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In Jocks. Whenever a young client testified, White threw a party, with cake and balloons and streamers. He told the children that regardless of how the case was decided, they had spoken their truth, and that was the victory. He knew from experience what it was like to challenge the diocese. And as hard as it would still have been, in that era, to convince jurors that a priest could be a sexual predator, making that argument about a nun was going to be much harder.

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White arranged a press conference for Barquin to tell his story, in hopes it might bring other St. In his years since leaving the orphanage, Barquin had led an adventurous life. He had worked as a diver, unearthing old shipwrecks and ancient fossils. But the day of his press conference, Barquin felt like he was lighting a match inside a dark and ominous cave.

He was scared, but hopeful that he might inspire others to do the same. White hoped he might hear from a few more former St. He heard from Soon a support group called the Survivors of St. Participants said it grew to 80 members.

The meetings were unpredictable. Some former residents said that the orphanage was the best thing that ever happened to them. Others recounted constant cruelty and physical abuse. Some threatened violence against clergy members. One woman said she was writing a book. Another, who had been at the orphanage in the s, called to tell her story, weeping in fear that God would punish her for saying it aloud.

One man turned up outrageously drunk. Another spoke about how, at home, he would regularly lock himself in a box. Someone wrote to White to warn him that the diocese had sent a spy. Around that time, one former resident killed himself. Survivors fought among themselves about what strategy to pursue. At one meeting, a woman was shouted down when she suggested that they all contact the bishop together. Some wanted therapists present at the meetings, but others were appalled by the suggestion.

Eventually White decided to convene a big gathering at the Hampton Inn in Colchester, Vermont, on the weekend of Sept.

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Sally Dale received an invitation. But she was curious to see some of the old faces and find out who was still around. It was Roger Barber, one of the boys from St. Sally remembered some of those things. She sometimes remembered bad things too, such as times when the nuns hit her. But it was a long time ago. She recognized few of the 50 or 60 people in attendance. Some of the women recognized each other not by name but by number: Thirty-two! White began the day by introducing Barquin and some other people who were there to help.

A man spoke about the Bible and turning to God in times like these, and two therapists said they were available for anyone who wanted to talk. Local journalists were on hand too. Then Barquin told everyone about the nun taking him into the closet. Roger Barber spoke next. Sally remembered him saying that a nun told a group of older boys to rape him.

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A lanky, weathered man stood up and addressed another man before the whole crowd. I felt bad about that all of my life. Then one woman spoke about how nuns wiped her face in her own vomit, and Sally started to remember that the same thing had happened to her. She could hear the voice of one sister telling her, after she threw up her food, You will not be this stubborn!

You will sit and you will eat it. As Sally listened to the awful stories, something ruptured inside her. Though the reunion was a two-day event, Sally left that first afternoon with a crushing headache. The next morning she had diarrhea and was unable to speak without heaving.

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S outh of Lone Rock Point, where North Avenue runs high above the eastern shore of Lake Champlain, beyond the winding paths that meander through the cemetery, behind the heavy doors of the large redbrick building, Sally was back in the orphanage. Probably not yet 6 years old, she was being marched toward the sewing room, compelled by a furious nun. Sally had been caught running and giggling in the dormitory.

Sister Jane of the Rosary took Sally to the little bedroom off the sewing room and made her lie facedown, dress yanked up, panties pulled down. Then the nun sent in Eva, a seamstress, who along with another lay employee, Irene, was one of the only two people that Sally felt safe with. Eva came into the little room, looked at Sally — face down, dress up, defenseless — and stood frozen for a few long moments.

The strap lay beside her on the bed. Then she left. Even Sister Jane of the Rosary, usually so quick to punish, came in but did nothing. Entering the room, she brought the strap down hard on Sally, from the back of her neck all the way down to her ankles.


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