Hi, everyone!
I know I haven't been here in a while. I've just been pondering a lot of stuff.
I -- and probably most of you -- have been disturbed by the unrest and horrible division going on in our country.
Thus, I have been meditating upon the words of Pope Francis and the spiritualities of St. Francis and St. Benedict. They are all people of peace. They show a way to peace that transcends politics, that embraces the unity of creation and the love we should all have for creation -- including our fellow human beings.
I need to find a way for my life that does not cause me anxiety, but allows me to feel peace inside and that allows me to embrace beauty and creation and humanity (even that part of humanity I disagree with on important issues).
So, that's what I've been up to.
And I wish peace to all of you.
Wednesday, July 11, 2018
Thursday, July 20, 2017
Sitting Under The Swamp Cooler
It has been a very hot summer, which has made me remember back to a hot summer when I was a very, very small child of about two years old. I actually have a few memories of being that age and they mostly entail getting into trouble, which I did A LOT. I was kind of a handful, as I understand it. I still am. Haha.
Anyway, when I was a small child, my family lived in Sacramento, which is like hell in the summertime, temperature-wise. And back in the day, there was no air conditioning, so there was in our house what was referred to as a "swamp cooler." I have no idea what the thing really was or how it worked, but I remember that it was in the ceiling of our hallway. And it dripped. A lot. I don't think it was actually supposed to drip, but it did. So, naturally, in my two-year-old wisdom, during a summertime that was as hot as hell, I decided to sit under it. It was wonderful. I remember sitting under it and being so refreshed, as the cool water drip-drip-dripped onto my head.
My mother had told me not to sit under the swamp cooler. I have no idea why, but it was against her house rules. If you knew my mother, though, you will remember that she was an exceedingly neat, tidy person, who did not abide utilizing things for purposes for which they were not designed. And I suppose that the idea of her two-year-old daughter, all dressed in her cute summer outfit, with her hair neatly combed and held in place by a darling bow-shaped plastic barrette, sitting under a malfunctioning swamp cooler, just totally rubbed her the wrong way.
Even at that age, though, I had my own mind. And dammit if I wasn't going to sit under the dripping swamp cooler when the house was a fucking 104 degrees, or some nonsense like that. I, of course, did not know the word "fucking" at two years old. I did know the word "dammit," because that one was popular with my mother. But my toddler brain formed thoughts that definitely included the sentiments those words imply. Also, it was fun to sit under the swamp cooler and get wet. So, I would sneak into the hall and plant myself under the forbidden treasure, cooling myself off and having a grand old time until my mother inevitably found me. I knew she would find me, but I didn't really care.
I did care, though, about the spanking I got, but it was not enough to dissuade me from my mission of sitting under the swamp cooler. My mom was big on spankings, so I kinda learned to ignore them, especially when I thought The Rules were lame. I always had big and very self-confident opinions on The Rules, as I still do. If you know me, you know this about me. Fear of punishment is not an adequate motivation to keep me from disobeying The Rules, if I think they are lame.
When I grew up, my mom apologized about the spankings. She also apologized for "stifling" me. She would say, "We probably stifled you too much. But, I had never known a kid like you and I didn't know what to do." It's okay mom, I know I'm sort of a weirdo. ;-)
My dad must have fixed the swamp cooler, eventually, thus causing me to find some other way to get into trouble, which I inevitably did.
Anyway, when I was a small child, my family lived in Sacramento, which is like hell in the summertime, temperature-wise. And back in the day, there was no air conditioning, so there was in our house what was referred to as a "swamp cooler." I have no idea what the thing really was or how it worked, but I remember that it was in the ceiling of our hallway. And it dripped. A lot. I don't think it was actually supposed to drip, but it did. So, naturally, in my two-year-old wisdom, during a summertime that was as hot as hell, I decided to sit under it. It was wonderful. I remember sitting under it and being so refreshed, as the cool water drip-drip-dripped onto my head.
My mother had told me not to sit under the swamp cooler. I have no idea why, but it was against her house rules. If you knew my mother, though, you will remember that she was an exceedingly neat, tidy person, who did not abide utilizing things for purposes for which they were not designed. And I suppose that the idea of her two-year-old daughter, all dressed in her cute summer outfit, with her hair neatly combed and held in place by a darling bow-shaped plastic barrette, sitting under a malfunctioning swamp cooler, just totally rubbed her the wrong way.
Even at that age, though, I had my own mind. And dammit if I wasn't going to sit under the dripping swamp cooler when the house was a fucking 104 degrees, or some nonsense like that. I, of course, did not know the word "fucking" at two years old. I did know the word "dammit," because that one was popular with my mother. But my toddler brain formed thoughts that definitely included the sentiments those words imply. Also, it was fun to sit under the swamp cooler and get wet. So, I would sneak into the hall and plant myself under the forbidden treasure, cooling myself off and having a grand old time until my mother inevitably found me. I knew she would find me, but I didn't really care.
I did care, though, about the spanking I got, but it was not enough to dissuade me from my mission of sitting under the swamp cooler. My mom was big on spankings, so I kinda learned to ignore them, especially when I thought The Rules were lame. I always had big and very self-confident opinions on The Rules, as I still do. If you know me, you know this about me. Fear of punishment is not an adequate motivation to keep me from disobeying The Rules, if I think they are lame.
When I grew up, my mom apologized about the spankings. She also apologized for "stifling" me. She would say, "We probably stifled you too much. But, I had never known a kid like you and I didn't know what to do." It's okay mom, I know I'm sort of a weirdo. ;-)
My dad must have fixed the swamp cooler, eventually, thus causing me to find some other way to get into trouble, which I inevitably did.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
A Family Story
I come from a very colorful family. I think about this a lot, but a little incident today reminded me of one particularly colorful anecdote.
I shall tell you about it. ;D
My dad's parents immigrated to the U.S. from Italy back in the early 1920's. My mom's dad was 100% Italian and my mom's mother was 100% Irish. On St. Patrick's Day, I was thinking about the grandness of immigration, so I wrote on Twitter: "I am one quarter Irish and three quarters Italian. Magic like that doesn't happen without immigrants." Feeling happy inside, I went about my St. Paddy's Day, celebrating with a bit of Maker's Mark in the evening.
Anyway... Today, some cranky dude found my remark and evidently wanted to rain on my parade, so he replied: "No. ur 100% (insert American flag emoji here) and don't forget that! U didn't come off the boat and ur family did it the legal way"
Of course, I should have ignored this cranky dude, who is probably worried about his health insurance, but I didn't ignore him, because it is hard for me to ignore stuff. So, I said: "Actually, my grandpa did not exactly do it the legal way and almost got deported. (insert winky face emoji here) #ImmigrantsForeva"
The poor man (who was probably home sick with the flu and wondering if he will still have hospital coverage in 2018) apparently was not in the mood for me and my friendly attitude, and he came back with: "ur a retard for even responding with that! Mine did and is listed at Ellis Island. U should be ashamed"
Unbeknownst to my fellow second-generation American, I don't really shame that easily. So, I said: "Mine is, too, actually. It's a long story, from long ago. All my best to you." And then I closed with: "And -- yes -- I am (insert American flag emoji here), but I'm very proud of my Italian/Irish heritage. It is part of my identity."
Then the dude did not say anything else, because -- after all -- we women of Italian/Irish descent can be very exasperating.
I will now fill in the blanks of this story for you, so you will know how I almost didn't get the chance to exist and have the opportunity to entertain and exasperate you.
The grandfather to whom I am referring in the conversation above was my dad's father. He was a very unique individual -- full of fun and mischief. He grew up with my grandmother in a little village in Italy, and I guess he was quite smitten with her, because when she decided to come to America, he decided to follow her.
Initially, all was kosher. She was sponsored by some of her relatives already living in this country, and he was sponsored by some of his relatives. (They were not married, as yet, being only 18, or so.) My grandmother arrived here first, landing at Ellis Island. My grandfather followed a while later. And I guess when you arrived, you were asked by the immigration authorities about your destination and who was meeting you. The information you gave was supposed to match up with your application paperwork. My grandfather, though, wanting to be with my grandmother, gave them her family's name. He told me that he was then led to another facility, where he thought he would meet up with my grandmother's relatives. Unbeknownst to him, though, this facility was a jail and he was going to be shipped back to Italy forth-with. He just sat there quite contentedly -- with no idea of the fate which was set to befall him. Thankfully, various family members on both his and my grandmother's side somehow figured out what had happened and paid a visit to the immigration authorities to straighten everything out. It was my impression that some kind of bribe was involved, but I'm unsure. My grandfather was set free, heading home with his relatives for a nice meal and a good scolding of the kind only full-blooded Italian women can deliver.
My grandfather was, indeed, a rascal. All. His. Life. He even made moonshine during prohibition. Heck, he did a lot of crazy things. He was a decent guy, though. He never hurt anybody and -- together with my grandmother (who was an outstanding saint of a woman) -- raised an excellent son and daughter. His children's children all went to college. Our family is very close and fun and -- surprisingly -- VERY law-abiding.
So, here's to the immigrants! (Even the ones who don't take a completely straight and narrow road to get here.) <3
I shall tell you about it. ;D
My dad's parents immigrated to the U.S. from Italy back in the early 1920's. My mom's dad was 100% Italian and my mom's mother was 100% Irish. On St. Patrick's Day, I was thinking about the grandness of immigration, so I wrote on Twitter: "I am one quarter Irish and three quarters Italian. Magic like that doesn't happen without immigrants." Feeling happy inside, I went about my St. Paddy's Day, celebrating with a bit of Maker's Mark in the evening.
Anyway... Today, some cranky dude found my remark and evidently wanted to rain on my parade, so he replied: "No. ur 100% (insert American flag emoji here) and don't forget that! U didn't come off the boat and ur family did it the legal way"
Of course, I should have ignored this cranky dude, who is probably worried about his health insurance, but I didn't ignore him, because it is hard for me to ignore stuff. So, I said: "Actually, my grandpa did not exactly do it the legal way and almost got deported. (insert winky face emoji here) #ImmigrantsForeva"
The poor man (who was probably home sick with the flu and wondering if he will still have hospital coverage in 2018) apparently was not in the mood for me and my friendly attitude, and he came back with: "ur a retard for even responding with that! Mine did and is listed at Ellis Island. U should be ashamed"
Unbeknownst to my fellow second-generation American, I don't really shame that easily. So, I said: "Mine is, too, actually. It's a long story, from long ago. All my best to you." And then I closed with: "And -- yes -- I am (insert American flag emoji here), but I'm very proud of my Italian/Irish heritage. It is part of my identity."
Then the dude did not say anything else, because -- after all -- we women of Italian/Irish descent can be very exasperating.
I will now fill in the blanks of this story for you, so you will know how I almost didn't get the chance to exist and have the opportunity to entertain and exasperate you.
The grandfather to whom I am referring in the conversation above was my dad's father. He was a very unique individual -- full of fun and mischief. He grew up with my grandmother in a little village in Italy, and I guess he was quite smitten with her, because when she decided to come to America, he decided to follow her.
Initially, all was kosher. She was sponsored by some of her relatives already living in this country, and he was sponsored by some of his relatives. (They were not married, as yet, being only 18, or so.) My grandmother arrived here first, landing at Ellis Island. My grandfather followed a while later. And I guess when you arrived, you were asked by the immigration authorities about your destination and who was meeting you. The information you gave was supposed to match up with your application paperwork. My grandfather, though, wanting to be with my grandmother, gave them her family's name. He told me that he was then led to another facility, where he thought he would meet up with my grandmother's relatives. Unbeknownst to him, though, this facility was a jail and he was going to be shipped back to Italy forth-with. He just sat there quite contentedly -- with no idea of the fate which was set to befall him. Thankfully, various family members on both his and my grandmother's side somehow figured out what had happened and paid a visit to the immigration authorities to straighten everything out. It was my impression that some kind of bribe was involved, but I'm unsure. My grandfather was set free, heading home with his relatives for a nice meal and a good scolding of the kind only full-blooded Italian women can deliver.
My grandfather was, indeed, a rascal. All. His. Life. He even made moonshine during prohibition. Heck, he did a lot of crazy things. He was a decent guy, though. He never hurt anybody and -- together with my grandmother (who was an outstanding saint of a woman) -- raised an excellent son and daughter. His children's children all went to college. Our family is very close and fun and -- surprisingly -- VERY law-abiding.
So, here's to the immigrants! (Even the ones who don't take a completely straight and narrow road to get here.) <3
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
For The Rebel Children
I, myself, am a rebel, just so you know.
And a couple of weeks ago, I had the honor of being a chaperone on our parish's Confirmation retreat. If you don't know, Catholic kids receive the Sacrament of Confirmation sometime during their high school years; and before that occasion, they usually attend a retreat in order to prepare and reflect upon the graces they will receive from that Sacrament, as well as what it means to be a Catholic.
The retreat that I helped with was a very good one. It included prayer and music and speakers -- including teen speakers -- and Mass and Confession and Eucharistic adoration. It was very well-run and the kids seemed to enjoy it.
There were some kids there though, who were rebels, in the best sense of the word. These kids are people who question the status quo, who have merciful hearts, who have a great sense of justice, who are compassionate, who are creative. And they don't always like what they are seeing in the Catholic Church.
And I guess what concerns me is that these kids didn't seem to get much of a chance to have their voices heard during this retreat. It seemed to be, basically, assumed by the retreat organizer that everyone was on the same page concerning the moral authority of Church teaching. And these kids were very well-behaved, not really wanting to make waves.
But -- you know -- if we Catholic "grown-ups" aren't careful, we will lose these kids. Because these kids are smart and their questions are legitimate ones and they are not being answered. Oftentimes, too, the Church (at least where I live) doesn't act in a way that is very tolerant of different points of view. So, if a kid does have the guts to speak up and ask a difficult question, they might be given a solid answer, but that answer comes with the attitude that "it's this way or the highway." And that's not how it should be. Not everything is black and white in the application of Church teaching. There is the primacy of conscience. So, we need to be careful. The Church needs these young people. They are strong and they are smart and they are good. And they need to be taught in a way that respects their intelligence and their sense of justice and their compassion. They need to be taught in a way that respects their consciences and their creativity. Yes, we need to teach them Church doctrine accurately, but there needs to be space for discussion. AND they -- the rebel children -- need to know that we want them in the Church. At least I want them in the Church.
Why?
Because rebels bring fresh perspectives and honesty. They force us to look at ourselves. They shake things up; they force us to clean things up. They remind us of what is essential. They encourage us to behave respectfully toward different kinds of people. They keep us from living in an echo chamber.
So, my prayer for the rebel children receiving Confirmation is that the Holy Spirit will assure them of God's unconditional love for them and give them the graces of wisdom and understanding and confidence that their voices matter in the Church and in the world.
God bless the rebel children. Amen.
And a couple of weeks ago, I had the honor of being a chaperone on our parish's Confirmation retreat. If you don't know, Catholic kids receive the Sacrament of Confirmation sometime during their high school years; and before that occasion, they usually attend a retreat in order to prepare and reflect upon the graces they will receive from that Sacrament, as well as what it means to be a Catholic.
The retreat that I helped with was a very good one. It included prayer and music and speakers -- including teen speakers -- and Mass and Confession and Eucharistic adoration. It was very well-run and the kids seemed to enjoy it.
There were some kids there though, who were rebels, in the best sense of the word. These kids are people who question the status quo, who have merciful hearts, who have a great sense of justice, who are compassionate, who are creative. And they don't always like what they are seeing in the Catholic Church.
And I guess what concerns me is that these kids didn't seem to get much of a chance to have their voices heard during this retreat. It seemed to be, basically, assumed by the retreat organizer that everyone was on the same page concerning the moral authority of Church teaching. And these kids were very well-behaved, not really wanting to make waves.
But -- you know -- if we Catholic "grown-ups" aren't careful, we will lose these kids. Because these kids are smart and their questions are legitimate ones and they are not being answered. Oftentimes, too, the Church (at least where I live) doesn't act in a way that is very tolerant of different points of view. So, if a kid does have the guts to speak up and ask a difficult question, they might be given a solid answer, but that answer comes with the attitude that "it's this way or the highway." And that's not how it should be. Not everything is black and white in the application of Church teaching. There is the primacy of conscience. So, we need to be careful. The Church needs these young people. They are strong and they are smart and they are good. And they need to be taught in a way that respects their intelligence and their sense of justice and their compassion. They need to be taught in a way that respects their consciences and their creativity. Yes, we need to teach them Church doctrine accurately, but there needs to be space for discussion. AND they -- the rebel children -- need to know that we want them in the Church. At least I want them in the Church.
Why?
Because rebels bring fresh perspectives and honesty. They force us to look at ourselves. They shake things up; they force us to clean things up. They remind us of what is essential. They encourage us to behave respectfully toward different kinds of people. They keep us from living in an echo chamber.
So, my prayer for the rebel children receiving Confirmation is that the Holy Spirit will assure them of God's unconditional love for them and give them the graces of wisdom and understanding and confidence that their voices matter in the Church and in the world.
God bless the rebel children. Amen.
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
Thinking About Some Stuff
For years, I homeschooled my kids. Thus, for years, I was around many men (and women, too) who spoke about how the liberals want to destroy traditional marriage and how the LGBT people want to "come after" them and take away their religious freedom, how abortion is like the Holocaust, how Michele Obama's talk of being a "citizen of the world" is terribly unpatriotic, how Obama is not really an American and hates Christians, how we need to own firearms and build bunkers for when the evil "government" will inevitably attack us in our own homes and drag us away to camps, how the evil Muslims and other anti-Christian forces will shoot us as we try to go into church, how gay men "recruit" young boys to become gay (the head of a homeschool organization once said this to me), how Planned Parenthood is an "evil organization," how women who say they need contraception simply have no self-control when it comes to their sex drives, how contraception is not "health care," how feminism ruined the family, ad nauseum. There is even a Catholic homeschool textbook that I read once, which basically explains how the country was just so wonderful, UNTIL the "Liberals" (yes -- with a capital "L") ruined everything. It was the most ridiculous textbook I have ever seen and it horrified me, but many of the Catholic homeschoolers used it.
I used to feel ill upon hearing these kinds of things. I generally didn't say much, because there was nothing I could say. The one time I did say something about someone's ridiculous and dangerous end-times prophecies, one of the homeschooled kids asked her mom if I was some kind of category of sinner that they had recently learned about in religion class. Thankfully, her mother was kind of horrified, and told her "No." But, I think a fair number of the homeschoolers viewed me as not appropriately conservative. A lot of them really liked me, but I did get side-eyes from some. And if I had opened my mouth more, I probably wouldn't have had any friends, and neither would my kids. At the time, I was actually more conservative than I am now, so I probably just couldn't have homeschooled my kids, if I had to do it over again, because I would just be upset all the time.
I feel bad, though, that I never spoke up more forcefully about the ideas I knew were erroneous. As I said, I was afraid that if I truly spoke my mind, my kids wouldn't have many friends. I didn't want to rock the boat, too much. Also, I kind of figured that these were fringe ideas, and probably wouldn't gain much traction in the general population, so I wasn't too worried about it.
Well...
BOY, WAS I WRONG.
And the thing that is really upsetting to me is that most of these people were really good people. They wanted to do the right thing. And they have been completely hoodwinked by stuff like The Drudge Report and Breitbart and right-wing radio. And I really don't have a good answer to the problem, because it is practically impossible to get them to see things from any other angle than the right-wing conservative one. I been trying for a while now. They have basically been trained to think that the progressive view point is almost -- if not actually -- demonic. A lot of them probably would consider it a genuine sin to be "tempted" by progressive views.
Now, I am not saying that it is necessary to think abortion is a moral good. When I think about abortion, I feel like I am getting stabbed through the heart with an ice pick. But, it is not the same thing as the Holocaust. In this country, at least, nobody is lining women up and forcing them into abortion clinics. You have every right NOT to have an abortion. You have every right to help others who are in crisis pregnancies and do not wish to have abortions. Faith leaders have every right to explain why their religions teach against abortion. And pro-choice people in this country OVERWHELMINGLY do not believe in forced abortions or forced sterilizations. And -- frankly -- the thought of Mr. Trump or Mr. Gingrich or Mr. Bannon making decisions for me about my reproductive health is downright scary. And that is the point of the contemporary pro-choice movement. You do not have to embrace the pro-choice movement, but at least don't misrepresent it in ways that enable the rise of dangerous demagogues.
And I am not saying that it is necessary to be a progressive. There are many good things about conservative ideas. When done right, they prevent government power from getting out-of-hand. And we should always be wary of government power that gets out-of-hand.
But, for the sake of sanity, people -- LOOK AT WHAT IS GOING ON. IT IS NOT GOOD FOR ANYBODY. I feel for those who have been left behind in the global economy and who feel their voices are not heard. These people need to be heard. They need to be helped. But, let's not throw the baby out with the bathwater.
Pax.
I used to feel ill upon hearing these kinds of things. I generally didn't say much, because there was nothing I could say. The one time I did say something about someone's ridiculous and dangerous end-times prophecies, one of the homeschooled kids asked her mom if I was some kind of category of sinner that they had recently learned about in religion class. Thankfully, her mother was kind of horrified, and told her "No." But, I think a fair number of the homeschoolers viewed me as not appropriately conservative. A lot of them really liked me, but I did get side-eyes from some. And if I had opened my mouth more, I probably wouldn't have had any friends, and neither would my kids. At the time, I was actually more conservative than I am now, so I probably just couldn't have homeschooled my kids, if I had to do it over again, because I would just be upset all the time.
I feel bad, though, that I never spoke up more forcefully about the ideas I knew were erroneous. As I said, I was afraid that if I truly spoke my mind, my kids wouldn't have many friends. I didn't want to rock the boat, too much. Also, I kind of figured that these were fringe ideas, and probably wouldn't gain much traction in the general population, so I wasn't too worried about it.
Well...
BOY, WAS I WRONG.
And the thing that is really upsetting to me is that most of these people were really good people. They wanted to do the right thing. And they have been completely hoodwinked by stuff like The Drudge Report and Breitbart and right-wing radio. And I really don't have a good answer to the problem, because it is practically impossible to get them to see things from any other angle than the right-wing conservative one. I been trying for a while now. They have basically been trained to think that the progressive view point is almost -- if not actually -- demonic. A lot of them probably would consider it a genuine sin to be "tempted" by progressive views.
Now, I am not saying that it is necessary to think abortion is a moral good. When I think about abortion, I feel like I am getting stabbed through the heart with an ice pick. But, it is not the same thing as the Holocaust. In this country, at least, nobody is lining women up and forcing them into abortion clinics. You have every right NOT to have an abortion. You have every right to help others who are in crisis pregnancies and do not wish to have abortions. Faith leaders have every right to explain why their religions teach against abortion. And pro-choice people in this country OVERWHELMINGLY do not believe in forced abortions or forced sterilizations. And -- frankly -- the thought of Mr. Trump or Mr. Gingrich or Mr. Bannon making decisions for me about my reproductive health is downright scary. And that is the point of the contemporary pro-choice movement. You do not have to embrace the pro-choice movement, but at least don't misrepresent it in ways that enable the rise of dangerous demagogues.
And I am not saying that it is necessary to be a progressive. There are many good things about conservative ideas. When done right, they prevent government power from getting out-of-hand. And we should always be wary of government power that gets out-of-hand.
But, for the sake of sanity, people -- LOOK AT WHAT IS GOING ON. IT IS NOT GOOD FOR ANYBODY. I feel for those who have been left behind in the global economy and who feel their voices are not heard. These people need to be heard. They need to be helped. But, let's not throw the baby out with the bathwater.
Pax.
Monday, November 14, 2016
This Thing I Did In 8th Grade
When I was in third grade (I know I said I was going to write about something I did in 8th grade, but this is the necessary backstory), I went to a new school. The Catholic elementary school I attended for 1st and 2nd grades closed, much to my horror, because I was very happy at that school, so my parents sent me to the Catholic elementary school one town over. And -- frankly -- I was miserable at that school. It was awful for me. I got bullied incessantly all through 3rd grade. I had no idea what I did to deserve it, and I was too young to realize that being bullied is never the fault of the victim. The horrible bullying died down in 4th grade, and beyond, but I never really -- shall we say -- "fit in with the 'in' crowd." I didn't care all that much, because I had a wonderful, marvelous, big, extended Italian family. That family provided me with all the support and companionship anyone could hope to have. And I did manage to make a few very close friends at school, even though the class I was in still contained a pretty big percentage of bullies. I managed to keep the bullies off my back -- and my friends' backs, to some degree -- by being willing to punch them, when necessary. Of course, nowadays I would have gotten suspended, but this was in the 70's, so... ya know... things were different. And the teachers in that school never did anything to help us victims of bullies, and the bullies didn't seem to be interested in my powerful words, so the power of the fist prevailed.
My day-to-day life in this particular Catholic school, combined with the support of my Italian family, served to have a certain effect on me. And the effect was this: I learned to not really give an "f" about what people thought of me. If I was happy with myself, that was enough. And -- of course -- my good friends in that school made my heart happy. I have also always had a very strong spiritual life, and Jesus has always hung with me, no matter what. Sometimes, certain people try to make me feel like Jesus is unhappy with me, but I have learned to ignore those people. My parents were EXCELLENT teachers of conscience formation -- I really have never known anyone who is better at that task -- so, I know when mean, judgy people just need to be blown off.
Anyway...
This is what happened when I was in the 8th grade...
My teacher decided that it would be a good idea to have a class debate about abortion rights. The anti-abortion-rights team was quickly populated, but ABSOLUTELY NOBODY wanted to be on the pro-abortion-rights team. So, me -- being who I am and not giving an "f" about what anybody would think of me -- volunteered to be on that team. And it ended up that I was the ONLY person on that team. Everybody looked at me in the most judgy way, but -- hey -- you cannot have a debate without both sides being represented, and I understood that, even if none of the other Catholic school 8th graders did.
So, I went to the library (because there was no internet in those days) and scoured the place for information on why people thought abortion should be legal (because nobody had ever told me why people thought abortion should be legal). My family was very Italian and very Catholic. Nobody in my family could be described, even vaguely, as an "anti-abortion activist," but my grandmother put the family philosophy very simply -- "It's okay to keep them from getting there (meaning: contraception is okay), but once they are there, you leave them alone." End of conversation. And I was cool with that. I also must say that NOBODY in my family had any objection to me supporting the pro-abortion-rights side in the debate. My family was pretty awesome about bipartisanship. Therefore, I researched the heck out of the subject (I was determined to win, after all), and I prepared, and I rehearsed, and I pretty much destroyed the anti-abortion-rights side in that debate. The arguments the other side used were lame-ass. Admittedly, they were a bunch of Catholic school 8th graders, so there's that.
After that debate, I was pretty much treated like a pariah by my classmates. But, everyone recovered quickly. My class was, actually, fairly good about not holding grudges, and there was kickball to be played.
I learned a lot of important things from that experience, and one of them was what it is like to be treated like a pariah for your opinions. Because -- in my Italian family -- nobody ever got treated like a pariah, even the hippie cousins who hitchhiked around the country and didn't have jobs and espoused communism. They were still welcomed with open arms for dinner and card games and all kinds of fun. My dad did tell me, though, that I was not allowed to be a hitchhiking, unemployed, hippie communist; but, he did say that my cousins were really "nice kids." My dad was probably the most awesome person, EVER.
Anyhow, to tell you the truth, I was pretty amused by everyone's reaction to me after that debate. As I said, I had learned, over the years, not to give an "f" about what people thought of me, as long as I had searched by conscience and believed in myself.
I'm not exactly sure what my point is in telling you this story. It just came to mind today, and I felt like telling it, so I did. ;-)
Pax.
My day-to-day life in this particular Catholic school, combined with the support of my Italian family, served to have a certain effect on me. And the effect was this: I learned to not really give an "f" about what people thought of me. If I was happy with myself, that was enough. And -- of course -- my good friends in that school made my heart happy. I have also always had a very strong spiritual life, and Jesus has always hung with me, no matter what. Sometimes, certain people try to make me feel like Jesus is unhappy with me, but I have learned to ignore those people. My parents were EXCELLENT teachers of conscience formation -- I really have never known anyone who is better at that task -- so, I know when mean, judgy people just need to be blown off.
Anyway...
This is what happened when I was in the 8th grade...
My teacher decided that it would be a good idea to have a class debate about abortion rights. The anti-abortion-rights team was quickly populated, but ABSOLUTELY NOBODY wanted to be on the pro-abortion-rights team. So, me -- being who I am and not giving an "f" about what anybody would think of me -- volunteered to be on that team. And it ended up that I was the ONLY person on that team. Everybody looked at me in the most judgy way, but -- hey -- you cannot have a debate without both sides being represented, and I understood that, even if none of the other Catholic school 8th graders did.
So, I went to the library (because there was no internet in those days) and scoured the place for information on why people thought abortion should be legal (because nobody had ever told me why people thought abortion should be legal). My family was very Italian and very Catholic. Nobody in my family could be described, even vaguely, as an "anti-abortion activist," but my grandmother put the family philosophy very simply -- "It's okay to keep them from getting there (meaning: contraception is okay), but once they are there, you leave them alone." End of conversation. And I was cool with that. I also must say that NOBODY in my family had any objection to me supporting the pro-abortion-rights side in the debate. My family was pretty awesome about bipartisanship. Therefore, I researched the heck out of the subject (I was determined to win, after all), and I prepared, and I rehearsed, and I pretty much destroyed the anti-abortion-rights side in that debate. The arguments the other side used were lame-ass. Admittedly, they were a bunch of Catholic school 8th graders, so there's that.
After that debate, I was pretty much treated like a pariah by my classmates. But, everyone recovered quickly. My class was, actually, fairly good about not holding grudges, and there was kickball to be played.
I learned a lot of important things from that experience, and one of them was what it is like to be treated like a pariah for your opinions. Because -- in my Italian family -- nobody ever got treated like a pariah, even the hippie cousins who hitchhiked around the country and didn't have jobs and espoused communism. They were still welcomed with open arms for dinner and card games and all kinds of fun. My dad did tell me, though, that I was not allowed to be a hitchhiking, unemployed, hippie communist; but, he did say that my cousins were really "nice kids." My dad was probably the most awesome person, EVER.
Anyhow, to tell you the truth, I was pretty amused by everyone's reaction to me after that debate. As I said, I had learned, over the years, not to give an "f" about what people thought of me, as long as I had searched by conscience and believed in myself.
I'm not exactly sure what my point is in telling you this story. It just came to mind today, and I felt like telling it, so I did. ;-)
Pax.
This Thing I Did In 8th Grade
When I was in third grade (I know I said I was going to write about something I did in 8th grade, but this is the necessary backstory), I went to a new school. The Catholic elementary school I attended for 1st and 2nd grade closed, much to my horror, because I was very happy at that school, so my parents sent me to the Catholic elementary school one town over. And -- frankly -- I was miserable at that school. It was awful for me. I got bullied incessantly all through 3rd grade. I had no idea what I did to deserve it, and I was too young to realize that being bullied is never the fault of the victim. The horrible bullying died down in 4th grade, and beyond, but I never really -- shall we say -- "fit in with the 'in' crowd." I really didn't care all that much, because I had a wonderful, marvelous, big, extended Italian family. That family provided me with all the support and companionship anyone could hope to have. And I did manage to make a few very close friends at school, even though the class I was in still contained a pretty big percentage of bullies. I managed to keep the bullies off my back -- and my friends' backs, to some degree -- by being willing to punch them, when necessary. Of course, nowadays I would have gotten suspended, but this was in the 70's, so... ya know... things were different. And the teachers in that school never did anything to help us victims of bullies, and the bullies didn't seem to be interested in my powerful words, so power of the fist prevailed.
My day-to-day life in this particular Catholic school, combined with the support of my Italian family, served to have a certain effect on me. And the effect was this: I learned to not really give an "f" about what people thought of me. If I was happy with myself, that was enough. And -- of course -- my good friends in that school made my heart happy. I have also always had a very strong spiritual life, and Jesus has always hung with me, no matter what. Sometimes, certain people try to make me feel like Jesus is unhappy with me, but I have learned to ignore those people. My parents were EXCELLENT teachers of conscience formation -- I really have never known anyone who is better at that task -- so, I know when mean, judgy people just need to be blown off.
Anyway...
This is what happened when I was in the 8th grade...
My teacher decided that it would be a good idea to have a class debate about abortion rights. The anti-abortion-rights team was quickly populated, but ABSOLUTELY NOBODY wanted to be on the pro-abortion-rights team. So, me -- being who I am and not giving an "f" about what anybody would think of me -- volunteered to be on that team. And it ended up that I was the ONLY person on that team. Everybody looked at me in the most judgy way, but -- hey -- you cannot have a debate without both sides being represented, and I understood that, even if none of the other Catholic school 8th graders did.
So, I went to the library (because there was no internet in those days) and scoured the place for information on why people thought abortion should be legal (because nobody had ever told me why people thought abortion should be legal). My family was very Italian and very Catholic. Nobody in my family could be described, even vaguely, as an "anti-abortion activist," but my grandmother put the family philosophy very simply -- "It's okay to keep them from getting there (meaning: contraception is okay), but once they are there, you leave them alone." End of conversation. And I was cool with that. I also must say that NOBODY in my family had any objection to me supporting the pro-abortion-rights side in the debate. My family was pretty awesome about bipartisanship. Therefore, I researched the heck out of the subject (I was determined to win, after all), and I prepared, and I rehearsed, and I pretty much destroyed the anti-abortion-rights side in that debate. The arguments the other side used were lame-ass. Admittedly, they were a bunch of Catholic school 8th graders, so there's that.
After that debate, I was pretty much treated like a pariah by my classmates. But, everyone recovered quickly. My class was, actually, fairly good about not holding grudges, and there was kickball to be played.
I learned a lot of important things from that experience, and one of them was what it is like to be treated like a pariah for your opinions. Because -- in my Italian family -- nobody ever got treated like a pariah, even the hippie cousins who hitchhiked around the country and didn't have jobs and espoused communism. They were still welcomed with open arms for dinner and card games and all kinds of fun. My dad did tell me, though, that I was not allowed to be a hitchhiking, unemployed, hippie communist; but, he did say that my cousins were really "nice kids." My dad was probably the most awesome person, EVER.
Anyhow, to tell you the truth, I was pretty amused by everyone's reaction to me after that debate. As I said, I had learned, over the years, not to give an "f" about what people thought of me, as long as I had searched by conscience and believed in myself.
I'm not exactly sure what my point is in telling you this story. It just came to mind today, and I felt like telling it, so I did. ;-)
Pax.
My day-to-day life in this particular Catholic school, combined with the support of my Italian family, served to have a certain effect on me. And the effect was this: I learned to not really give an "f" about what people thought of me. If I was happy with myself, that was enough. And -- of course -- my good friends in that school made my heart happy. I have also always had a very strong spiritual life, and Jesus has always hung with me, no matter what. Sometimes, certain people try to make me feel like Jesus is unhappy with me, but I have learned to ignore those people. My parents were EXCELLENT teachers of conscience formation -- I really have never known anyone who is better at that task -- so, I know when mean, judgy people just need to be blown off.
Anyway...
This is what happened when I was in the 8th grade...
My teacher decided that it would be a good idea to have a class debate about abortion rights. The anti-abortion-rights team was quickly populated, but ABSOLUTELY NOBODY wanted to be on the pro-abortion-rights team. So, me -- being who I am and not giving an "f" about what anybody would think of me -- volunteered to be on that team. And it ended up that I was the ONLY person on that team. Everybody looked at me in the most judgy way, but -- hey -- you cannot have a debate without both sides being represented, and I understood that, even if none of the other Catholic school 8th graders did.
So, I went to the library (because there was no internet in those days) and scoured the place for information on why people thought abortion should be legal (because nobody had ever told me why people thought abortion should be legal). My family was very Italian and very Catholic. Nobody in my family could be described, even vaguely, as an "anti-abortion activist," but my grandmother put the family philosophy very simply -- "It's okay to keep them from getting there (meaning: contraception is okay), but once they are there, you leave them alone." End of conversation. And I was cool with that. I also must say that NOBODY in my family had any objection to me supporting the pro-abortion-rights side in the debate. My family was pretty awesome about bipartisanship. Therefore, I researched the heck out of the subject (I was determined to win, after all), and I prepared, and I rehearsed, and I pretty much destroyed the anti-abortion-rights side in that debate. The arguments the other side used were lame-ass. Admittedly, they were a bunch of Catholic school 8th graders, so there's that.
After that debate, I was pretty much treated like a pariah by my classmates. But, everyone recovered quickly. My class was, actually, fairly good about not holding grudges, and there was kickball to be played.
I learned a lot of important things from that experience, and one of them was what it is like to be treated like a pariah for your opinions. Because -- in my Italian family -- nobody ever got treated like a pariah, even the hippie cousins who hitchhiked around the country and didn't have jobs and espoused communism. They were still welcomed with open arms for dinner and card games and all kinds of fun. My dad did tell me, though, that I was not allowed to be a hitchhiking, unemployed, hippie communist; but, he did say that my cousins were really "nice kids." My dad was probably the most awesome person, EVER.
Anyhow, to tell you the truth, I was pretty amused by everyone's reaction to me after that debate. As I said, I had learned, over the years, not to give an "f" about what people thought of me, as long as I had searched by conscience and believed in myself.
I'm not exactly sure what my point is in telling you this story. It just came to mind today, and I felt like telling it, so I did. ;-)
Pax.
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