On Catholicism

September 5, 2009 at 11:12 pm (Uncategorized)

I am not one of those traumatized, whiny, bitter former Catholics. Although today I consider myself to be an atheist, if I were to somehow suffer a head injury and decide that Christianity really is The Way, I would become a Catholic again. Protestantism seems so sterile and lifeless. Well, I suppose those churches where people speak in unrecognizable languages and fall out in the presence of the lord are kind of jaunty, in their own way. But, for me, a church should contain proper and restrained ceremony, pretty things to look at while your mind wanders during the homily (sermon for you heathen Protestants), incense, gory stories of saints’ lives, and the consumption of the actual body and blood of Christ. No matzo crackers and grape juice for me. When I drop my offering in the basket, I want to get the most bang for my buck. I want a show.

The one thing that would be a disappointment is that the Mass is in English. Back in the day, I enjoyed many a High Mass. Latin, FTW. I’m also not sure about confession. I hear that in some quarters it’s done face to face these days. Something just isn’t right about that. I want the box with the curtain, the screen, and the anonymity. I mean, really. I can just see myself looking Father Nguyen (they’re all Vietnamese in New Orleans these days) in the eye while I regale him with tales of self-abuse. Not going to happen.

I wonder if Father Nguyen takes himself down to the local neighborhood joint for a beer or a cocktail the way Father Gautreaux used to when I was a kid. Probably not. I’ll admit, that was a little traumatizing. Oh, I should mention that I grew up in the 1960s in New Orleans when parents of a certain type would cart their kids along to the restaurant/bar with them. My father and stepmother were those kinds of parents. So, we sometimes ran into Father Gautreaux at the Edgelake or G & Lil’s having a little aperitif. I wasn’t upset that our parish priest was in a bar, nor was I upset that he was having a drink. You may have guessed given the fact that my parents took small children to bars that seeing someone having a drink wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence for me. What upset me was that he wasn’t wearing his black clothing or his collar. There was Father Gautreaux in an open collared plaid sport shirt and regular slacks, sipping his whiskey and soda or whatever he was drinking and looking like a regular person. This totally threw my eight year old’s view of the right and proper WAY THINGS SHOULD BE out of whack.

So, Father Gautreaux in his sport shirts and the time in first grade when I peed on myself during the Stations of the Cross and I had to go to the office and change into a uniform and panties that did not belong to me (who knows where that stuff had been). Oh, and the time during third grade when Mrs. Hunt busted me for having completed my entire math workbook before Halloween. I’m pretty sure that had more to do with Mrs. Hunt not knowing how to deal with a child like me than it did with it being a Catholic school. So, yeah, I came out pretty much unscathed.

Leave a Comment

In which I am late to the party, trip on the rug, and spill my cocktail…

July 2, 2009 at 12:20 am (College Stuff)
Tags: , , , ,

I’ve been thinking about doing this blog thing for a couple of years now and here we go! Now, how to begin? I am born. No, that’s been done, hasn’t it? Call me Ishmael. That doesn’t really work either. First off, if you call me Ishmael I’m liable not to answer since that isn’t actually my name. Secondly, done already. It was a bright cold day in April…

So, yeah. I’m sitting in my Creative Writing Workshop class the other day. Our fearless leader, Dr. C (not to be confused with the other Dr. C, who may be discussed at a later date) has assigned each class member a chapter from the text to discuss with the class. Notice the key word there: discuss. Notice that the key word contains no actual instructions to actually read the chapter, nearly in its entirety, to the class. We should, most likely, assume that other class members may read the chapters at home. Silently. To themselves.

So, the first guy up and does what? How did you guess? Did I give too much away in my intro paragraph? Yes. He reads. And reads. And reads. When he was done and after I had mostly aroused myself from my coma, and tried, unsuccessfully to rid myself of the ennui, it is the next guy’s turn.

Now, I will cut him some slack because Dr. C did nothing to stop the previous abortion. You see where this is leading? Yeah. Guy #2 starts reading. But there is an important difference. While Guy#1, ESL notwithstanding, read on for probably the length of time it took the Upanishads to be written, he at least read fairly fluently, ESL and all. When Guy#2 starts and struggles and starts again, I am somehow transported through some bizarre space-time continuum and am back in Mrs. Hunt’s class. It’s third grade all over again and Jimmy Hines is reading aloud.

Back then, I often wondered why Mrs. Hunt put us all through it. Why would she insist on this exercise in pain when she had lots of perfectly good readers in the class? Of course, now, as an adult, I know why. But back then? It was rough. I would fidget. My mind would wander. Finally, sneakily and surreptitiously, I would pull my copy of The Outsiders out of my desk and begin to read. It’s like Novocaine–anesthesia for my brain. Jimmy struggles on, but I don’t have to listen. I am in Oklahoma and am some cool Greaser chick–even though I’m only nine and have no idea how one goes about being a cool Greaser chick–and I dream of one day having a boyfriend like Ponyboy or, especially, like Dallas Winston. I guess my predilection for bad boys started kind of early. I was never interested in Darry, Ponyboy’s oldest brother. He was too responsible and level-headed and Darry is a stupid name.

Anyway, the point of the story is that some things never change. It’s 2009 and Jimmy still can’t read. Ralph Macchio dies saving some kid in a fire and then learns karate by painting a fence. Matt Dillon gets gunned down in the street and nobody even remembers C. Thomas Howell.

2 Comments