And Now, a Lapsed Catholic Moment

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I wrote this a year, maybe two years ago. I just reread it and found it slightly entertaining.

My mother was always somewhat halfhearted in her attempts to make our family a religious one. We were resistant in part because our father, who freely questioned the Church’s authority, allowed us to do so also—he wasn’t going to be any help to the woman. Additionally, my mother’s aforementioned, well-intentioned (I suppose) but ultimately unmotivated displays of faith didn’t help argue her case. Kids really do learn by example, and this was one lesson she didn’t teach with force.

The move to Mexico when I was 11 gave her the best chance she ever had to convert all four of us kids. The ringing church bell on Sundays can be heard throughout our village, and woe to the person caught heading away from the summons. In a town where “Esta es una casa católica—no solicitud” adorns windows and doors, where the Protestant population is relegated to the outskirts of the village, and where religious processions much like the York Cycle dominate during Lent, it’s hard to avoid Catholicism. It is immediate, ever-present, and enthusiastically invoked. You cannot escape it.

But, as my mother is wont to do, she put less effort into her endeavors than was required, trusting that the village’s religious fervor—bound up as it was with social interactions and the judgment hidden therein—would sweep us right along into piety. Alas, she miscalculated and discounted our lives prior to Mexico. Formative years in Saline, Michigan, where we were outcasts at best (as both Mexican and pseudo-Catholics), made us uncomfortable in large crowds and less willing to play follow the leader than she would’ve liked. Where large crowds with consensus go (white is better than Mexican, the Holy Spirit is in this wafer here), I personally tend to go in the other direction. Sensing this tendency in me, my mother re-grouped and re-focused. No longer would she depend on the village to raise the children. She instead pointed towards me and said:

“Next great Catholic.”

She probably did this for several reasons:

1. I’m the eldest daughter
2. I’m a woman, so I’m naturally in more need of spiritual guidance than, say, my older brother A
3. I had inherited my father’s “question everything” mantra, unseemly in a woman, especially since older brother A wasn’t as vocal about his dissent
4. I was already signaling rebellion and a burgeoning feminist streak (abortion was already about choice in my young mind—I started early), and;
5. She thought she needed to tame me because I was she felt I didn’t act like a lady should (Swearing is bad? Well, fuck me!)

So began catechism, probably the biggest time-waster I have ever been a party to (well, the Helix Lounge is a very close second). I was thrust into a small group of girls a bit younger than I was, expected to learn all the sacraments, the deadly sins, and every evil womankind has every wrought on Church, God, country, and pious man. I learned to cross myself; I had to peek on the first few tries because I did not know the super, awesomely-powered, ultra-protective cross (with four styles of crossing—forehead, lips, chest, and an all-encompassing cross that guaranteed your safety against devils [not a guarantee]). I began to memorize by rote a catechism booklet that told me what venial and mortal sins were, and how I could go to—fun!—hell for having a vagina. I grew tired to this damnation talk after about two Sundays’ worth of sessions and began to skip.

I’d pretend to leave my house, catechism book in hand like a good girl. When out of sight, I’d stash my book behind a tree, and then skip off to buy churritos, hielo if it was available, and anything my then-fast metabolism desired. I avoided the public square where catechism was held, but would wander in plain sight (well, except my mom’s sight), walking the length of the village, trying to ignore the 30-year-old men catcalling my 12-year-old ass (and women are evil? Rest assured, I stayed close to where I knew other women would be).

Much too soon, though, I was discovered. A schoolmate, of all people, ratted me out to my mother. I was then frog-marched to catechism by my mother or my fellow prisoners, and endured the wise teachings of Misogyny Central (led, curiously enough, by a woman who would later have a baby by the village priest and be called a whore for having seduced him, since priests obviously are helpless—I mean, no power of God behind them is helpful in the face of womanly temptation, right?). My eyes rolled to the back of my head during each class, but I figured the faster I learned this stuff, the faster I could get back to my churritos. With skepticism instilled by my father dominating, I didn’t have any sorts of revelations,  jumping wholeheartedly into religious devotion, though I’m sure that’s what Mom prayed for each night before going to bed.

Learn I did, or I at least regurgitated the catechism—the test was answering all 100 questions in the booklet, in order (what, no hymen check?). I then had to endure a confession session with the priest; they actually brought in another guy from a neighboring town since so many people were confessing that day (it had to do with the First Communions coming up and the festival day that was nigh). I was forced to confess to some strange man, face to face, on someone’s porch steps. Awkward! I was then given Hail Marys and Our Fathers to recite, told to sin no more (hah!), and went through the First Communion ceremony the next day.

The picture taken to commemorate the day (wherein my 12-year-old self towers over the seven- and eight-year-old girls who took their First Communion alongside me—again, awkward) shows my state of mind; my face is set in a scowl, my eyes purposely set away from the camera and looking off into the distance, clutching my candle and flowers and rosary and prayer book as if I were strangling someone. I was not a happy camper; picture me in a miniaturized wedding dress, my unkempt Roseanne Roseannadanna hair going every which way, clearly thinking that I’ve been entered into some weird community against my will.

None of it made any sense to me: the whole system was set up to make women patsies, and everyone around me seemed to be enjoying every minute of it. To me, it seemed like I was subjecting myself to another layer of monitoring, another layer of condemnation for having been born a woman, another layer of blame for things that had nothing to do with me. My mother was happy, flushed with maternal pride, but I was grumpy all day. I felt like I had been forced to sacrifice a little bit of my soul just to eat a wafer. I don’t blame the young girls for being so enthusiastic about it—with the dress, the flowers, the accessories, the pictures, all you needed was a groom to make it a wedding day (and, like 20+ years in terms of age); these kids were totally enthusiastic about playing their parts of Church princesses. At 12, though, you’re forming your own ideas about religion based on what you’ve experienced and learned, and I was furious. Nothing in my upbringing had ever prepared me for this to happen, and my other siblings were lucky enough to dodge the bullet.

I know this means a lot to Catholics, but like I said: to me it didn’t make any sense. I didn’t believe any of it. Even at 12, I was too cynical and analytical to take the spiritual with anything but a grain of salt. I know that that’s when my overriding philosophy about religion came sharply into focus: ceremony without belief is meaningless. It’s false to go through empty motions just to make family happy. I told myself then that I’d never compromise my beliefs just for the sake of giving someone else a ceremony of some sort.

The only redeeming part of it was that the village festival was going on, and that meant junk food and carnival rides in the evening.

I may have confessed once or twice again, and maybe flirted with the idea of doing so in later years, but my dedication to anything beyond the First Communion was non-existent. My mom tried to cajole me into doing my Confirmation, and she tried emphatically to steer IP and me toward a Catholic wedding, but in the end, our ceremony was completely and utterly secular. If we have kids, I’m sure she’ll push for baptism, but I feel it’s unnecessary. We will teach any kids we may have about religions of the world (101), and if they feel attracted to a certain faith we’ll do our best to be supportive, but ultimately we’d like to raise adults who question, analyze, and deconstruct existing religions while still respecting them (insomuch as that religion respects them, though; if you want to practice any religion, have at it, but don’t infringe on my right to not practice!); I know you can practice and question, but for me, the belief in a higher power wasn’t there. That right there should’ve been the deciding factor. I probably didn’t express it then, but you bet your ass I’ve learned to as an adult. I don’t seek out conflict with my mother in terms of religion, but I don’t back down when it comes to Catholic vs. Atheist: The Reckoning (coming to a theater near you). My disbelief is too much a part of me.

So, anyway, my story of my First Communion. Rest assured that I don’t hash this out with my mom every chance I get (so, Mathgeek: no accusatory phone calls, please!), but it certainly helps inform how I became the atheist I am today.