@cazzie Your mother seems like a very wise woman. I think mine and yours would have liked each other a lot.
Oh, I was in this much longer than fourth grade. I was in Catholic school through the tenth grade. I just stopped taking it seriously in the fourth grade. I went through the motions for my parents, mostly. They wanted us to get a good education and my dad wanted us to at least be familiar with the Church and its rites. I was an altar boy and started my novitiate the weekend Kennedy was shot. Talk about a baptism of fire. The AB’s kinda got a free ride. Once you could do the Mass in Latin I guess they figured you were in. I’ve learned since that I probably got what I call Catholic Lite. The 2nd Vatacan Council had just liberalized everything and I had a bunch of young Irish Nuns who were really into the new rules. But we had an old gnarly Monsignor in control of Sacramento at the time who wasn’t about to anglicize the Mass, no way. They had to tear that one from his cold, dead hands.
So, I got a different kind of Catholicism than my father did. His was all fire and brimstone and threats. Whereas I was taught that the Gospels were metaphorical, he was taught that they literal—upon the pain of heresy. I later met Catholic kids who’d gone to schools on the Eastern Seabord—New York, Boston, Baltimore—and they were browbeaten like my father’s generation. It was like the VC-2 had never happened. I noticed those people who’ve left the Church shared a real animosity toward it. I’ve never felt that way. It just doesn’t make much sense to me, life is much simpler than all that, I figure.
But these people who were basically emotionally abused were really hostile toward the Church and all Christianity in general. You really can’t blame them, I guess. Being abused just gives you a shitload of extra internal work to do before you can have fun, I think. I’d probably be pissed too.
Much later, I worked with a guy from Boston and while out having a few beers one night after work we both discovered that we were Catholic school kids. He told me this horrible story about when he was in 2nd grade. He was in the restroom at school and was, for some reason, checking his pockets and his rosary fell out onto the floor. He totally freaked out and thought for sure he was going to hell. He didn’t tell his parents or anybody because he knew he was doomed and nobody could help him anyway. His mom couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, so she had one of the school nuns talk to him. He wouldn’t talk, so in comes the priest. He was lucky. He got a young one. The guy explained to him that desecration has to be intentional and that everything was OK. He gave him a couple of Hail Mary’s as penance for being careless with a blessed artifact (evidently a venial sin in this case) and everything was alright. The boy recovered, but as a thirty-five year-old man, he still remembered that traumatic month vividly.
The worst the nuns did to us was continuously remind us that we were spoiled rich kids and we needed to remember that the rest of the world didn’t share our advantages and that we were destined to lead benevolently and with greater responsibility. Even today, after all the countries I’ve visited, I can’t argue with that. These were girls from the poverty-stricken west coast of Ireland where the old-style Catholicism that was taught was exceptionally cruel, especially to women, and where I later found out that there was only one phone for every four households and one car for every eleven. Dog carts. Unpaved roads. Lousy weather. Pretty, but rough.
In contrast, all our moms and dads had their own cars and many of us had swimming pools in the backyard. California of the 50’s and 60’s. Sunshine. Vineyards in between the clean, new suburban neighborhoods. I think the comparative wealth blew their minds and they felt a responsibility to let us whining ragamuffins know how good we had it. Later, we had Jesuits. They were tougher about certain things, but big into sports, liberal politics and critical thinking—which became glaringly apparent in the classroom as the Vietnam War and the Draft began ramping up. They did a good job on us. We all grew up to be pretty good people I think.
Anyway, I’m having too much fun writing about this which means I’m probably boring the hell out of you all, so I’ll knock it off now.