Guilt

I was born into a catholic family. A "catholic by tradition" family. Except for a few members, the majority of the family never went to mass and never talked much about religion. The idea, in general, was: you are born, you have to have a religion and since your family is traditionally such and such, so are you. Period. And I am  NOT complaining about it, be sure.

Around the area where we lived, there were plenty of public schools which, by my grandfather's opinion, were not good enough for a girl. So, he paid for me to go to a private school. Coincidentally, a catholic school.

Here we go again.

Well, I once said I never discuss religion. And this is true. I do not. But I thought it would be interesting to talk about.

- If you click on the picture, you can see it larger.

So I went to this catholic school. Our teachers were all nuns. We had to go to mass every Friday. Classes would be interrupted and it would be mass time. And there were also the religion classes, of course. Lots of it!

I remember that the stories were told:  Old Testament, New Testament and, of course, the Catechism. And it was confusing to me. Too many of the statements were confusing. Things did not sound fair; did even not sound reasonable at certain times. And I asked questions. One after another.

I also remember that the whole class of only girls would be sitting there, listening, taking notes and saying nothing. But I would raise my hand, to the disgust of the teacher nun (because she knew), and I would ask another question. "How come this, how come that?" And I would try and put some sense in to the nun's head, sometimes making comparisons such as "if my father would not do this, how come you say God that is the One that loves us most will?"  And this started when I was on my second year of Elementary School.

There were times when the nun would tell me to shut up and quit questioning her. And she would accuse me of being a sinner. A guilty sinner. You are guilty for His death, you were born with a sin, you are guilty because you ask too many questions and you do not go to mass on Sundays and on, and on...

I would go home and talk to my mother. And, without going into details, I can tell you that my mother taught me mostly to think and analyse the subject. I would ask her those questions again and she would either reply or ask me other questions, in order to make me think and answer them by myself. We had long conversations, endless ones. Marvelous ones.

She made me feel safe, secure and happy. Religion was a feeling, a certainty of a Higher Love that meant everything. A peaceful feeling that I inherited from her, mostly.

At third grade, the Mother Superior came to the class and called me outside. There, she told me that I, from that date on, was "Excused" from religion classes. To my staring eyes, and confused face, she ensured me that I would pass on the subject with grade 10 (which was the top grade) from then on, until I graduated. But, I did not have to attend classes anymore! I was supposed to go to a certain room and study any other subject that I needed, during that time.

I imagine today how that decision must have been a relief for the teachers.

Later, when I was in high school, I found out that they thought I was Jewish - probably because of my father's Austrian last name. Who knows.

When I told my mother, she laughed. I did not understand why. I was still confused, although a little happy. My mom told me not to worry, that I had a good start already and that religion would come to me, as I searched for it. And that I should always search for it. Whatever my faith was, I had already a good seed. My mom...my hero!

One thing, though, the catholic period of my life left as an indelible, painful and unhealing wound in my heart: GUILT. Not related to religion but to my mother.

One day, I packed my bags and left. I went after the love of my life. I left her behind.

I know, deep in my heart, that if I could talk to her and hear her answers, she would say that I was right. And that being happy (as I am!) was all she ever wanted.

And all I ever wanted was for her to see where I live, how I live and how wonderful my love - the one I left her for - is. How sweet and gentle, how funny and tender he is. How he is my best friend and my protector. How he listens to me and cares for me.

I wish I could talk to her again.