BLACK MASS

At the age of twelve, my father and grandparents deposited me at Mount Saint Canice, one of the Magdalene Laundries. I was there for four years. The laundry was run by the Order of the Good Shepherd Nuns in Hobart, Tasmania. There were a number of such institutions in Australia, as well as in other parts of the world. Up to this time, my grandparents had raised me, but because they were aging and unwell, they’d asked my father to place me in a boarding school. My father lied to them and me about where I was going. He was an irresponsible alcoholic.

My first day at Mount Saint Canice began at six a.m. in the pitch black and freezing cold. The lights suddenly flashed on, hurting my eyes, as a nun swept through the dormitory shouting “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Everyone sprang out of bed, fell to their knees and began The Lord’s Prayer. I learned early on that commands at Mount Saint Canice were to be obeyed or swift punishment would follow. “Make your bed, and get washed and dressed,” said a girl who slept in the next bed. That done, we lined up before filing through to the next dormitory down two flights of stairs to attend Mass.

What happened next, and in the months and years that followed, would shock and haunt me the rest of my life.