I've always had a low tolerance for bullshit. I can see it and feel it a mile away, and I hate it. I just don't understand it. What is the need for bullshit? Why not just be honest and straightforward? Why lie? Why disguise? Why fucking pretend?
I have been this way all my life. When I was in grade school, the nuns used to call me "Curious Carol" because I never took anything at face value unless it made sense to me, so I asked questions. Curiosity—I know now—is a good, if not necessary, quality to have. But in Catholic school—Catholic school in South Philadelphia in the seventies—curiosity was not rewarded. I think it may have even qualified as a venial sin. Mortal sins, of course, were much more serious. Mortal sins included—at least back in the day—murder and missing mass on Sunday. (I don't know where child molestation by clergy members ranked; it was not something one asked. It was veiled by pedantic rhetoric and stoic bullshit.)
In the early days of Vatican II, the nuns loosened up a bit. In the early 70s, they gave up their long, cumbersome habits for to-the-knee uniforms and mid-shoulder veils. They also played songs like "Day By Day" and "Morning Has Broken" on their guitars at Friday morning mass, under the guise of being hip and modern and open-minded. But it was all bullshit.
When I was in fourth grade, in religion class, Sister Rosemary—who, physically, was a cross between a linebacker and a lumberjack—gave me three demerits for insubordination when I raised my hand and asked her what "manna" was. She was lecturing about how manna fell from the sky to feed the Israelites in the wilderness and what a miracle it was and how it fed so many hungry people, so I thought asking what manna was was a reasonable question. (I stopped short of asking who the Israelites were—which, of course, wasn't explained to us either—because I instinctively knew that the Israelites, whoever they were, certainly weren't Catholic, and that kind of question would make Sister Rosemary's fat, doughy face all red and blotchy, and she'd look at me with those sternly knitted eyebrows and those big yellow buck teeth, which looked even bucker when she got mad.)
So I asked her what I thought was an innocuous question because I really wanted to know what I was believing in before I said "I believe." But Sister Rosemary said I was being disrespectful. I was crushed and I cried—not because I got demerits, but because I loved God and thought God would be angry at me and maybe also punish me for something I didn't intend to do. After all, if Sister Rosemary thought I was being disrespectful and she was a representative of God, God would think I was disrespectful, too. And that would hurt me more than being punished. So I asked God silently to forgive me and, equally important (to me, anyway), to still love me.
It was probably 20 years before I was able to admit—and really believe--that a) I was a good kid b) God not only still loved me but was probably rooting for me and c) Sister Rosemary didn't know what the fuck she was talking about and had no idea what manna was so she punished me for her own stupidity. It was another 10 years before I would allow myself to believe and really internalize that most of it was bullshit anyway.
The world is rife with bullshit—always was, probably always will be. And, though I have even less tolerance for it now than I did back then, I somehow always find myself having to deal with it.
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4 comments:
great blog, carol. nice extension from your Rick website & blog.
my wife can sympathize w/ you on the catholic religion. both of us grew up w/ religion (i.e - baptisms, confirmations, drawn out / wasted sunday am's - until ski racing fortunately got in the way;)). i grew up episcopalian, which parallels catholic. we both feel that conformed religion is very hyprocritical & unfortunately negatively affects peoples' lives. when we have children, we'll let them decide how, or if, religion will be a part of their lives. we're definitely not forcing it upon them. people should benefit from religion on their own terms, not by being made to feel guilty.
mike
Mike--thanks for visiting and for your nice comment. I totally agree!
If you believe in God, you can speak to God directly; no need to go through a mediary who doesn't know what manna is, right? :-)
Catholic school did teach me one important thing: Organized religion and believing in God are two different things. Seeing the mob bosses and their wives at Mass on Sundays when I was a kid reinforced that concept for me!
Carol - I know where you're coming from. Once I reached a certain age I seldom openly questioned anything the nuns said, but I had a pretty good idea it was all b.s. Just kept it to myself. But I imagine they could look at my face and figure out what I was thinking. I hope I was rolling my eyes....
My first confession - as a, what - a 8 or 9 year old? - was nerve wracking. I truly thought I was a big-time sinner and I was trembling in the pew, waiting my turn, on the verge of throwing up. I've no doubt my evil brother, 4 yrs older than me, played a big part in these fears of mine. (The same brother who told me, when I was 3 and we were staying with my aunt while our parents vacationed - "mommy and daddy are never coming home!") Once I finally made it into the confessional, to make things even worse, I didn't tell the priest half of my horrid sins because a few of them were just too embarrassing to say out loud! Oh, the shame! And first communion day wasn't much better. I still remember Sr. Mary Roberts (i think) whispering to me "I hope your soul is as white as that dress you have on". 'Geez - how did she know? Oh, no! My soul's not white at all!' I guess that's why they throw 1st Communion parties afterwards -- at least we made some money as a result of the whole sordid ordeal.
But you know, I think my catholic upbringning pretty much made me what I am today. Now that's REALLY sad, isn't it?
Oh - I always thought of manna as sort of like a billion little dry hosts floating thru the air. I hope they had plenty of wine on hand. Seems they always did.
Gayle--I know just how you feel. Remembering how it felt to be in that confessional the first time--I was so scared, my teeth were chattering. What could I have done at that age that was so bad? I wonder what all the mob wives talked about in confession.
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