Religious Bigotry

Religion to me has been a conundrum for some time now. I was raised Catholic and as a little kid I was a true believer. I bought into the mythology completely and without wavering. I knew there was a heaven and hell and just as surely as I knew my own name (it's Mark by the way...see? I still remember!). There were rules about what behavior was good and there were specific things you absolutely could never EVER do. Not only did I never doubt their authority, it never even dawned on me as a child to question it. I went to church every Sunday as well as CCD (a.k.a. "Sunday School" although it was never actually on Sunday. It was usually during the week and at night). The ritual of the sermons and the repetition of the odd little play that we put on every week at church with the priest – here's where he will stand up there in that shiny dress thing and he will say these words and then we will all respond in a monotone with this phrase. Then someone will ring a bell thing or play one sharp chord on the organ and then we will stand up or kneel or something en masse. Wash, rinse, repeat – it was comforting. I liked the structure of the mass and how the building was so physically intense. It must be the truth if they went through all this trouble right? I even liked confession and would sometimes make up stuff just to see if I could get more Hail Mary's assigned to me. I think you will agree that I may have misunderstood the concept a little.

As I got a little older, maybe 12 or 13, I started to have some serious doubts. The cracks in the stories became too large to ignore and the very same ritualistic nature of the Sunday mass that I used to look forward to began to irritate me with its repetitiveness. I couldn't understand the point of saying the same things over and over again, week in and week out. It seemed absurd. About this time I had convinced my parents that it was perfectly ok to let me go to church on my own. I would get up early on Sunday so that I could go to the early mass (which was like 9am or something like that). But instead of actually going to church, I would ride my bike downtown and just goof off for 45 minutes. After the service was over, I'd ride by the church to see which priest had been giving mass so that if my parents asked who did the sermon, I could rattle off the name. Not a terrible lie in the grand scheme of things but I do still feel bad about the cowardly deception all these years later.

Why didn't I just tell them that I didn't want to go to church anymore? After all, my dad had kinda fudged on going regularly by this time so the precedent had been set. But my mother was still a firm believer (and remained so right up to the end) and I'm pretty sure she would have said "No way, kid. You're going to church. End of story." Things were not "discussed" at our house. Things were decided and you had to play along. I don't mean to make that sound like such an ominous thing because it really wasn't. It just ... was. And I would still go to church occasionally. Maybe I was experimenting (as I now understand it) to see if my waning faith could be reclaimed, that maybe it was only a temporary lapse and by going to one more inspiring mass I'd be re-calibrated or whatever. But nope. It didn't take. I couldn't get past the idea that the priest was just some guy. He couldn't POSSIBLY know 100% for sure that all of this wasn't just complete nonsense. Why then was he so adamant in trying to convince others that he was right?

By the time I entered high school I was no longer going to church and had entered the lapse Catholic phase. I didn't know what I thought about religion or god or spirituality or anything really. If someone asked me about religion, I still identified myself as Catholic but all the strength behind that word was gone. I just wanted to live my dumb life and not address the subject of faith and honestly it was really easy to avoid. I guess I was an agnostic at this point because while I didn't think organized religion (of any kind) had the answers, I still had doubts as to whether or not there was/is a higher power/god. I simply didn't think about it that much, if at all. I was too wrapped up in my own day-to-day drama and narcissistic to think beyond myself in any capacity. In other words: A teenager.

After I moved out of my parents house I would have some discussions with friends about the subject of religion and while I don't think we really thought we were solving all the world's problems with our meandering drunken blather, I did find that these conversations moved me further away from what my parents and the church had steadfastly taught as the absolute truths. I liked talking to people who had had different backgrounds and interesting perspectives on what it meant to be religious. It helped me work out the confused thoughts and nagging doubts I had been ignoring for years. I didn't want to think that all of the stuff I had been taught was wrong, but it was looking more and more like this was the case.

It took me a few more years to ramp up the courage to admit to myself and others that I don't believe in god, the afterlife, miracles and all of rest. I became an atheist. And it wasn't a bad thing either. It was liberating. I grew up believing that doubting god's will or daring to flat out deny his very existence was not only unfathomable but downright impossible. You could insult god by not believing and in turn incur his wrath. Why would you doom yourself to hell by thinking these thoughts? Ok, the stories are a little dated and maybe there was some creative license with a few details but why not play it safe and hedge your bets with the ol' agnostic route? You can always reverse yourself at the last minute before you die and wind up in heaven with a quick "forgive me Father" prayer. Right? Isn't that basically what the guy who was crucified next to Jesus did? But no, I can't. I won't. I don't know how to fake it.

The problem that I have had with all of this is as a born-again atheist (is that possible?), was that I have been struggling with really strong opinions about people who identified as religious. I thought there was something fundamentally wrong with them. I was condescending towards their beliefs and while I've never actually said anything to right to their faces, I certainly was judgmental and probably somewhat arrogant towards them (I'm a terrible actor). I was wrong to do that and basically I was being a religion bigot. If that's not a thing, it is now. I had to reconcile my own belief system (for lack of a better term) and how it shapes my world view as a newly formed atheist, now that I was "out of the closet" (so to speak). Should I "turn the other cheek" about religion or would I be a zealot and bang the drum loudly for the atheistic view? Well I certainly can't be a dick about this...so I've taken the "live and let live" approach. Because if I think that the priest is just some guy who doesn't really know if what he's talking about is really true, then who's to say that I'm not exactly like him? As I have shown time and time again, I'm a huge dummy.

Where am I going with all of this? I guess I'm not entirely sure. I've been thinking a lot about this subject lately and with religion AGAIN coming into play this election season, it's really been bothering me that there doesn't seem to be a voice of reason. I do not want religious beliefs to be a deciding factor in policy issues. I'm tired of hearing from wingnuts on both sides of most political debates that our country is doomed and the only way to regain our former glory is to fight over issues like gay marriage and a woman's right to choose. I'm simplifying here of course but for fuck's sake I thought we were all equal in this country. How is it that some groups are more equal than others? I hope that most people who are religious don't think the way that the politicians and pundits on TV seem to believe, but this is making me nervous. Please tell me that social conservatism isn't as widespread and prolific as it appears to be. I can't get my head around that concept. Who the fuck do you think you are if you think you can impose your beliefs on others? Is that what your god would have wanted? I thought it was all about loving each other for who we are? Or was that just a bunch of hippy bullshit?

If you do think that way, then I'm pretty sure by oppressing your fellow human beings by imposing your archaic religious dogma on them is a one-way ticket to hell. Luckily for you though, it's all made up. But for reals, get religion out of politics and let's fix some goddamn potholes.

I'm Going to Miss You Harry

Unfortunately I again find myself in the terrible position of reporting sad news. Another member of my family has died and way too soon. We lost Harry Climenson on April 6th. Harry was married to Amy's mom Cheryl and so I've known him almost as long as I've known Amy. Since Amy was 27 when they were married, she never called Harry her "step-dad" she just called him her "Harry" (as in when introducing them to people: "This is my mom and this is my Harry". It just made more sense). Harry was such a constant presence in our lives that hard to accept that he's not going to be there anymore. Yeah, I know I can "keep him in my thoughts" and "keep his memory alive" and all those things that people say when someone dies. I'm sorry, but that's not good enough. I just want to have dinner with the guy again and I can't (Harry was a phenomenal cook and Amy and I enjoyed many a meal that he prepared. Seriously, the guy could tear it up in the kitchen).

I don't know where I currently am in the Kübler-Ross model but I think I'm jumping all up and down the scale. When I heard that things had taken a desperate turn for the worst I simply couldn't understand it. We had just visited him in the hospital and while he certainly didn't look like he was going to run a marathon anytime soon, it did seem like he'd at least be able to go home soon-ish. I figured we'd all help him adjust to whatever the scenario would be (I had envisioned him having to retire from his job, tote around an oxygen tank, and give up his beloved game of golf) but we didn't get that chance. On Sunday the infection he had contracted got worse and the doctors decided to put him into a medically induced coma to help his system fight it. They moved him into the critical care unit and tried everything they could to knock down the infection and the reverse the damage it was doing to his lungs. They simply weren't successful. All of this forced Cheryl to make the hardest decision she will ever (hopefully) have to make. Let me be clear here: It was the absolute right decision to make. But that doesn't make it any less heart wrenching and awful. I've buried both of my parents and a mere 5 months ago we lost Amy's father but I can't imagine what losing a spouse must be like. Let's not think about that right now ok? Ok.

I have to confess that this hit me a lot harder than I had expected. I think I can attribute this to making myself more present in the moment this time around. I didn't allow myself to retreat into my favorite defense mechanism. That's where I disassociate from what's going on and everything feels like I'm watching it all on a TV. It has its uses but I do tend to rely on it too heavily. So much so that I'm not really sure I've ever honestly confronted my own feelings about losing my parents all those years ago. And every time since when I've had to go to another funeral for an aunt or uncle I have watched myself wander through the proceedings and say all the things people say from a tiny monitor somewhere far away. Not this time. This time I forced myself to be present. At the funeral when Cheryl sobbed, I felt that pain like a rabbit punch to the kidney. When I looked over at Harry's long-time friends Tommy and Vic and saw the hurt and sadness in their faces I let that sink in. I tried to not shrink away from any of it. I think I was successful but goddamn that shit hurts.

So now what? I don't know. We have to figure out what to do next as a family. I have no idea what this will mean or how it will all pan out but it has to somehow. It always does right? I'm guessing it does because we're all still here but I can't remember how any of this works. Maybe it just does? No, that's bullshit. As a matter of fact, that's borderline defeatist. I'm not saying we have to work every waking moment but I'm certainly not putting any "faith" or whatever you call it into some higher being to make everything all better. People make things work or not work. I'm determined to make things work. I'm not saying I can "make it all better" but I can make sure that it is less shitty. That may not seem like much but that's all we have. This is our new "normal".

Shit. I don't know what I'm even talking about. All I know is that I'm really sad that he's gone. I'm going to miss you, Harry. Rest in peace.

To Hell with Kix, I Want Quisp

I have three sisters; two older and one younger. Sometimes when I tell people that they say things like, "Oh, that must have been hard for you growing up. Y'know, being the only boy, huh?" Nope. Not at all. Think about it: My oldest sister Theresa (we call her "Tree" by the way) was saddled with the burden of having to break-in our parents. She had to test all their rules and limits to see where the weak points were (and she found them too...woo-boy did she ever). Patty, the second-oldest, kinda got the shaft. I mean, Tree is the oldest, I'm the only boy, and Mary is the youngest (I can't call her "the baby"...cuz she'll punch me in the arm). So Patty is Jan. No one wants to be Jan (not even Eve Plumb). Patty showed us all up though by being the only one of us (so far) to produce an offspring. She single-handedly made sure that our giant-head genes were passed on to the next generation. And Mary had to deal with me as an older brother. Shit, I had it easy.

Growing up in a small apartment with 4 kids, 2 parents and a grandmother made for an interesting childhood. The place where we lived until 1986 didn't have much in the way of real doors either. Most of the rooms, including the bedrooms, had those shitty vinyl accordion folding doors (I tried to find an example of those doors but none of the pics did them justice. Suffice it to say that they were cheap and would come out of their tracks nearly every time you tried to open or close them). Yeah, that doesn't really cut it if you're looking for some privacy or if you don't want monsters to come in your room. Only the bathroom had a real door but it was the only bathroom for 7 people (did mention that I have 3 sisters? I did? oh, ok). This is one of the reasons I wanted a single-family house. I wanted some goddamn privacy and some real doors.

Mom used to like to rearrange the rooms in the apartment. And I don't mean just moving where the couch is. No, she would swap out entire rooms. This meant that my bedroom, at one point or another, had been relocated to every room in that apartment with the exception of the kitchen. The kitchen was the only room that remained constant. She liked to keep us on our toes I guess. I did eventually get my own room (once Tree went off to college) but it suffered from the lack of a door as well. And since it was right off the noisiest room in the house; the kitchen, it was occasionally hard to go to sleep (especially with the kitchen light beaming through the slats in my "door").

For most of that time we were a single-income household and I can't for the life of me figure out how the hell my parents managed that (Mom went back to work when Mary turned 6 or 7). I mean, we were nice kids and all but holy shit we'd eat you out of house and home. I mean look at these faces. These are the faces of kids who meant business.

No, I don't know what I'm looking at. All I know is that I'm the only one who was classy enough to get dressed for this photo. Vesty/stripey shirt thing? Check. Wide-as-fuck shiny, white belt? Check. Just a hint of belly showing? Check and mate bitches. 

How did I get that cut on my chin? A simple story there. Patty and I would take my Tonka trucks to the top of the street where we lived and then we'd sit on them while they hurtled down the hilly sidewalk. It was fun AND dangerous! Double score! You'd think that I got that cut from a spectacular yellow dump truck wipe-out involving a neighbor's car suddenly pulling out a driveway (although that happened too) but no, I got that when I fell off the curb walking back up the hill to do it all over again. I am quite clumsy you see.

My dad's job driving a delivery truck in Boston required him to get up at an ungodly hour to start his shift. He then would come home about 12 hours later (sometimes later, depending on how shitty his day was) where we would attack him at the front door. Can you imagine four bobble-headed kids barreling down a long hallway towards you after a long day? Holy shit. After flinging ourselves at him we'd demand his attention for the next hour or so while he tried desperately to wind down from work. Dinner would be served by 6PM or so and we'd all sit in the kitchen watching TV and fighting over the last sawdust-dry pork chop or stuck-together spaghetti. After dinner everyone would go about their business (homework, washing dishes, getting ready for bed, punching each other) while Dad would remain in the kitchen doing his crossword puzzle with the TV on. He'd usually start to nod off at the kitchen table with Mom saying "John, why don't you just go to bed?". Because he's stubborn dammit. He'll go to bed when HE wants to! Or at least not until he nods off for the 10th time and his cigarette burns yet another hole in the cable rug around the kitchen table.

Dad also did the weekly grocery shopping for the family on Saturday mornings. Since he was so hard to get him to ourselves during the week, it was considered a special treat to be the one who got to go with him. Not only did it mean that you got Dad all to yourself for a good couple hours but more importantly it meant that you got to choose the cereals for the week. That was a highly coveted position to be in and we'd get pretty competitive about who got to go. Being the one to pick out the cereals for the week was basically the kid equivalent of winning the lottery (now with marshmallow bits!). Another bonus was – depending on how long it took to do the shopping – Dad would sometimes take the one who was with him to Brigham's for an ice-cream. Holy shit. That was huge. An ice-cream that you didn't have to scarf down in fear that the others were waiting for you to let your guard down to swoop in and take the rest (at least that's what it felt like). You could sit there at the counter and listen to the grown-ups talk about whatever the hell they were talking about and just ENJOY your ice-cream.

As we got older of course it became less special to spend your Saturday morning in a Ceratani's grocery store pushing a shopping cart up and down aisles that had saw dust all over the floor (what was with the saw dust anyway? Was it meant to sop up spills? Cuz all it really did was make most of the floor really slippery and it would clog up the front wheels on the cart. Most of the carts at Ceratani's had wheels that were completely jacked-up). I would still go with him every now and then through high school but it was not the same. We didn't have the connection that I think we both wanted at that time in our lives. I think I was there mainly so that he'd have someone to carry all the stuff up to the 3rd floor of the apartment building. And eventually – after some pretty intense arguments that we had about the choices I was making – I stopped going with him on Saturdays completely. We just didn't get along if I'm honest. We barely spoke for months during my last year of high school. Basically he had called me out on my bullshit and at the time I hadn't been mature enough to agree with him and change. Now I get it and I'm glad he did that. I'm glad that I grew a pair and told him that he was correct before he died. It's been 14 years since he passed away and this June it'll be 16 years since Mom died. I can't believe that. Those numbers seem impossible. I'm glad I had them as my parents.

Mmmm...pie and cigarettes

Real Stuff Happens Too

Where to begin? Do I even want to discuss this? I dunno. If I'm to take this blog thing seriously (and by that meaning I want to use it as a place to talk about not only the silly and hopefully funny things that happen in my life but also the issues that have more weight and significance. That's not to say that having a fireplace mantle fall on my foot on stage in front of the entire elementary school wasn't a significant time in my life but you get the idea), then I have to talk about this too.

Last week my father-in-law, Amy's dad Bob Davis, died after a short battle with lung cancer. He was 69 years old. Amy and her dad had a much different relationship than what I had with my dad. Her parents divorced when she was 13 and it wasn't what you'd call a good break-up. Not that any of them are really. He had a drinking problem and their contact was sporadic at times before he got himself cleaned up. He became a "friend of Bill's" and had been sober for over 20 years. By the time I came into the picture, he was living with Carol (one of the best people I've ever met by the way. She literally saved his life by befriending him and letting him move into her house. They remained close friends and companions right up until the end), a family court judge and no-nonsense woman of the highest order. It was the stable environment of her house that allowed Amy and her dad to mend their fractured relationship. Carol played a huge role in helping them get things back on track.

What I found hard was that it didn't seem like Amy and her dad ever really talked things out. It was like those years were swept under the rug. They may be mentioned in passing but only briefly and with the understanding that they were not going to discuss them further. I found it infinitely frustrating during our visits since I knew that no one was actually going to say anything that would start a real conversation. I understand it, since that wasn't really the purpose of visiting her father: the investigatory breakdown of her childhood memories and his role in her development, but I still wanted them to have a better relationship and I felt strongly that difficult conversations might help facilitate that.

I'm also colossally full of shit too. I have to admit to looking back on my own relationship with my parents with rose-colored glasses. After my mom died I would go to the apartment in Malden to visit with my dad. We'd sit in the kitchen (my dad always sat in the kitchen watching a little 13 inch TV) and play cribbage. I'd ask him questions about his life growing up in South Boston or how he met mom or whatever. I got some information that I didn't know about him and mom but for the most part, it was just an exercise in trying to get to know him at a different level. When he died I felt better about how I had made an effort to know who he was since I didn't really have the maturity to do that same thing with my mom at the time. I don't know why but I just never talked to her about stuff that really mattered to me. Maybe because I wasn't sure what actually mattered yet.

In the years since their deaths I've been asking my aunts and uncles about their relationships with my parents since they saw knew them as friends, or as a sister or a brother. It's been great fun and enlightening but unfortunately they are a dwindling resource. My Aunt Mary was an amazing person and I used to love to visit with her in her kitchen (much like my dad ... hmmm, they were brother and sister ... maybe that's an O'Malley trait? Sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and shootin' the shit?). When she died, she took a lot of good stories with her. My Aunt Sissy passed away this summer and that's a loss with which I still have yet to come to terms. She was an amazing story teller and loved to talk about her little sister Eileen (my mom). My Uncle Don is another one that I'm worried about. He's been in failing health lately and I'm doing the typical "not-thinking-about-it-so-it-can't-be-happening" defense mechanism. He is another one who can tell a good story and he's told me stuff about my dad that allowed me to view my dad in another light.

This is what I mean about being full of shit though. I never really got into deep philosophical discussions about life and our family with my parents, I got most of that from other people and their perspectives. My sisters were a good source for that matter. We all grew up in the same house but have our own memories and angles on how things were. Sometimes I'm shocked to find that my view is different from the way one of them remembers the same event. It's been helpful but again, it's not something that we do that often or with any real goal in mind. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for with regard to my need for information about my parents. I guess it's just to know them better as people since I didn't know how to do that when they were actually around.

Amy is an only child. She doesn't have siblings to help her validate what she experienced. She just has herself and she admits to not knowing what that experience was. She says there are major gaps in her memory of her childhood and subsequently it affected how her and her dad got along. Watching her and her mother work on their communication over time has been interesting. Again, like my own parents, I'm not sure they have been able to talk to one another as adults until fairly recently. I often wonder what it would be like if my parents were still around. I wonder if we'd have the close relationship that I didn't even realize I wanted and needed until it was too late. They were just my parents y'know? I was in my mid-twenties when they died and now that I'm (gulp) 40 I find myself missing them more and more. I want to talk to them. Bob's death brought all of these thoughts to the forefront again. I'm really good at ignoring shit that is bothering me. Sorry if this post is kind of rambling but I'm just writing this as I'm thinking about it. This is all first-draft stuff that I don't want to edit and re-edit until it's all cohesive. It needs to be messy and raw because that's what it feels like right now.

Goodbye Aunt Edie

My family lost a great lady a couple of days ago. My Aunt Edie (who is my mother's sister) died after a brief illness. We will all miss her very much and my thoughts are with my cousins during this hard time. She was one tough and funny lady and I'm going to miss her tremendously.

During the summers when I was growing up, Aunt Edie and Uncle Woody would have us all over for cookouts almost every weekend. They had a huge backyard and a pool, one of those above-ground circular jobs, so all of us kids (meaning all the cousins) were thrilled to go there. My mother's side of the family is pretty big (my mom was one of 8 kids, all of whom started their own families) so these summer weekends at the Wood's house were pretty crowded. The house I grew up in was pretty small and although there was a decent sized backyard, our landlord fancied himself a gardner and therefore wouldn't allow us to play in most of the yard. So when we would go to Aunt Edie's (yes, I know it was Uncle Woody's place too but I always called it "going to Aunt Edie's") it was amazing because we had full run of the whole yard.

Aunt Edie had a really dry wit and most of her joking around was lost on me as a kid. Kids look at most situations literally so I totally didn't understand most of what she said to me back then (unless she was telling me to stop doing whatever destructive thing I was doing. That shit I understood quickly. Never piss off a McAleavey). I'm really glad that later on I was smart enough to actually talk to not only her but all of my aunts and uncles and get them to talk about their stories. I wasn't quite smart enough yet or maybe I just didn't get enough time to actually talk to my own parents the way I was able to talk to Aunt Edie and other members of my family. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to listen to her and get to understand that she really was a smart and funny woman who raised her family and dealt with what life threw at her with a determination and will that I think is pretty rare.

I poke fun at my family but in the end, they are a great bunch of people. Don't get me wrong, they're all completely batty but I think that's a good thing. If they weren't the mixed bag of nuts that they are it would be really boring at reunions. When we all get together (like we just did this past summer to celebrate Aunt Edie's 75th birthday) I think what shines through is that we all understand that we're in this together. We can lean on each other and look to each other for support during hard times with the knowledge that the help will be there. My family hasn't been the best at communication over the years but I think we're improving. The torch has been passed from our parent's generation onto us and although we've had some missteps I think we're on track. Aunt Edie would be proud.