Lest we forget

I have little to no recollection of my life before I was 8 years old….but today it occured to me that the vignettes I do remember from early childhood are so charged with emotion for me that they left me – in my own mind at least – feeling fully formed and equipped to run my own life from 8 years old on. I had this life thing all under control by then.

An example, I remember my first communion – which happened without the proper Catholic training when I was 7 years old, but I was already in the 7th grade for that year. I had been sent to school with my big brother and sister even though they were in a high school for gifted children, because my divorcing parents were scared of me walking home alone from my public third grade, since there had been three attempts to kidnap me in the fall. (But that is another story). Transportation was already an issue for our working parents and my family took to the old African method of older siblings caring for younger siblings very seriously.

In January of 1968, I joined Calasanctius Preparatory School for Gifted Children in their youngest grade: 7th (though I was only 7 at the time). I took every class with all the other 7th graders but I was often treated with kid gloves – like in first year Russian where the teacher never once hit me for not learning properly, because I was such a little girl. He hit my big brother though, or more precisely ‘gave him a cookie’ meaning picked him up by his ear, if he made too many mistakes.

Calasanctius was very old school, but my big sister liked it and did well, she learned to be very conscientious and how to succeed in a male world. The school was run by Hungarian monks who had been refugees after WWII – We learned Russian for example from a man who had been on the Russian Front as a Hungarian soldier, Mr. Pop knew what kind of cookies naughty children needed in class. Some years after my sister graduated, Calasanctius was closed for child abuse – my brother probably saw that one coming. He had not liked it much, though he made some good friends.

Part of our educational routine was to go to mass on every ‘Holy day of Obligation”. On this particular one I remember, I, of course, followed along the bigger kids

Towards the end of the mumbo jumbo (I remember no words just silence, priest talking and maybe we sang), every single one of my classmates stood up and went up to the front of the room to meet the priest personally. Even the only other girl (who in retrospect took very good care of me – I may look up Winifred Nelson on facebook and tell her so) They stood up. I didn’t exactly know what was going on, not having really been raised any religion at all (my beloved Grandmother had said ‘religion is good for immigrants’ so I had no beef with it, but I sure didn’t know the dance). I figured I had better do like all the others. So I got in line, waited my turn and then I mumbled something about jesus under my breath and I let the priest put a dry sticky wafer in my mouth. Then I shuffled back to my seat with my head down, like all the others and knelt down as I saw them doing.

Somewhere during that kneeling and mumbling, I deciphered a sentence: “lord I am not worthy to receive you but only say the word and I shall be healed” and I started to catch on. OMG I was EATING the BODY of Christ!!! I was really NOT WORTHY – I started to cry silently (a thing I had gotten used to doing in math class or for spelling bees) and took the wafer out of my mouth and stuck it under the chair I was sitting on! Then I went back to class with the others without saying a word.

I never told anybody at school about that! I was SO ashamed. I was aware that even if you threw up after eating a consecrated wafer the priest had to clean up the vomit because it was so holy. HOLY SHIT – I was in big trouble with Jesus!

I don’t remember telling my family about that either, but I must have done because I do remember that we started going to the Buffalo State University “NewMan Center” for Catholic services shortly after that. I liked that place a lot because we sang Peter, Paul and Mary songs, and the priest was really nice. I was given a real first communion later that year. I believe I had to go to first confession before I went to first communion, but the priest was so cool that I sat at his desk and told him how mad I was at my parents. The whole basement church group stood up for my first communion and honored me.

Maybe we sang “Turn Turn Turn” or “Blowing in the Wind”.