Navel Gazing

Steve

I grew up in a family of seven and am second to the youngest of five children. I followed the worn path, with intermittent surges of individuality. Household chores dutifully performed and school assignments lethargically completed, as I daydreamed my way through life.

I gave up on a long-term commitment to Scouting.  I quit as a Life Scout, one merit badge and project short of earning an Eagle status, and broke nearly every by-law along that journey. Somehow I achieved decent grades as endured long-gone school years riddled with adolescent angst and insecurity. I put forth a subpar effort in sports, as I was a late-bloomer and didn't develop a competitive nature until after graduating high school.

My family attended mass each Sunday.  Memories of that 1-hour weekly event consists mainly of repetitive movements (stand, sit, kneel), and memorized phrases.  Occasionally, the monotony was interrupted by moments of hilarity that were in reaction to a dropped hymnbook, a burp or fart, or some other inadvertent noise made by one of us kids.  The disruptive sound stood out in contrast to the low tones of well-rehearsed passages performed in unison.  What followed afterward was a scene of visibly shaking little bodies that somehow, superhumanly, held back laughter.

My father attempted to terminate with a sideways glance of warning, so as to avoid an eruption of full-blown giggles. Not often, but at times, when not heeding his warning, he liberated us from the chapel.  I remember one time being brought outside, and after given the choice of a low-hanging thin branch, was treated to a mild switching.  A punishment administered without force, performed mostly for effect. 

As I got older and wilder though, the corporal punishments became more intense and frequent.  On occasion were used belts, hangers, hot wheel tracks, and a section of garden hose. Once, he used a short piece of PVC pipe; vividly recalled were the raised welts on the back of my exposed thighs.  It was a punishment received for disregarding his warning to not get the freshly varnished front door wet. 

I don't consider myself a victim of child abuse and feel shame for presenting my father in such a manner. It does not represent the totality of who my father was and what he meant to me. I only detail to describe an aspect of my childhood. Today, the images remembered of the spankings received seem bizarre and out of place. I recognized that same anger in myself, as a younger father, that was present in my own father as a younger man, and although I can't say to have never raised a hand to one of my boys, I've been successful in avoiding the routine punishments doled out by parents of my dad's generation.

Without much thought given, I completed the list of steps, prerequisite of receiving last-rights, that allows entrance into heaven at life's end:

Baptism ✅;
First Communion ✅;
Catechism ✅;
and Confirmation ✅. 

Unfortunately, with just as little thought, it's possible these steps were undone years later by my disregard for the seventh commandment: "Thou shalt not commit adultery." I wonder if my parents truly believe in such a place as heaven, and if so, do they consider that eternity might be absent one of their own.

[Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.]

While still young, I served as an altar boy. I recall stories told about a time, supposedly, when I envisioned becoming a priest. Stories were never told, though, of times I clearly remember, unbeknownst to the supervising clergy and out of sight from the congregation, behind the closed doors of the changing quarters, where we participated in our own celebration of the Eucharist. I enthusiastically downed wine (the blood of Christ) and devoured hosts (the body of Christ) with other wayward teens recruited into volunteering. This blasphemy may have been our way of coping with the embarrassment of wearing the black and white yoke and cassock, the ill-fitting altar-boy attire; or perhaps, we were just little shits who enjoyed being rebellious. At times definitely the latter, but in either case, we might as well have been wearing dresses—and may well have been the preference of some of the priests.

[Meant as a reference to the scandal that plagues the Catholic Church. It is a low blow but deserved criticism of an organization relied on by so many as a guide for morality, that covered up abuse and is culpable for allowing it to continue for generations.]

A few years later, at too early an age, I lost my virginity. I envy those who have cherished memories of that event, with hints of smiles in the upturned corners of their mouths as they recall the person or place of first encounter. I have fond memories too, reminisced moments of awkward movements with youthful insecurity and heightened passion, but, as for my first, only regret. I wish I could take back the times when me and my friends, and an idolized but now clearly seen as a fucked-up adult neighbor, had sex with the Choir Master's daughter. She was a promiscuous and not particularly attractive girl named Shanon that I befriended during Confirmation class. 

In the years after, sometimes during inopportune moments, her memory resurfaced and was followed by pangs of disgust. I felt guilty for my role in taking advantage of the girl, who I assume is still alive, and now shares in surpassing her 50th year.  We passed her around and willfully used for no more than, in my case, to accomplish a first. 

Shanon undoubtedly had a desperate need to feel wanted, a need that we exploited. As a self-centered juvenile, I didn't see her as someone's family; a sister, and a daughter. What's done can't be undone. The whole experience of our careless actions left me afflicted. I was sad for what we had coerced in such a demeaning fashion, and at what imagined consequence to her; but also, for what it took from me. It was an experience that should have been shared with someone where an attraction had time to develop. It took years to sort out and created a desire for atonement.

[Lord, forgive us our trespasses; cleanse us from our sins...]

As the completion of high school approached, so did the inevitable breakup of my close-knit group of friends, a group made primarily of kids that participated in marching band and were commonly referred to as Band Fags.  Over the prior four years, we 'Band Fags' operated under a cloak of innocence where, in addition to compiling an impressive record of trophies and awards, we partied in a fashion to be rivaled by none.  Similar to the outcasts from the movie Revenge of the Nerds, we drank alcohol, smoked pot, and fascinated over girls to excess.

When traveling to weekend parades, coed busses allowed for quick glimpses of undergarment-clad girls who revealed themselves as they changed into pike and short-flag twirler's uniforms. As members of the band, we wore traditional Colonial garb and revealed ourselves as we changed into uniforms of green and gold jackets, bibs, white dress shoes, matching white jabots, and tricorne Colonial hats; uniforms that I must concede did very little to dissuade the use of our given nickname.

As upperclassmen, we passed down certain time-honored traditions—
Imagine the horror on the faces of those poor freshmen' parents who excitedly watched their child prepare for their first parade, and just before we stepped off, they witnessed their impressionable 15-year-old led through their first Lounge Cheer as we had been, years before:

Rat shit, bat shit, scraggly old twat,
69 douche bags tied in a knot,
Cunt suck, butt fuck, gonorrhea goo;
We're Westwood Wolverines, so fuck you!

As we prepared ourselves for life after high school, we signed each other's yearbooks that, unknowingly then, would provide hours of enjoyment as my friends and I took turns reading aloud, now decades old entries, and tried to guess which of us either authored, or were the subject of the entry.

[I had no way of knowing that a precious few of the friendships made during those formative years, would become such a consistent and important part of my life, that would endure to this day.]

My choice of college seemed predetermined, and definitely unoriginal. I was the fourth of five members from my family to attend College of the Holy Cross. One of the first actions taken toward making my own way was to leave this originally chosen school, and to eventually enroll at Boston State, where I later earned a bachelor's degree; albeit, after an eight-year marathon since graduating high school.

My early life is best described as lacking direction. I never had a clear idea of what I wanted to accomplish. I didn't aspire to have a unique life, although those around me may have held a different opinion, unique was not the aim. A traditional life centered on a wife and family is what I envisioned.