CAUGHT! CAUGHT IN THE WEB OF HIS OWN MAKING!
Caught. Caught in a web of his own making, is how I remember those final days. He was arrogant, obnoxious, and condescending. The assignment was to read a play by Hrotsvitha, a woman and a nun writing in the 10th century from Saxony.
The granddaughter of Irish Catholic immigrants and a graduate of many years of Catholic school education, I was well acquainted with nuns, both the cloistered and the active sisters. Cloistered nuns dedicated their lives to prayer. The active nuns were the shakers and makers of their day. They dedicated their lives to the medical, educational, and social well-being of the communities in which they lived and served. Sometimes, the cloistered nuns and the active sisters belonged to the same religious orders and lived together. Hrotsvitha was a Benedictine, if you know anything about them!
I was on a mission. I needed to find out all I could about this woman, named Hrotsvitha. First, I read the assigned play. The butt of the joke was on a pagan. So, I kept reading. The next play seemed to be a rewrite of the first play, except the butt of the joke was on a Christian. I found this very funny, so I kept reading. I read all of her plays, all of her legends, and all of her histories. But that was not enough for me.
I stopped attending my theater classes and found my way to the divinity school library. There I learned the convent was located in the hot bed of a social, cultural, and economic center. It was along the byways and highways of its days. There were two bishops, one who supported the order of nuns and the other who did not. One bishop was barred from entering the convent grounds. Oh, such drama! The sisters were not even under the thumb of the male hierarchy. The convent was built and funded by a duke and his wife. They were freed women. Oh, my!
Then I found a ground plan of the convent area! It was the perfect location for the production of any of her plays! A courtyard was surrounded by individual cubicles where the sisters slept. My imagination was on fire! Audiences in the middle. Large scenes at center. Smaller scenes revealed by the opening of a drape on various cubicle windows. A banned bishop? One who might wish he had the power to shut down progressive women of the day? Hrotsvitha! A writer, a theologian, and composer of grand music. Oh, what I would have given for one hot ticket to any of her shows!
And then I went to class. Our professor started pacing as he often did. "Today we discuss the little nun Hrotsvitha. None of this! None of that! Not a real playwright! Not one who wrote to be produced." "Really?" I thought to myself. "Then why write, if not to be heard? Besides the translation of her name meant the strong voice." "What did you think about her little play?" His laughter egged on the laughter of some students. Not me. “And what about that ridiculous scene with pots and pans?" More laughter. Not me.
“I think she was writing from a satirical point of view." "What would give you such a foolish idea?" "If you read the second play, it's basically a rewrite of the first play.” "You read the second play?" "I read all of them, which is why I think Hrotsvitha was writing from a satirical point of view."
"Impossible, impossible, impossible," he demanded "Why?" I challenged. He started pacing more and more, spouting off an endless “impossible, impossible, impossible!” "Why, Michael, why?” I stopped him in his tracks. He was not happy being demoted from doctor. I, an older student, was not happy about his portrayal of this fascinating woman. “Why is it impossible that she was writing from a satirical point of view?" I demanded. “Why, Michael, why?”
"Because... because... because.... " "Why, Michael, why?" I insisted. "Because, because, because..." he continued pacing. Then he stopped dead in his tracks and looked straight at me. "Because she was a woman!" The proverbial pin hit the floor, followed by complete silence in the classroom. I stared at him. The silence continued. Caught. Caught in the web of his own making, I hit my mark. "And women have no wits?" I asked with the perfect amount of sarcasm