Iron Claw of Memory

Toledo, Ohio. St. Anne’s Parish. Grades 1 thru 8.

The fifties.  Father Springer, a tall thin, grumpy, bespectacled man with a grayish buzz cut often walked the church grounds while brandishing an air rifle used to shoot the numerous pigeons that overwhelmed the vicinity with blotches of excrement.

The good father had all the charm of Sgt. Joe Friday on a bad day. He was harsh with his young penitents. Sometimes the confessional seemed like an echo chamber for his strict, censorious voice as he applied unstinted spiritual opprobrium to the withered brow of some hapless sinner. It was hard not to be frightened while waiting your turn to enter the confessional, that sanctum sanctorum of pietistic wrath and humiliation.

Fear of incurring the wrath of this priestly  task-master led me to avoid confession. All this spiritual stricture compelled me to believe the body was an impure vessel housing an immortal soul that came into this world bearing the taint of mortal sin. Heeding the rules and regulations of holy mother church provided one with transcendence of the flesh thereby guaranteeing entrance into heaven, a blissful, ethereal exurb where things ran smoothly for ever and ever, Amen.

Anyone who died with mortal sin on his soul joined non-Catholics in hell, a place that made Russia, the home of godless, atheistic communism, seem like Disneyland with rough and unvarnished edges.

Purgatory was a halfway house, the gulag for lost souls that provided cold food for picnics on rainy days and the possibility to audit endless reruns of “Going My Way” along with performances by Bishop Sheen and his rival, Milton Berle. Residents who finished their homework on time also had the option of watching Davy Crockett or Annette Funicello do dance routines with Mickey or Goofy.

The clutches of holy mother church led me to regard sexuality as something both guilt ridden and utilitarian. Good Catholics married for keeps. They never had sex outside of marriage. The sole purpose of intercourse was to beget candidates for canonization.

Sins of impurity ranked high on my things to do list. Onanism was a hobby not unlike kite flying or stamp collecting.  During one grueling confession the good father told me I would be thrown out of school if I was ever caught with any of the pictures that inspired my Diogenes-like behavior.

To make things worse, I once even took Jesus in my mouth after having breakfast. My classmate refused to pass me by in leaving the pew for his wafer even though I told him I had eaten breakfast. Jesus and oatmeal don’t mix. Combination of the two is a gastronomic as well as spiritual mishap of major consequence. For this reason I was severely punished when my act of spiritual malfeasance was discovered.

These shortcomings were complimented by certain academic deficiencies. Although I enjoyed reading and writing I spent three or four sessions in summer school taking remedial arithmetic classes. Seemingly the more I applied myself the worse I got. The same was true for learning to tell time.

Despite everything I was painfully conscientious. I wanted to please my parents, my patron saint and perhaps even the Swiss Guard; there was also the Lovely Lady dressed in blue and what about St. Dominic Savio?

Anxiety generated by the dismay I felt over spiritual and academic matters was exacerbated by seeing a photo of the mutilated body of Emmet Till in Jet Magazine. Midwestern racism was far more genteel in it’s myriad forms of manifestation.

My parochial school education provided me with an early object lesson. For a couple of years I tried to become a Cub Scout, but was discreetly passed over. Whenever my classmates discussed scouting activities my comments and queries were greeted with seemly inexplicable laughter.

One day during recess I talked to one of my classmates about my dilemma. “Your’e a nigger. Niggers can’t be Cub Scouts.”

I didn’t know how to respond. That word was not yet  painfully familiar. After all we were all good Catholics. Catholicism was the one true faith and that was all that really mattered. Protestants, especially Lutherans were really déclassé and more than likely headed for hell. Why couldn’t I be a Cub Scout like everyone else?

I was overjoyed when my mother consented to become a den mother. My new uniform was a source of pride. I had finally made it- a scout among scouts. There was a general meeting. Things seemed to be going well. As the evening came to a close, another scout made a comment that further contributed to my incremental awareness of race.

“All the colored kids are in your den.”