At dinner, I immediately embarrassed myself by starting to eat as soon as we were served (in my family, we never said grace before eating), until I realized that everyone else was sitting with their hands folded and eyes closed. Feeling like the one off-color kitten in the litter, I quickly put down my fork and followed suit. (That’s one distinct disadvantage of being a light-skinned Anglo—it’s extremely obvious when you blush!) As dinner began, Sophia’s mother asked me gently “what church I attended.” “United Church of Christ,” I told her—without mentioning that I hadn’t actually attended church since starting to college. “Are they…Pentecostal?” she asked, and I stammered (not really sure what a “Pentecostal” was), I said, “No, they’re just Protestant.” Sophia’s mother seemed relieved that I wasn’t a Pentecostal, but her father seemed equally displeased that I wasn’t Roman Catholic. Since Sophia had four younger brothers and sisters, three of whom lived at home, their conversation was lively and animated at dinner. They would switch unexpectedly back and forth between English and
Spanish, and I tried hard not to feel paranoid whenever they spoke Spanish. (They’re not talking about me and trying to keep it a secret; they speak both languages, so they do it unconsciously.)
As Sophia walked me out to my car after the meal, I shared my feelings of being uncomfortable when they spoke Spanish, and she apologized. “My parents both learned English as a second language, and we always spoke Spanish at home until we kids started to go to school.” I told her that I felt like the dinner had been a complete disaster, and that her father hated me, and she nodded and said, “Papa has his own gardening business, and he doesn’t trust Anglos—some Anglos—very much.” Then she laughed and added, “But don’t worry—I think Mama is starting to like you.” Then she gave me a kiss goodnight (her youngest sister watching from the window!) that made me feel much better about the evening. Ever since then, however, Sophia has make an extra effort to keep me included in the family discussions, translating for my benefit when necessary.
During the next week, Sophia suggested that her father might like me more if I went to Mass with them on Sundays, so I tried this. (It’s not like I had a church of my own to attend, instead.) Frankly, the only time I’d ever even been inside a Catholic Church was once when our high school choir did a concert in one. At first, a lot of it seemed pretty “strange” to me: people stopping upon entering the cathedral, dipping their hand in “holy water” and making the sign of the cross; lighting candles and kneeling before them in prayer; having statues and stained-glass windows of saints; kneeling down outside the pews before taking your seat; the strange, almost feminine clothes worn by the priests (I was used to ministers wearing normal business suits); the unfamiliar music, and everything else. But I realized that Sophia’s church was actually pretty informal, and when the priest invited everyone to offer the “hand of fellowship” to others, a number of parishoners warmly welcomed me. I continued to attend church with her family, and found out that they had “Folk Masses” once a month, as well Summer and Fall festivals, which were a lot of fun.
At the same time, there was also something I found attractive about Catholicism itself, with its standard liturgy, incense, ancient ritual, and the altar. Religion just seemed a lot more important to these people than religion had ever been to my parents. The huge picture of Jesus hanging in the church behind the altar made him look Mexican or even Black, and was a far cry from the lily-white representations of him that I was used to seeing, but it seemed quite appropriate here. (No one ever painted a picture of Jesus during his lifetime, or described what he looked like, so who’s to say what he looked like? He might have been Asian, for all anyone knows.) Their church also seemed to celebrate ethnic culture a lot more than any other church I had ever seen or heard about, and I really liked that aspect of it. Unlike the UCC church that I attended prior to college, or the evangelical churches that some of my friends in high school occasionally invited me to— where the congregations which were almost exclusively Anglo—there was an amazing ethnic diversity here: brown, black, white, Asian, Filipino, and more. And they all really seemed to be a part of a “community.” (In my own church, from a sociological standpoint, a church get-together probably more resembled a neighborhood Homeowner’s Association meeting, than an encounter with the living God.)
In a family as large as Sophia’s, you very quickly start to have to attend funerals: aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. I hadn’t attended many funerals before—and none since my parents’—but I was immediately struck by the degree to which her family and church pulled together at such times. They were really there for each other: cleaning up, bringing food, doing shopping, and taking care of anything that needed to be done for the family of the bereaved. I was also impressed by the strength of their belief in Heaven; although I had always held a sort of vague belief in an afterlife, I found myself almost jealous of the strong faith that Sophia’s family (almost all of whom were Catholic) seemed to have in it. When the priest said that Sophia’s aunt “is far closer to Jesus right now than any of us are,” he seemed to actually believe it; it wasn’t like the minister of my UCC church talking about Adam and Eve as being a “literary metaphor,” or something like that—they really believed that her aunt was on her was to being with God and Jesus for eternity. And if there were elements in their beliefs that seemed a little “simplistic” to me (intellectual college student that I was), I found myself thinking, What do you have that’s better, more appropriate, or more comforting, in this situation? What would you tell them differently: that “Aunt Maria may be in Heaven—assuming that it’s not just a literary metaphor”?
Our relationship deepened through the rest of our college careers, to an extent that astounded me. Although she insisted that she could not get involved physically unless we were married, our non-sexual relationship was the most erotic experience I had ever known. Just sitting next to her, smelling her feminine scent, feeling the softness of her hair as I tenderly stroked it out of her eyes, feeling the gentle warmth of her body as we hugged upon separating—even holding hands, or a simple French kiss with Sophia was more exciting than actual sexual intercourse with the two girls I had known previously in high school.
Yet even more amazing was the fact that we had such a deep and abiding friendship, on top of everything else. I’d thought that I’d had “best friends” before, but it was nothing like the friendship I had with Sophia. With my male friends, there is always an element of competition, of pretense, of superficiality; in a sense, you are always trying to act and be perceived as more confident, more “in control” of the situation, than you really are. With Sophia, this was unnecessary; once we began to really open up to each other, we just naturally held nothing back. We could share not only our dreams, but our fears, and our insecurities. Although early in our relationship I had sometimes wondered if the considerable cultural differences between us would stand in the way, I eventually came to see this notion as almost laughable: when you have so much in common and are so much in harmony with someone—when you realize that she is your true “soul mate”—superficial cultural differences don’t matter; and amazingly, she seemed to feel the same way. I realized that I would never, ever find a woman who was so closely matched for me.
I proposed marriage to Sophia just before we graduated from college with our teaching credentials in hand, and my heart leaped when she said “Yes,” and seemed delighted. Since I wasn’t a Catholic, we couldn’t get married in her church—or rather, we didn’t want to wait (or didn’t think we could stand to wait) to go through some kind of procedure, whereby we could have gotten some kind of “dispensation” so that our marriage could have taken place in a Catholic church. So a few days after graduation we just drove across the stateline to Reno, got married in a quick civil ceremony, and spent the weekend there as our honeymoon. Unfortunately, we didn’t tell her parents about this in advance, and I think her parents—especially her father—never really forga
ve me for that (big church weddings are a tradition in the family), and they held it against me, even though our decision was mutual. But Sophia had insisted that our children be baptized and raised Catholic, and I was agreeable to that. (After all, it wasn’t like I had any strong personal religious convictions, one way or the other.)
She was startled to find out when we were waiting to apply for our wedding license that I had never been baptized. (“Jobran! I thought Protestant churches did baptize babies?” “Well, in my denomination, I think they’d do it if you specifically asked for it, but they never made a big deal out of it—or even asked you about it when you were confirmed—so I never had it done,” I told her, now embarrassed.) And so, once we returned after our two-day honeymoon and temporarily moved into my parents’ house with my sister and her two kids (who was now separated from her husband), Sophia mentioned that her church had classes for the “Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults” (RCIA), and I surprised myself by agreeing to try them sometime in the near future. (After all, now that my secular college days were over and I was going to be a public school teacher, I supposed that I needed to make myself as “respectable” as possible—and church affiliation seemed a natural next step.) In the meantime, I faithfully went to Mass with Sophia and her family every Sunday (her father sitting as far away from me as possible), even though it required me to sit alone in the pew as practically every other person older than 13 in the church got up to take Communion.
So here we were in June: with our degrees, our teaching credentials, but no jobs. Sophia had taken her degree in Child Psychology, and I had majored in Social Science. Knowing we couldn’t stay living with my sister, we took full-time non-teaching jobs during the summer, and found a cramped apartment, and began sending off applications, hoping to find teaching jobs in the same district.
Being bilingual (not to mention having a degree in Child Psychology) helped Sophia quickly land a job teaching third-graders in an elementary school right here in Stentoria. As fall approached, I feared that I would have to do substitute teaching (cursing myself for having majored in such a “common” subject), when an unexpected rush of “early retirements” just before September in the same school district enabled me to get a full-time position teaching Social Studies at the Junior High school. Best of all, our schools were only a few miles away from each other, so we found a larger apartment close to my school (Sophia would use my car to drive to work), and our immediate future seemed to be set.
Children were a potential problem. Although we both wanted children very much, I tried to convince Sophia that we’d be better off to wait for a couple of years, until we were more well-established financially. (“Are you sure that you don’t want to try using birth-control pills?” I asked, but she vehemently shook her head. “Jobran, you know that I would never violate the Church’s teachings like that!”) So we practiced something called the “Rhythm Method” as best we could, but we were hardly infallible in our practice (sometimes my passion would override the markings of “unsafe” times on the calendar). Thus, it was hardly surprising that by May of the following year, we found out that Sophia was pregnant.
Although I would have thought I would be overwhelmed with financial worries—wondering how we were going to raise a baby with our entry-level teaching incomes—I ended up being delighted by the news. I immediately began to put my head against her stomach several times a day (“Jobran, you can’t feel him or her yet; it’s too early!” she would say smiling, caressing my head on her belly.) We found a nice little rental house within easy walking distance of my school, and it seemed like the perfect place to begin to raise our children. Sophia finished out the school year, then submitted a request for a leave of absence starting in the fall. I took a job doing off-hours key data entry work during the summer, to start to save up money for the baby.
Keeping my promise to Sophia that I would let our children be raised Catholic, I immediately started taking RCIA classes at her (our?) Church, which made her so happy it brought tears to her eyes, as well as a beaming smile from her mother, and even brought a grunt of satisfaction from her father. (Sophia, I would have become a Mormon if you wanted me to, I love you so much! I thought.) So far, in terms of intellectual content, the classes are rather elementary, compared to a lot of the college courses I’d taken; mostly just open-ended discussion and Q&A sessions about topics such as “God,” “Jesus,” “The Church,” “Sacraments,” and so on). We’re ecstatically happy; it usually seems to me almost like a fairy tale romance, with nothing but blue skies on the horizon.
Until this morning, that is. When Sophia almost fell over while putting the dishes away after breakfast.
My reverie ended suddenly when Sophia’s body jerked. I practically leaped out of my chair to make sure she was all right, but she didn’t move again. There was just the steady hum of the monitoring machines. One machine—the one monitoring her pulse, and blood pressure—seemed like it had a little computerized “warning message” at the bottom of the screen, although I didn’t understand its significance. I wondered if I should go get a nurse or doctor, but I figured that they were surely monitoring the status of all the patients from their computers at the nurse’s station, and would come running if anything serious happened. I looked at the clock again: 8:54. Grimly, I resolved, there’s no way I am leaving her side after “visiting hours” are over; they’d need a dozen security guards to drag me out of here.
But as I kept staring at the warning message on the machine, I was now finally forced to confront the issue I had been avoiding since this morning: What if she loses the baby?
I mean, it’s not uncommon for young mothers to lose a baby, especially their first. Although a few months ago I would have almost been relieved (from the financial standpoint alone), during the last month I had grown thoroughly accustomed to the idea of myself as a “Papa” (which was what Sophia called her father, and what she lovingly began to call me, once she found out that she was pregnant), and raising our baby with the woman I loved so dearly. I loved to lay watching Sophia’s bare belly, realizing that our son or daughter was inside there, growing. I would rest my hand gently on her stomach, trying to communicate mentally with the tiny life that was just beneath her skin. Our baby…that’s our baby who’s living inside there…This is Papa; can you hear or understand me? Your Mama and I are waiting for you, and we both love you very much. The thought of fatherhood, far from frightening me, filled me with a growing sense of wonder.
At times of uncertainty like this, aren’t you supposed to turn to God? So I silently prayed, God, please don’t let anything bad happen to Sophia, or to our baby; I couldn’t stand it…Thank you; Amen. I wasn’t sure that I felt much relief, however. Praying was as difficult for me as it seemed natural for Sophia. At my RCIA classes, the priest kept trying to get me to share my “personal faith story” with the group, but I really didn’t have one. I’ve just always believed in God, and Jesus, so it was never an issue for me.
Finally, I forced myself to admit, Even if she loses this baby, that wouldn’t be the end. Lots of couples lose a baby, especially their first. We’re young, we’ve got our whole lives ahead of us. I felt a small measure of relief, almost as if I had been expected
(by God?) to reach this point. But in the back of my mind, there was a disturbing thought that was trying to work its way to the surface: What if she not only loses the baby, but is unable to conceive again?
That’s nonsense, I told myself; it’ll never happen. Sophia just got dizzy due to some early pregnancy thing; there’s nothing wrong with the baby. Besides, they’ll be able to do amniocentesis soon, and we’ll know for sure that there’s nothing wrong. But still,…even that wouldn’t be the end of the world. We could always adopt a baby. And besides, Sophia has brothers and sisters, and I have a sister and a niece and nephew; so we can still be aunts and uncles, even if we couldn’t have children of our own. As long as we have each other, that’s all
that matters. Is that what you’re trying to get me to see, God?
Sophia’s body jerked spasmodically again. Anxiously, I looked at her. She looked normal, but the error message on the monitor had changed, and was now in red. I jumped up and ran to the door, looking for a doctor or nurse, but there was no one in sight. Where the hell is that fucking nurse? Isn’t she supposed to be checking up on Sophia?
Torn between the impulse to run and grab a nurse (probably only to be told, “Oh, that’s normal for the patient to experience muscle spasms. By the way, visiting hours are over; you’ll have to leave now…”) and my fear of leaving Sophia alone even for a moment, I returned to her side. Anxiously kneeling by her bed, I asked, “Can you hear me, darling?” softly. She made no sign. “You’re going to get better soon, my love,” I said, trying to fill my whispered voice with a confidence I didn’t feel. “Everything’s going to be fine; you just need to get some rest, now.” Squeezing her hand gently, I added, “After all, we’ve got a baby to raise.”
Her body began to twitch slightly, in cyclical spasms. When it hadn’t stopped after ten seconds, I thought, That nurse needs to get her ass in here—now. I frantically pressed the button to call the nurse. Kneeling by Sophia’s side again, my eyes filled with tears. “Sophia, I love you so much,” I said, my voice breaking. “You’re the only one for me, the only one there’s ever been, and the only one there ever will be.” But her eyes were closed, and she gave no sign of hearing me. “Sophia— Sophia, can you hear me? Sophia, you’ve got to hear me! There’s so much I need to tell you…”
She continued to twitch, her motions starting to grow more violent. Fuck it, this can’t be normal! and I jumped up to go fetch a nurse—by bodily force, if need be. I half-ran down the hall to the nurse’s station, which was empty. Where is that goddam nurse?!? Starting to feel frantic, I yelled out, “Doctor! Nurse! Can you come here, please? We need help!”
Beyond Heaven and Earth Page 2
