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“Give me the child … and I will give you the man.” -- The founder of the Society of Jesus, St. Ignatius Loyola
Most of the neighborhood kids where I grew up were born into devout Catholic families. At an appropriate age we would be sent to Catechism lessons, Sister Eunice handling the formal side of our indoctrination into the Church, but she was merely giving structure and adding polish to the work long since begun in our own homes. Our childhood, and therefore our lives, were defined by those neighborhood women in their eternal black veils.
The house my brother and I were raised in was a shrine to the Catholic faith. A large picture of the Virgen de Guadalupe was the first thing you saw when you came into the house. The picture was hung over the living room mantel with fresh flowers in a vase, and devotional candles flickering, at her feet. Besides the calendars from grocery stores and insurance agents, the only other pictures on the walls were religious icons, the only adornments were Palm Sunday palm fronds twisted into crosses tacked over every door. Large and small figurines of Jesus, of the Virgen de Guadalupe, of saints, screw-top jars of blessed water, prayer books, rosaries, tracts, copies of the church bulletin, could be found on tables, shelves, dresser tops all over the house.
Day to day life was filled with prayer. My grandfather kneeled and prayed at the mantel below the Guadalupe every morning; like most Mexican men of his time, my grandfather was devoted to the Virgen de Guadalupe and all his life wore his medalla, a gold Guadalupe medal, on a gold chain around his neck. I have it now, and my mother’s rosary. My grandmother would mutter prayers all day long, to herself and out loud to try and make us feel guilty; she still does that! When we sat down to eat, we were supposed to pray, thanking God and the Blessed Virgin for the bread He gave us to eat without deserving it. When we left the house for school, my grandmother prayed over us, sometimes making us cross our arms, while she made the sign of the cross over our heads. Most late afternoons, she crossed the street to pray the Rosary in church with the other ladies. Any illness or trouble, she prayed the Blessing of Saint Francis. Ordinary conversation was routinely filled with references to God or Jesus. If some one spoke of their future plans, the reply was invariably, “Si Dios quiere.” If God wants it. If a bad thing was anticipated, it was thwarted by, “Ni lo mande Dios.” Even God should not order it. Cursing, or any kind of bad words, were never spoken by my grandparents, ever, even when they were angry or arguing. The only way to use God’s name was reverently, although it could be used in surprise: “Ay, Dios!” or “Jesus!” or in tired disgust: “Jesus, Maria, y Jose.” or “Ay, Madre Santa!”
In our home the Church ruled our lives and our schedules. There was no question who and what we were and where and what we did when and how we did it. On Sundays, the families in our neighborhood attended the parish church, St. Anne’s, which happened to be across the street from our house. During the week after school, we were sent to study Catechism with the nuns in the dark, crowded, dingy basement under St. Anne’s, our parents giving us change to put into the offering basket; we appropriated a small amount out of that offering for candy, the rest went into the basket. After much study and at an appropriate age, we would make our First Holy Communion. After that we would go to make confession on Saturdays. We would attend Mass on Sundays, and holy days. Eventually, after more lessons, we would make our Confirmation, the last rite of childhood.
When I was very young, this was the unquestioned routine of my life. Obedience and simple fear motivated me, the wish to avoid repercussions. I was taught as a child that God was a vengeful God who saw and knew everything I did; I believed that, and I believed I was a wicked sinful child and that I would be punished for my sins. Certainly my grandmother was good at punishing me, and so were the nuns. Motivated by some other child’s comments, I once made the mistake of asking Sister Eunice a question about graven idols, and was met with an anger and fury I’d never seen in the old nun. There were other nuns, but Sister Eunice was the one I remember most, short and stout, white-skinned, white-haired under her wimple (the nuns still wore habits back then), blue eyes behind her steel-rimmed glasses. God knows we gave Sister Eunice and the other sisters fits. The boys in particular, who sat in the front row, were always rowdy, and we girls giggled at whatever they said. That may have been why, once, a young monk came down to the basement to give the lesson. One boy, the only black child in the class, gave a slightly rude answer to a question, and everybody giggled. The monk got a ruler from the desk and whacked the boy’s hand. The room went dead quiet. After a minute, the boy rose from his chair and left the basement. We were all working in silence when we saw feet passing by the basement window. Some childhood instinct made us flee, running up the stairs past a large black woman stomping down the stairs. At the top of the stairs we peered through the window and saw the woman looming over the monk who had been knocked to the floor. One day, when we came home from church, I was getting a drink of water at the sink and something I said or my grandmother said to me was misunderstood. She started demanding that I spit out the water I had in my mouth, which didn’t make sense because I had just taken the Host at Mass and she was telling me to do something I knew was wrong. She kept demanding that I spit out the water, so I did, and was promptly slapped hard; I was so shocked I couldn’t even cry. It was the only time I was ever slapped as a child.
Still, I must have done something right, or given the right answers when it counted. Or maybe Sister Eunice just liked me because she selected me to represent the girls when we were to make our Confirmation, which was considered a great honor, except by the kids who teased me about it. A boy representative was also selected, he and I presented a Spiritual Bouquet to the Bishop during the Mass; we were both so nervous we forgot what we were supposed to say, but we managed to hand over the things before retreating to our places. The rest of the business went off without a hitch.
We were officially in.
“Give me the child … and I will give you the man.” -- The founder of the Society of Jesus, St. Ignatius Loyola
Most of the neighborhood kids where I grew up were born into devout Catholic families. At an appropriate age we would be sent to Catechism lessons, Sister Eunice handling the formal side of our indoctrination into the Church, but she was merely giving structure and adding polish to the work long since begun in our own homes. Our childhood, and therefore our lives, were defined by those neighborhood women in their eternal black veils.
The house my brother and I were raised in was a shrine to the Catholic faith. A large picture of the Virgen de Guadalupe was the first thing you saw when you came into the house. The picture was hung over the living room mantel with fresh flowers in a vase, and devotional candles flickering, at her feet. Besides the calendars from grocery stores and insurance agents, the only other pictures on the walls were religious icons, the only adornments were Palm Sunday palm fronds twisted into crosses tacked over every door. Large and small figurines of Jesus, of the Virgen de Guadalupe, of saints, screw-top jars of blessed water, prayer books, rosaries, tracts, copies of the church bulletin, could be found on tables, shelves, dresser tops all over the house.
Day to day life was filled with prayer. My grandfather kneeled and prayed at the mantel below the Guadalupe every morning; like most Mexican men of his time, my grandfather was devoted to the Virgen de Guadalupe and all his life wore his medalla, a gold Guadalupe medal, on a gold chain around his neck. I have it now, and my mother’s rosary. My grandmother would mutter prayers all day long, to herself and out loud to try and make us feel guilty; she still does that! When we sat down to eat, we were supposed to pray, thanking God and the Blessed Virgin for the bread He gave us to eat without deserving it. When we left the house for school, my grandmother prayed over us, sometimes making us cross our arms, while she made the sign of the cross over our heads. Most late afternoons, she crossed the street to pray the Rosary in church with the other ladies. Any illness or trouble, she prayed the Blessing of Saint Francis. Ordinary conversation was routinely filled with references to God or Jesus. If some one spoke of their future plans, the reply was invariably, “Si Dios quiere.” If God wants it. If a bad thing was anticipated, it was thwarted by, “Ni lo mande Dios.” Even God should not order it. Cursing, or any kind of bad words, were never spoken by my grandparents, ever, even when they were angry or arguing. The only way to use God’s name was reverently, although it could be used in surprise: “Ay, Dios!” or “Jesus!” or in tired disgust: “Jesus, Maria, y Jose.” or “Ay, Madre Santa!”
In our home the Church ruled our lives and our schedules. There was no question who and what we were and where and what we did when and how we did it. On Sundays, the families in our neighborhood attended the parish church, St. Anne’s, which happened to be across the street from our house. During the week after school, we were sent to study Catechism with the nuns in the dark, crowded, dingy basement under St. Anne’s, our parents giving us change to put into the offering basket; we appropriated a small amount out of that offering for candy, the rest went into the basket. After much study and at an appropriate age, we would make our First Holy Communion. After that we would go to make confession on Saturdays. We would attend Mass on Sundays, and holy days. Eventually, after more lessons, we would make our Confirmation, the last rite of childhood.
When I was very young, this was the unquestioned routine of my life. Obedience and simple fear motivated me, the wish to avoid repercussions. I was taught as a child that God was a vengeful God who saw and knew everything I did; I believed that, and I believed I was a wicked sinful child and that I would be punished for my sins. Certainly my grandmother was good at punishing me, and so were the nuns. Motivated by some other child’s comments, I once made the mistake of asking Sister Eunice a question about graven idols, and was met with an anger and fury I’d never seen in the old nun. There were other nuns, but Sister Eunice was the one I remember most, short and stout, white-skinned, white-haired under her wimple (the nuns still wore habits back then), blue eyes behind her steel-rimmed glasses. God knows we gave Sister Eunice and the other sisters fits. The boys in particular, who sat in the front row, were always rowdy, and we girls giggled at whatever they said. That may have been why, once, a young monk came down to the basement to give the lesson. One boy, the only black child in the class, gave a slightly rude answer to a question, and everybody giggled. The monk got a ruler from the desk and whacked the boy’s hand. The room went dead quiet. After a minute, the boy rose from his chair and left the basement. We were all working in silence when we saw feet passing by the basement window. Some childhood instinct made us flee, running up the stairs past a large black woman stomping down the stairs. At the top of the stairs we peered through the window and saw the woman looming over the monk who had been knocked to the floor. One day, when we came home from church, I was getting a drink of water at the sink and something I said or my grandmother said to me was misunderstood. She started demanding that I spit out the water I had in my mouth, which didn’t make sense because I had just taken the Host at Mass and she was telling me to do something I knew was wrong. She kept demanding that I spit out the water, so I did, and was promptly slapped hard; I was so shocked I couldn’t even cry. It was the only time I was ever slapped as a child.
Still, I must have done something right, or given the right answers when it counted. Or maybe Sister Eunice just liked me because she selected me to represent the girls when we were to make our Confirmation, which was considered a great honor, except by the kids who teased me about it. A boy representative was also selected, he and I presented a Spiritual Bouquet to the Bishop during the Mass; we were both so nervous we forgot what we were supposed to say, but we managed to hand over the things before retreating to our places. The rest of the business went off without a hitch.
We were officially in.