When 1960 dawned I had just turned nine the month before. I was in my tenth year someone explained to me, but I was still nine. I didn’t understand that. What was I – 9 or 10? It made a huge difference because I really wanted to be ten.
Now that I’m in my 60th year, I don’t get into a discussion about being in my 61st year, or that I’m in my 7th decade. I get it, ok!
Anyway. Back to the 60’s. I was the middle child. My brother turning 13 was a big deal. His birthdays were special. Apparently because he was a male and the oldest of the three of us. His birthday breakfast was the same every year – a French baguette with all the soft inside bits taken out and stuffed with dark chocolate, baked in the oven till the chocolate melted and then served to the birthday boy on his bed; everyone gathered around and sang “happy birthday, Gerard” then we were shooed out so that he could enjoy his “pain au chocolat” all by himself.
I can’t remember, but hopefully he had the runs.
I loved the chocolate birthday cake my mom would bake for the afternoon. All our uncles and aunts, our cousins and friends would congregate around the kitchen table and we would sing happy birthday again, and eat cake.
Dominique was the youngest so he was spoiled all the time.
I was the hot dog in the middle of the roll and most often overlooked except when I started to resemble a chubby little hot dog. Then all attention was turned on me.
A disapproving tsk from my mother, a disappointed glance from my father, a condescending sneer from my skinny older brother – the attention was all mine.
My hormones were waking up at the same time that my appetite increased and that wasn’t a good pairing for me. I went from petite and cute to short and plump.
That’s also the year that I became a good Catholic – the year my body betrayed me and I learned the concept of GUILT.
I felt guilty when I ate anything. I felt guilty when my body began to tingle “down there”. Actually that was usually a double dose of guilt when both happened at the same time.
Saturdays were confession days. All the good parishioners of Maryvale Parish would line up outside the confessional and wait their turn to confess their deepest, darkest sins to the priest who was hidden inside the box behind a wooden screen. He could see you but you couldn’t see him, and this caused me anxiety which fueled the guilt that all good Catholics have.
When it was my turn to go into the confessional I’d be sweating nervously, again, not an enhancement for a little plump kid.
The confessional was always cool, the light dimmed so that your attention could be focused on your faults, not your surroundings.
How many sins can I amass in 7 days? I’d rack my brains and the stock sins were always there, ready to come out.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession. I swore at my parents four times. I made my mother angry because I ate the rest of the mashed potatoes. I’m a glutton. I used the Lord’s name in vain twice. I didn’t listen at school and I swore at my brother because he laughed at me. For these and all my other sins, I ask forgiveness. Amen.”
Then I waited for the verdict. The silence was stifling. I could hear a few penitents shuffling along outside the box, and I concentrated on those sounds while waiting for my fate. My knees were numb.
“Say 4 Hail Marys, 10 Our Fathers and 5 Glory Be’s. Go in peace, my child.”
The screen separating the guilty party from the holy man clicked closed and I was alone in the wooden box, blessed and temporarily cleansed.
I always felt relief at that time, when my sins were lifted, my slate clean. I tried hard to keep it that way for seven days, but I knew that next week I’d add some more stuff to the list because I had to.
God wouldn’t believe that I had been good. Why else did I have to go to confession once a week if I didn’t sin?
I felt guilty just thinking I could never not be guilty.
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