“Because I love helping and being the leader. And if I’m a nun, I get paid for being a teacher and being close to God.”
“We don’t get paid to teach. We do it for the love of the parish and the children.”
If I had been older I would have yelled, “OMG, are you crazy? You’re telling me I can’t be a mom, I don’t get a guarantee into Heaven, and I make no money?”
But instead of saying that, I smiled sweetly, rose from my chair, walked over to my mom, and tugged on her nylons.
“Mom!”
“What is it?”
“I think I’m going to take my chances with Hell and be Wonder Woman instead.”
I wore a Wonder Woman costume for the next eight years. I may not have become a nun, but looking up to an empowered woman such as Wonder Woman made little Jenny believe that even though you don’t marry God like the nuns do, girls can use their power to fight for truth and look damn good in a push-up bra while doing it.
4
I Want to Be a Jew!
I want to be a Jew!” I exclaimed to Sister Grace Downey, my strict third-grade teacher.
“What? Why in the world would you say that?” she snapped back.
I remember her mustache glistening under the light with a vengeance. She had tits the size of pomelos. She was a no-nonsense, control-top pantyhose–wearing, stiff-upper-hairy-lipped woman who had lived through the Great Depression. Her cold demeanor made it difficult to know if she ever truly survived it. I don’t think Sister Grace Downey had had a day of fun in her entire adult life.
This hardened woman was supposed to be my role model and my confidante. She scared the hell out of me.
I confronted her just three months before my first Holy Communion.
Maybe this was a big mistake, but there were questions weighing heavily on my mind and it was time to get them off my chest.
I logically explained, “Jesus was right about everything. We’re supposed to be just like him and believe everything he said. So why would Jesus pick the wrong religion? He is a Jew! Seems like we should all be Jewish.”
Sister Grace Downey took a deep breath and explained to innocent little Jenny that Jews were responsible for slaughtering Jesus. She tried to convince me that the Jews did not believe that Jesus was the Son of God.
To which little Jenny responded, “Well, maybe Jewish people think he’s just like us. Didn’t you say that we are all the sons and daughters of God? Maybe he’s not an only child after all. Maybe I’m his sister. Maybe Fonzie is his uncle.”
I’ll never forget the distraught look on Sister Grace Downey’s face. I was literally saved by the bell because I swear to God that nun was so close to opening the window and hanging me by my feet.
The next week, in religion class, she casually explained that unbaptized babies who died unexpectedly would not go to Heaven.
“Where do they go?” I asked nervously.
“Purgatory or Limbo,” she replied as if she were reading the daily offerings of a lunch menu. “It’s a place where souls float around and are stuck. A world between Heaven and Hell.”
Sister Grace Downey made it sound like souls were stuck like an infinity of Pac-Man ghosts bumping into each other for all eternity.
“How do you know if Limbo is a real place?” I asked.
Sister Grace Downey quickly responded, “Because the Church said so.”
I continued to do what I always do best, which is question things that don’t make sense. I wasn’t convinced by her answer, and my curiosity needed to be satisfied. I was willing to challenge Sister Grace Downey to uncover the truth even if it meant sacrificing my lunch hour in detention with the old hag.
“Has somebody from the Church been in Limbo before? Has someone said that they went there and saw dead babies floating around? That doesn’t seem fair. That seems like God is a mean God. It’s not the babies’ fault they didn’t get baptized. Why should they be punished? Shouldn’t the parents take the blame for that one? Isn’t there foster care in Heaven for babies born into bad families? Doesn’t that make God a big jerk if He likes to torture innocent little babies?”
Sister Grace Downey slammed her Bible on my desk and demanded that I stop asking questions because I was confusing the class. I listened because her mustache was getting sweaty and her hands were shaking.
Was I responsible for giving her a violent hot flash? I never did well with unanswered questions, so I decided to bombard any adult I came across after school to try to help me.
As I did, I received even more bad news.
I learned that Catholics who haven’t gone to confession and accidentally die with a sin on their soul go straight to Hell. That’s right, Hell. Even if they are good people! Did this mean that God was a sadist? What if Heaven is just a final destination where God uses us as little playthings He brainwashes into having Stockholm syndrome?
I often caught myself daydreaming in class if Sister Grace Downey didn’t catch me first. I needed time to absorb everything and make sense of it all, but it was hard to sift through the information I was being fed in order to uncover the truth.
I often wondered if I would ever really know.
I was only nine years old when I started to become overwhelmed with the fear of dying with a sin on my soul. So I started to go to confession once a week.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I would plead to our local parish priest, Father Bill, who was a raging alcoholic.
“What now, Jenny?” he would slur.
“I have not loved God as I should because … I committed adultery.”
“What?” Father Bill said with concern.
“I committed adultery. I tried to come yesterday, but you were closed.”
“How old are you, Jenny?” he slurred.
“I’m nine,” I said proudly.
He continued: “Jenny, what do you think adultery means?”
I explained that adultery meant saying swear words like “shit,” “bitch,” “damn,” and “crap.”
“That’s not what it means, Jenny.”
“What does it mean?”
Silence came from Father Bill. I thought he had fallen asleep. So I squinted through the confessional screen to make sure he was still breathing. I knew he was still alive from the smell of whiskey that came blasting my way as he uttered his response. “It’s when two people … um … it’s if your mom or dad … um, well … You don’t have to worry about this one. Just ignore it.”
I couldn’t have been more perplexed. “What? How am I supposed to ignore it? What if I break it? I’ll burn in Hell for all eternity or worse. I could float around with dead babies!”
“What?”
“Well, it doesn’t make any sense. We are supposed to follow these commandments, but you won’t explain what it means. How am I supposed to avoid going to Hell if you won’t explain the rules of how to stay out?”
“Go in peace, Jenny.”
With that, the screen door shut and I sat alone in the confessional wondering if I would accidentally commit this unknown adultery in the next few days.
When I got to school the next day, I asked Sister Grace Downey about confession. I raised my hand.
“What now, Jenny?” Sister Grace Downey said.
“So answer me this. We will burn in Hell if we don’t confess all of our sins before we die, right?”
“That’s correct,” she replied.
I continued. “Okay, but what if you commit a sin and then run to church, but they’re closed and then you die? Does God know that you tried to confess your sins so you should get a free pass considering it’s the church’s fault they were closed?”
I could tell Sister Grace Downey hated me.
The questions I asked were logical, but not necessarily in the Church’s guidebook.
“If you go to confession at least once a week, I’m sure God will take that into consideration. Does that answer your question?”
I didn’t like her response and made her a
ware of it. “It doesn’t sound like you’re sure about that. It sounds like you’re guessing. This is a big deal, not something you should be guessing. We’re talking about melting in a fire pit for an eternity here.”
She fired back, “Then you will probably go to Limbo.”
“What?!” I screamed. I would rather burn in flames than see dead babies floating around for all eternity!”
Let me explain something about myself at this age. I was a good student and a great daughter because I was a rule follower. (Again, only at this age.) If you set boundaries, I obeyed them without a problem. So all you needed to do was tell me exactly what they were and I would follow them.
The problem I had with understanding Catholicism was that it seemed like there were loopholes everywhere. In my young brain, I couldn’t quite grasp how there could be any loopholes with the very strict set of rules they gave us. It really confused me. I began to wonder how I could follow these rules when I didn’t even know what they truly meant.
Sister Grace Downey said, “Jenny, if you are that worried about dying with sins on your soul, go buy a scapular.”
“What’s a scapular?” I said with hope.
“A scapular is a string necklace that has a picture of the Stations of the Cross on them.” (A picture of Jesus dying, basically.)
“What will that do?” I asked.
She replied, “It will protect you from going to Hell if you die with a sin on your soul. It costs about ten to fifteen dollars.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “So all I need to do is pay fifteen dollars and I get to go to Heaven?”
I couldn’t have run out of school fast enough to beg my mom to take me to the religious store to get me a scapular. I remember picking out the most expensive one. It was nineteen dollars. I figured that God would appreciate the fact that I cared enough to pay for the most luxurious scapular. I thought the more money, the more sins I could pile up on it and everything would be okay.
This theory is similar to the concept of a computer hard drive that holds sins.
I’m not going to lie that while I was digging the cash out of my pocket to pay for the damn thing, I already had a few sins in mind I was really excited about committing.
Looking back, I must say it’s one of the greatest loopholes the Church came up with—and not to mention one of the most profitable. I did not go a day without my scapular on. I was going to make every effort to stay out of Limbo, and wearing that cloth necklace, which eventually infected my skin from wearing it so long, seemed totally worth it.
Just this year I was scrolling through the AOL news page and saw a headline that made me fall off my chair. The Catholic Church announced that it had decided Limbo does not exist. It never existed.
I couldn’t believe it. I was in shock.
How could they just change the rules like that? Did everyone sin so badly that there was a unanimous vote? Was the entire Catholic Church a group of sinners who needed to repent? Was this the art of positive thinking or did God create a divine intervention and whisper to them in a dream, “Hey, idiots, limbo is just a game that swingers play.”
Who gave them the authority to suddenly eliminate the whole Limbo theory? This made no sense to me.
I always thought all these rules came from God, so how in the heck was the Church allowed to change such a huge belief it had brainwashed us into believing? Does it know the amount of endless suffering I endured and the sleepless nights I stayed up praying rosaries for all the dead baby souls throughout my adolescence?
And what is the verdict on masturbation? Does God mind? Does He want us to? I can’t tell you how many recurring nightmares I have had of me alone with my defunct vibrator floating around Limbo forever.
I still have so many questions left unanswered.
How many other things has the Church changed its rules on since I’ve been to school? How many beliefs do I still walk around with that are affecting my everyday life that the Church has now overturned? I guess I am always on a journey to find out.
5
I’m Totally Possessed by the Devil, Like Totally
Want to scare your children forever? If so, rent the movie The Exorcist.
In third grade, I had my first Holy Communion. I felt more holy than I’d ever felt because I got to eat the sacred body and drink the blood of Christ. I had no idea what that meant, but since all the adults got to do it, I thought I was that much closer to God.
My mom and dad threw a grand party for me that night. My entire family attended as well as my dad’s friend George, who welcomed any occasion as an excuse to drink.
Every time an aunt or uncle walked in with a card for me, I ran into my bedroom, opened it, and counted the money. I was always very good at saving. By the time the last guest showed up, I had made a whopping one hundred dollars. Eating Jesus’s body was really lucrative. I knew exactly what I was going to buy too—more Cabbage Patch dolls.
After dinner, my uncle shouted that The Exorcist was going to be on TV. I remember a loud rumble from the kitchen as my relatives raced to the living room like they were rushing to the scene of a car accident.
So like any curious kid, I ran into the TV room with my sisters and cousins. My entire family was debating whether we should be allowed to watch the movie. Some thought it was too extreme. Others thought it would be a good reminder that you need faith to fight the dark side. My uncle didn’t seem to care either way as long as the decision meant he could quickly get back to the kitchen to finish the glass of brandy he’d left there. Many sets of eyes were locked to the television as though they were stuck in a hypnotic trance. I didn’t understand how a movie could have such a polarizing effect on people. Now I do.
It was decided that we could watch the movie while George pulled our parents into the other room to play poker. After all, movies are great babysitters, as we moms know. Plus it was the only channel that came in clear after three men fussed around trying to adjust the rabbit ears for fifteen minutes.
“Exorcist it is,” George said as he summoned the adults into the kitchen.
So all the kids huddled on the couch. I made sure JoJo sat next to me. We demon fighters needed to stick together.
As the movie played, terror ran through my blood. I was already terrified of our basement, and now I had a visual for what happens to a young girl when she becomes possessed by the devil. She pukes green, her head spins around, and her voice sounds like a demon.
My young brain immediately thought, This is totally going to happen to me. The demons know I’m not strong and will take over my body any second.
When the movie was finished, my cousins and I sat in silence. We couldn’t speak.
I looked over at JoJo and saw she was catatonic.
“JoJo? JoJo, are you okay?” I asked.
“Jknasbdbkneiu,” she slurred.
We were totally screwed.
We all quietly got up and walked into the room where our parents were playing poker. We stood there just staring at them like zombies. They began staring back at us. No one was talking. My cousins and I were the wildest group of kids at these parties, but now, after watching this movie, it looked like we’d had lobotomies.
“You kids okay?”
Again, we stood there in silence.
Did they have any idea of the emotional scars they’d just given us? We would have been better off getting whipped with belts than having to endure a lifetime of that visual.
“No, I don’t think we’re okay. I’m pretty sure the devil is coming for my body, and probably JoJo’s too.”
Then JoJo started screaming as if she were being stabbed to death, which made all of us scream. We then proceeded to run upstairs to my bedroom and huddle in a corner. A few of my cousins were crying.
I tried to console them. “You guys have nothing to worry about. The devil is, for sure, coming to get me.”
“So he’s not coming for me?” JoJo said, relieved as she wiped away her tears.
“I think he wants
my soul,” I replied. “But I’m not going alone, so you have to get possessed with me.”
Then JoJo started screaming and crying again, which made all of us start screaming and crying again. Then we heard footsteps in the hallway and we immediately became quiet.
“Oh no, it’s Satan. He’s here,” I said. “Let me just get it over with. Okay, Satan, just do it already!” I stood up and squeezed my eyes tight.
My uncle opened the door. We all breathed a sigh of relief.
“Get your butts downstairs,” he said. “No one is getting possessed, you little shit stains.” Maybe he didn’t say exactly that, but he had a very stern tone of voice and I suspect it was because he had been interrupted from his brandy once again.
With that, we were all forced to get out of our protective corner and go downstairs.
None of us spoke for the remainder of the night. How could we? We were absolutely traumatized. The fear of Satan always looming made The Exorcist one of the best-kept secrets of the Catholic Church.
The days that followed haunted JoJo and me. It was as if we were on death row awaiting our painful demise. It would be a very long time before we would go to the basement to wash sheets again. For now, we just laid in pee all night long. We had so many pee-stained sheets that I wouldn’t doubt if Mom went through a tub of bleach every month.
At school, I told some of my friends about our night watching The Exorcist. They told me the devil went by a common name in order to blend in with society. Lucifer was too obvious, so he chose the name Ben. If Ben shows up, it means Satan is near.
I ran home and told my mom about this. She laughed and told me how ridiculous that was and said I needed to stop getting so worked up about everything.
Later that week, I wanted to go spend some of my Holy Communion money, so I asked my mom to take me shopping. Even at a young age, shopping really does take a girl’s worries away.
I chose a beautiful new Cabbage Patch doll. This was my seventh one. My bedroom had started to look like Angelina Jolie’s house. I had dolls from every ethnicity and I loved them all.
When I got home, all my sisters gathered around to watch me open my newest doll box. The excitement was like Charlie finding a golden ticket in a Wonka Bar. I pulled my fresh baby out of its box and we did what we always did—pull the pants down and make sure it had butt cheeks like the rest of the Cabbage Patch dolls.
Bad Habits Page 2
