When I finally understood the English lyrics and realized the depth of this song for the first time, I cried. Not loud, but quiet tears were running down my face. I was in my late 20s then and already lived in America.
I honestly think that only Joni Michelle fans have ever heard of this song to begin with. It’s not popular like many of her other songs because she touched on a taboo subject. Tabooed by men and some women, because the truth can make us feel uncomfortable.
I spent ten years of my life in a boarding school run by nuns. It was a girls-only school in Dietramszell, in Bavaria/Germany, and yes, there were unwanted pregnancies, and they were dealt with in the way the nuns thought would be the right way. The pregnant girl disappeared, was sent home, and suspended from school. No questions asked. No exceptions allowed.
One of my best friends, Anke, the daughter of a factory owner, was not allowed to graduate even though the graduation was only a few weeks away. She was 17 when the ‘accident’ happened, just a couple of months before her 18th birthday, still a child on paper, but a woman by biology. I was the youngest in our class, two years behind not just in age and body development, but also behind in the boy department. Still reminiscing about my first kiss, I wasn’t ready to go any further, nor was I interested in having a boyfriend yet. A pregnancy? Agnes must have done something I didn’t know much about.
Most of us girls had plans for a career or studies. Marriage and children were not at the top of the list. In a girls-only boarding school, hormones run wild, and I swear, some of the things I heard could not possibly be happening in real life. Romance novels never talked about what the girls were describing. I certainly wasn’t ready for THIS. Probably never would be. Gross!
Anke was forced to marry. Ten years later, at a class reunion, I learned that the marriage didn’t last, which is not surprising.
The nun’s hands were tight. The church and the community didn’t allow them to show mercy to a pregnant girl; they were not permitted to keep her. Laws and politics, all made by men, declared who was a fallen girl and unworthy. Society wasn’t kind or forgiving back then, and this hasn’t changed to this day.
Some might call me a feminist, and I suppose they could be right. If a woman speaks up for women’s rights and goes as far as demanding equal rights, equal laws, and equal treatment for women, then she must be one of these terrible feminists.
My grandma ran a farm. She did men’s work, perhaps worked even harder. Our nuns in school were as religious as the monks in a monastery, yet they would never be allowed to be a pastor, bishop, or pope. The faith of women was controlled by men, which, even as a teenage girl, struck me as unfair.
Now, in my early 60s, while writing this, I know that my dreams and wishes most likely will not become reality—at least not in my lifetime.
The truth to be told. I am not a feminist but a dreamer. I wish this world were a place where we all got along and all had the same opportunities. I dream of a place where everybody will be treated with respect and dignity.
I suppose some might translate this as feminism, and I am no longer bothered by it. So be it!
Jodi Michell’s song “The Magdalene Laundries” hit home because she is telling the truth. What sounds so much like middle age is still going on to this day in many countries, including the United States. Fallen girls! Jezebels! Girls who brought shame to the family.
Joni Michell’s song changed the way I think about girls like Anke. She wasn’t a fallen girl, nor did she shame her family or the school. She was a young girl in love, and the consequences it had for her (and only her) show the cruelty of our society.
Perhaps it was this song that made me speak out louder, because I have witnessed it.
I was an unmarried girl
I’d just turned twenty-seven
When they sent me to the sisters
For the way men looked at me
Branded as a Jezebel
I knew I was not bound for Heaven
I’d be cast in shame
Into the Magdalene laundries
Most girls come here pregnant
Some by their own fathers
Bridget got that belly
By her parish priest
We’re trying to get things white as snow
All of us woe-begotten-daughters
In the streaming stains
Of the Magdalene laundries
Prostitutes and destitutes
And temptresses like me
Fallen women
Sentenced into dreamless drudgery
Why do they call this heartless place
Our Lady of Charity?
Oh, charity
These bloodless brides of Jesus
If they had just once glimpsed their groom
Then they’d know, and they’d drop the stones
Concealed behind their rosaries
They wilt the grass they walk upon
They leech the light out of a room
They’d like to drive us down the drain
At the Magdalene laundries
Peg O’Connell died today
She was a cheeky girl
A flirt
They just stuffed her in a hole
Surely to God, you’d think at least some bells should ring
One day I’m going to die here too
And they’ll plant me in the dirt
Like some lame bulb
That never blooms come any spring
Not any spring, uh-uh-uh
Not any, uh-uh-uh, uh-uh-uh-uh
Oh-oh
No, not any spring
Not any spring
This post, like all other posts here on my blog, was written by me and has not been altered or “updated” by AI. My blog and I are still authentic and human, and I will keep it that way.
And still it goes on!