My British husband was born into a Jewish family in Hackney, on the east side of London. I was born in Spokane, Wash., to a predominantly Italian-American Catholic family. Raising our grandchild, Mini-Brit, in the Jewish faith has provided quite an education for me! You see, I am not just any Catholic. I am an old-school, pre-Vatican II, Latin-fluent, saint-worshipping, and parochial-schooled Catholic. My world was once filled with nuns and priests in full habit, a wardrobe of white blouses, plaid jumpers, and plenty of guilt.
I remember kneeling during Sunday Mass, frantically pushing the communion wafer stuck on roof of mouth with my tongue because we weren’t supposed to touch it. I recall the sharp rap of Sister Paschal Candle’s “bridal” ring on the back of a pew after grade-school Mass to signal us to genuflect, turn, and exit the church. I can still smell the aroma of frankincense and myrrh, two of the gifts of the Magi, the last being gold. I always thought they sounded like a law firm—“Good morning! Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh. How may we help you?” Oh, I’m gonna go to hell when I die!
For Lent, I always gave up sweets—a hard thing, since my birthday fell during Lent. But Mom, bless her, said God gave special dispensation on just that day so children could eat cake and ice cream. My husband still doesn’t comprehend the concept. The Jewish faith performs penance just one day, on Yom Kippur. “Even in guilt you pay retail,” he quipped!
I don’t recall my first confession or communion, but I do remember my second, when I was in first grade. Back in the day, you had to fast for three hours before taking communion. One Sunday morning as Mom poured cereal for my younger siblings, I, famished, snatched a fallen cornflake, ate it, and took communion because I didn’t want Mom to know what I had done. I was in terror of being hit by a bus or struck by lightning until I could get to confession that week. When handsome Father Whatawaste asked what my sins were, I tearfully told him I had committed a sacrilege by not fasting before communion. He asked me what I ate and I whispered, “A cornflake.” He could barely pronounce my penance—three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers—through his laughter. Yeah, I’m going to hell, and he’s amused!
My Catholic education has helped launch me above the shoulders of others for various opportunities, including graduate school and employment—especially this job. (Literacy is held in high esteem in parochial schools.) I am especially thankful to my mother, who worked long hours on her feet to pay my tuition, and to my exceptional teachers who taught me the three “Rs”: reading, ’riting, and ’rithmatic, as well as the three “Errors”: talking in class, not completing your homework on time, and wearing your skirt too short.
My Catholic education also provided me with a unique insight as an art history graduate student. For example, did you know that a plate of fish was discovered in Leonardo da Vinci’s painting of The Last Supper during its most recent restoration and cleaning? I considered writing my thesis about it, calling it The Da Vinci Cod, but my committee chair nixed that idea.
My start in parochial school wasn’t an auspicious one. Sister Mary Picayune gave us arithmetic worksheets requiring us to “circle the largest number: 2 or 5.” I got out my six-inch-ruler, measured each one, and circled the “2.” I can still see Sister Picayune fingering her rosary beads as she shook her head.
Things improved in seventh and eighth grade when I became a member of the Saint Maximus Laffus volleyball team. Sister Dominic, whom we fondly called “The Dominator,” was the eighth-grade teacher and volleyball coach, and had a voice that could decalcify your spine at 100 yards.
When we entered her class in eighth grade, we were stunned to find that, like many nuns in the late 1960s, she had shed her traditional habit and had a shock of flaming red hair—“Mine, not Lady Clairol’s,” she boasted. We feared her like the wrath of God and adored her as our own blessed mother. She demanded respect, instilled a desire for knowledge, and made you quiver at the thought of misbehaving.
At Our Lady of Perpetual Motion, a Catholic, all-girl high school, I tended to get involved in the kind of shenanigans that were frowned upon by Sister Maria Peccadillo. I once “borrowed” her key to the Kotex machine, emptied it, and filled it with Hershey bars. Hey, where else could you get a chocolate bar for a dime? The pews in the chapel still maintain a remarkable shine due to my polishing efforts during detention.
When I “borrowed” silver nitrate from the chemistry lab and sprinkled it on the toilet seats in the girls bathroom, thus precipitating an outbreak of “black-bottom,” principal Sister Mary Caligula decided she’d had enough. She suggested to Mom that I enroll in classes at the Jesuit-run boys’ school across the way, where she felt my apparent boredom could be cured.
There I met a group of nerds and kindred spirits. We made up our own versions of Latin chants, shouting in the halls “What’s your telephone number?” with the response of “Et cum spirit tu tuo!” We also filled principal Father Sal V. Narilla’s car to the top, including the trunk, with popped popcorn! We then all immediately went to chapel, to his confessional, where he was handing out penances, and confessed our sin. This rendered him helpless to publicly discipline (expel) any of us because he was bound by the seal of confession. Three of those wonderful guys are now priests, whereas I am surely gonna go to hell when I die.
Ariel Waterman still feels guilty about that cornflake. Please light a candle and send her three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers via editor Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Sep 22-29, 2011.