Last week I attended a meeting in the basement of St. Mary’s Cathedral. I was early and walked about a bit as the past washed over me. Eight years of being a student at St. Mary’s Grade School returned. First and second grade were a breeze. Then came catholic summer camp, and its chaplain who came at me with an erection. That changed things considerably. It happened again, and again, and again, over most of the remainder of my grade school years---- whenever he had access to me. That priest made hell real. St. Mary’s was harder after that, and so was living, but St. Mary’s was very good to me. I’ve never seen a school to this day with as much spirit and pride. Sure the nuns would knock us around a bit, but I needed stitches only once, and she claimed it was an accident. Even nuns forget some of their Sunday school lessons.
Then it was off to the Benedictine monks who ran a boarding school in Canon City called The Abbey. Discipline was their bag. The monks were keen in designing belts and boards of various materials to beat us. They made a ritual of it. The offenders were announced at lunch and dinner and the ceremony of "swats" began immediately thereafter. First the priest would bend you over, then the crack of the board or belt accompanied by the howling throng of students. It wasn’t so bad when you knew you were had, for you could spread the word. You could get ready…but it was the schitz to hear your name over the loudspeaker when you didn’t expect it. It was hot lead pouring into my ears the time I heard, "…and Murphy gets 20 swats for the Playboy just found in his pillowcase." I resented their room rummaging but I took pride in my swats.
I never would let the pain show. Only the first time, at Camp St. Malo, did I scream and cry and wince when the priest bent me over. From then on, jaw and fists would clinch, but no sound would come from me---only from the priest. I took my swats the same way. I still visit the Abbey, and I’m thankful for the education I took from it—hell they were just following a sacred tradition laid out by some Italian in 560 named Benedict.
Then came the Jesuits at Regis College from whom I received a great education. It’s hard to find a Jesuit priest I didn’t like. Most were intrigued by the subjects they taught, and they were great teachers. However, in the area of history and theology, I found the priests were only allowed to criticize popes who ruled before a Spaniard named Ignatious started their order in 1534. From then on they could equivocate to protect the popes. It’s a Jesuit thing. I smile when think of the Jesuits, who did not bend you over but encouraged you to stand up and speak up to them, if you had the mettle. I did, and I still do.
Priests are my friends—specially those who share their doubts and bouts. No priest, except the pervert, ever really harmed me. I admit, he is harder to deal with. I, and the others, the tens of thousands in our country alone, need some help due to that kind of priest. Years ago, I thought it would help if I wrote the pope, and told him my thoughts. I asked for his ear, not his money. I wanted acknowledgment and apology. I didn’t get it. That has caused some people to claim I am mean-spirited.
The Pope of Rome is now writing an apology for the not so secret sins of his church. News accounts say it will be ready by the year 2000. I doubt he has enough time to complete it. Sure I am disappointed in the pope----who the hell isn’t, but that does not make my spirit mean. My spirit was set free the minute I posted the letter to him. It’s just taken me a while to realize it.