded at a series of continual synchronicities.
I've noticed that these sorts of synchronicities can often become contagious. Possibly even by reading these words you could wind up riding your own wild "synchro wave," leading to your own version of Brick MoJo. Carl Jung is first credited with the concept of synchronicity, which essentially theorizes that events can be "meaningful coincidences" that otherwise would seem unrelated or unimportant if they happened singularly. Jung argued that synchronicities were the cause of paranormal phenomena, and the theory is still considered pseudoscience since about 1920.
The most powerful synchronicities I have experienced have been things that were only meaningful to me personally. This writing is an attempt at distilling some of that meaning into a worthy tribute, as I believe that Mother Joseph of the Sacred Heart deserves to be recognized for how truly important she was. (We will get to the paranormal phenomena... she's right in the middle of it.) I never expected to be so wildly admirable of a Catholic nun, particularly given my early experiences with the church. My hope is that by the end of this volume you may be fond of her too, despite how complicated I feel the legacy of the Sisters of Providence is.
Footnotes:
1 - (Steber, Rick, “Women of the West”. P. 21)
2 - (Steber, Rick, p. 21)
3 - (McCrosson, Sister Mary of the Blessed Sacrament. “The Bell and the River”, p 27)
4 - (McCrosson, p. 29)
5 - (McCrosson, p. 43)
6 - (Blank, Carla & Martin, Tania - “Storming the Old Boy’s Citadel”, p. 20.)
7 - (Blank, Carla & Martin, Tania, p. 14)
8 - (Blank, Carla & Martin, Tania, p. 15)
9 - (Sister Mary James - “Providence A Sketch of the Sisters of Charity of Providence in the Northwest 1856 - 1931”, P. 83).
10 - (Sister Mary James, p. 85-86)
