3: Poverty Is Expensive

Once I knew I'd be joining the brothers who live and teach at Chaminade High School, I promptly received a two-page Word document outlining exactly what clothes I would need to bring with me when I moved in. I was really excited by the list too! My mother, though? Yeah, not so much.

She took one look at the very long list, provided to us sometime in the end of May or early June, and her eyes bulged out with shock. It was clear we had a lot of shopping to do, and she personally had a lot of money she'd need to spend besides. As I'm one of eleven children and my parents were far from wealthy, the upfront costs were staggering.

Though I no longer have the actual list, it read something like this:

Two black suits, two black ties, five white long-sleeve Oxford shirts, five white short-sleeve Oxford shirts, two black belts, two pairs of black shoes with laces, a pack of black cotton socks, a pack of white undershirts, a pack of underwear, a few casual shirts, a few casual pairs of khakis, two pairs of Dickey's work pants, a pair of work boots, several long-sleeve and short-sleeve shirts suitable for working in, a pack of white socks, a new or slightly worn pair of sneakers, a pair of loafers or other comfortable casual shoes, a bathing suit, winter clothes including a coat, hat, gloves, and snow boots, two pairs of jeans, a casual belt, and toiletries.

There was surely much more on this list too, but those were the basics. The document also contained suggestions of how many personal items I should bring with me. As I was first promising and eventually vowing actual Poverty with a capital P, I would need to give away the bulk of my belongings before entering the community, or at least not bring them with me when I moved out of my parents' house.

I opted to gift my worldly belongings to all my friends and family members, and only take a small box of personal items with me when I moved in. The two suits we ended up buying through a tailor the brothers used, and that experience came with its own weird situation, which I'll just mention here briefly.

Never before (and not once since) had I been asked, "Which way do you suit?" but on that particular day, with just the tailor and my future Assistant Novice Master waiting and looking at me patiently, I had to choose. The question, it seems, refers to which direction your penis hangs, as the tailor will leave a little extra room on one side of your crotch or the other.

Absurd, isn't it? First of all, I'm Irish. I don't exactly have a python dangling downward in directions past my crotch. And secondly, do pants really need that specific degree of accuracy anyway? But I digress.

The bill for all my new clothes, new shoes, and new suits was nothing life-changing, of course, but whatever dollar amount it all came out to, it was quite a lot for someone entering a monastery and taking a solemn Vow of Poverty.

The vow, I'd come to learn over time, and will talk more about in future entries here, doesn't really mean what you'd think it does. While I never felt slightly rich, neither did I ever feel even slightly poor, and the newer clothes also ensured they'd last me a long time too.

With about a month to go before I became Brother Sean, the learning process had already begun. I'd received my marching orders, complete with a full list of what to bring with me on my first day, and the mysterious new world I was about to enter was now looming very, very close.

How close? I literally graduated high school only two weeks before I entered the monastery. While my friends were all celebrating summer vacation and their exciting new post-high school lives, I was saying goodbye to everything I knew, and giving over what I believed was the rest of my entire life to God.

That fateful day, Tuesday the 29th of June in the year 1993, is where my story goes next.


Coming Next Week: Moving into a Monastery

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