(I must confess that I hated it when Former Friend L did it while trying to win me back, because it was like, dude: trying too hard.)

IP expected a Passover card. My mother-in-law sends cards for all Jewish holidays and maybe Christmas—she and my father-in-law raised IP and his brothers as Jewish, but none of them practice or identify as such religiously. My father-in-law isn’t Jewish at all; he was raised in a Protestant religion, and according to IP this caused tension. I, of course, was raised as Catholic with a semi-devout mother and a questioning father who encouraged WTFs sent in the Church’s direction. IP and I are taking my father’s model of skepticism and healthy questioning as our own model should we have children.

So, where was I before discussing our different religious upbringings? Ah,  yes: we actually both expected a Passover card. Imagine our surprise when we opened up the card to see an Easter greeting.

I give my mother-in-law props: given my background, it’s natural to assume that I’m a Christian of some sort. However, what she doesn’t know is that both IP and I are both raging atheists. It’s something his family doesn’t talk about, but she was willing to make a gesture in my direction as a way to welcome me to the family. I thought it was sweet; for the most part, my contact with IP’s parents has remained minimal given his relationship with them, but the gesture is nonetheless appreciated. I don’t know how she’d react if she knew that neither of us believes in a god, but hey: she’s trying. And she always double barrels my name, too, when sending something. I think it’s cool that she’s sensitive to that because woe to the person who drops my WordNerdia. I have now adjusted and love having IPia as my second last name, but I love my WordNerdia just as much as ever so I like to have them used in tandem. It seems like she knows that and acknowledges it. Hell, maybe she even misses her maiden name at times. I think a lot of women probably do if the Nest boards are anything to go by (and they often are not, but there are some strong feelings there on this topic).

Anyway, I was touched even though I’m not religious (which she couldn’t possibly know—a lot of people might assume that our wedding ceremony was completely secular in order to compromise and negotiate the respective religions in we were raised). What she also doesn’t know is that I found Easter as confusing as hell during my childhood because my parents never explained that a) it celebrated Jesus’ death and resurrection, II) that it was conflated with the vernal equinox in order to sway pagans to Christianity back in the day and, 3) that it’s the most important Christian holiday (I thought it was Christmas! Toys!). I always wondered: what do bunnies have to do with church? And why do I have to wear pastel colors and watch shows about Christ’s Passion that make my mom cry? Do they go together? This is what goes through a six-year-old’s mind when you don’t explain that I’ve been saved in order to hunt for brightly colored eggs and eat chocolate bunnies and peeps. Duh.

I think Paul and Storm sum up Easter and my comprehension of it during my childhood perfectly for me:

In conclusion, because he is the reanimated dead and I love me some zombies:  hope you had a Happy Zombie Jesus Day!

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

As interesting as the book will be, however, none of what’s mentioned in the excerpt shocked me. I’ve been witnessing quinceañeras since I was 11. At one point, I wanted one badly, but in my mind at the time, it was about maintaining a connection to the Mexico I had lost when my family moved in 1992, back to the hellhole of Saline, Michigan. I could never have one, with all my close friends absent and the guy I wanted as my chambelan lost to me. However, the costs (ridiculous that one could spend so much on a birthday party), the meaning behind it (announcing that your daughter, at a precious 15, is ready for womanhood—which clearly isn’t the case, remembering my own fifteenth year on this planet), the spectacle of it all, has convinced me that no daughter of mine should have one. It’s a display of a girl as chattel for the hoped-for and almost inevitable wedding in which she’s sold, and that frightens me now, as someone nearly twice these girls’ age—no kid should have to go through something so serious.

The money quote in this excerpt was this:

It’s from Priscilla [Mora] that I first hear that when the quinceañera makes her vow in the church, “it’s about chastity. You’re promising God that you’re not going to have sex till you’re back at the altar, getting married. That’s why it’s important that these girls learn all about the meaning,” Priscilla insists. Otherwise, the quinceañera “is nothing but a party.”

Sounds like a Latino version of the purity ball, except done at an older age, at a time in which you declare your daughter fit for manly consumption within the bounds of a matrimony.  Quite creepy, that these girls are paraded around as brides and then forced to vow that they’ll be good and not engage in sexual activity until the Church says that they can; yet, there’s no converse for the male half of the Latino population.  Surprise!  “Here’s my daughter—feel free to take her, but if she knows what’s good for her, she won’t become a slut; but please, take her!”

However, the money quote makes me quite happy that I never had a quinceañera; nothing warps a young mind more than a vow made in complete ignorance, both in terms of life experience and the level of knowledge made available to you (Latinos, I can safely say from experience, are the ones who pull their kids out of the sex ed classes, because what’s life without a little sexual ignorance?).  And if my 15th birthday party—which is in the grand scheme of things just another year—had been reduced to my chastity, I think I would’ve been seriously squicked and freaked out, afraid that the eyes of God were watching my every move.

As it turned out, the quinceañera was a no-go for my family from the start; there was very little money in our coffers at the time of my 15th birthday, and my father thinks it’s one of the stupidest traditions that Latinos still hold dear.  I have to say, too, that I’m not upset that I missed out on the spectacle and the guilt and the vows; if I had to wait for a marriage proposal, I’d be one bitter, unhappy and unsatisfied woman right about now.  Priscilla Mora, forgive me and my wanton ways!

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

So yes, I’m relatively tempted to see the movie until I see ads for it at bus stops and Metro stations. I see Tom Hanks’ ugly, smug mug plastered everywhere, and I am able to remind myself that there are better and healthier ways to snub the Church for its assiness towards women. Like not acknowledging the temporal and limited powers of men who think I’m a second-class citizen, and educating other women that, yes indeedy, we’re just as good as they are, I’ll show you how. Oh, and not crossing myself when I walk in front of a Catholic Church–I do that one every weekend, dude.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Edited to add:  Joseph Ratzinger is the new Pope – Pope Benedict XVI

*Family Guy quote.  The Family Guy Pope’s reaction?  "Aw, man!" as he readies himself for the day.  By the way, before anyone gets offended, the Family Guy pope bears no resemblance to John Paul II.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

However, when watching a recap of the funeral this morning, I have to admit that it was extremely poignant when the Pope’s pallbearers turned the casket one last time towards the crowd gathered in St. Peter’s Square.  The people there waved and cheered with a kind of faith that nearly moved me to tears (I say nearly – something else earlier this week moved me to furious tears, I’ve met my quota for the month of April).  But it was very touching, seeing those people say goodbye one last time to the man who was their spiritual leader.  The pallbearers then turned the casket around once more and marched into St. Peter’s Basilica.  It was a deafening kind of finality that resounded in my mind like one huge boom as the Litany of the Saints continued unabated.  The cheering and clapping was sad, yes, but there was joy at the recognition that the Pope was being properly laid to rest.

The pageantry, the majesty, the pure beauty of the Catholic sacraments, of Catholic ceremony, is simply unrivaled by any other form of Christianity.  As much as the Church pisses me off, it is absolutely beautiful.  There’s just no doubt about that.  Steeped in medieval and Renaissance history as I am, it hits me that much more strongly, the sense of tradition and solemnity.  I’m not discounting the negative aspects of the Church at all, but you have to admit: It’s purty.

And, in an odd way, it makes you want to be a better person.  It makes you want to earn that beauty.  Not by following it all strictly, but by being good to your fellow human beings.  It makes you want to go to confession and receive communion.  At least, in my case it does.  I’ve been pondering confession for more than a month now because I have been stuck in a rut emotionally.  I’ve been pretty angry and closed off and kicking walls and I’m keeping it all to myself because I don’t want to bug anyone with it.  I’ve been trained not to – remember, I’m the "Hey, that’s too bad, but forget about you, let’s talk about me!  Again!" friend.  But hey, my local priest would be more than happy to hear my confession and offer me a few Hail Marys, a few Our Fathers.  Said in Spanish, of course, since I have no idea how to say it all in English (and it just doesn’t sound as magical, to be honest).

So what would I say in my case?  It’d go: "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  It’s been 14 years since my last confession and BOY, HAVE I SINNED.  BIG TIME.  In my mind, heart and in my daily interactions with others.  SI-INNED."

And the priest would go: "All right, all right.  Stop being so dramatic, just shoot."

The final farewell of John Paul II, though, has stimulated my intellectual curiosity.  As the Pope now rests in the grotto, I turn my eye to the conclave set to begin April 18.  I am in no way privy, and would never be privy, to what’s going to go on while the cardinals get set to elect a new pope.  But I am itching to see the finale, to see the white smoke arise from a Vatican chimney.  I want to see the introduction of a new pope ("Habemus Papam"), I want to see him address the masses from the main balcony at St. Peter’s Basilica.  I want to know if he’ll be a charming man like John Paul II was; I want to see history in the making.

John Paul II was elected a scant five months after I made my entrance into this world; I want to see what kind of man is chosen to lead the Church after such a momentous reign, what kind of man is chosen to be the second pope I’ve ever known.  I want to see what new turn the history of the papacy takes.  It is a convoluted history, a complicated one.  It is sometimes shameful, horrendous and makes you want fold into a small ball.  It is sometimes glorious and kind and human.  We’ll see where the process that begins on April 18 leads.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.