My brother, Mike, was 8 years older than I, and he could remember when we were a happy family. It was as though he had grown up in a different family than I had. I remember nothing but screaming, fighting, and terror. My mother was a binge drinker, and she and my father hated each other.
The first house I lived in with my family was in one of those neighborhoods that sprung up after World War 2. There a group of us kids ran wild through the alley and backyards. One day, a neighborhood friend offered me advice. “I know a girl who has one of those scapulars around her neck and she never gets hurt on the playground or anywhere else,” she whispered excitedly in my ear. That sounded good to me, so I started wearing the dingy brown scapular, festooned with some tortured saint or another, every day—waiting for that protective miracle, wanting some level of safety in my frightening world.
I must have gotten the strange object from the nuns at Catechism. The scapular comes from the Latin word scapula, which means shoulders. Originally, monks wore shawls to symbolize their devotion and piety, and eventually, the garment morphed into a string with a square of itchy felt featuring a glued-on colorful patch with the Blessed Mother or some saint on felt. I was neither pious nor devoted: I just liked the sound of something that would protect me from the chaos that surrounded me every day.
Making this decision resulted in all kinds of sneaking and contortion to ensure that my mother did not know I was wearing the thing. She had contempt for all things Roman Catholic, whereas my father was deeply devout and made sure that his children attended all Masses and Catechism classes. The Church was one of the major reasons for the screaming matches between my parents and having Mom see that scapular was asking for sarcasm or verbal abuse. I did not trust my mother, as my father had singled me out as his favorite, and my mother scared me when she was drunk. She was a binge drinker, so her behavior was unpredictable. Her angry, vicious tongue, however, was totally predictable when she was drunk.
One day when I was 6, I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time, and I could feel the feces collected in my underwear. Sticky and crunchy. I was afraid to approach her, but worked up my nerve and reported, “Mom, I think I pooped my pants.” She responded kindly, “Well, let’s have you take off your panties and we will see.” I never knew how she might respond and I tried hard not to ask her for anything in case my request might set her off.
Suddenly upon this request for help, I had to change my clothing. I was, of course, wearing a dress, and that garment had to come off, as I always changed out of my school clothes and into jeans after school. Mom appeared in my bedroom before I had an opportunity to hide the scapular away. “I know you wear that thing,” she sighed, “and I don’t care. Go ahead and wear it if it makes you feel better,” she said resignedly. These were the only words we ever exchanged regarding the sacred object, and after a time, I ceased to believe in its magic. My shameful secret was revealed and Mom did not react with the wrath I had anticipated. At the same time, Mom was matter-of-fact and compassionate about the streaks in my undies. “It happens to all of us,” she assured me, as she cleaned my bottom with a wet, warm washcloth. The gentle wiping with the warm washcloth felt like love and care. This was a rare day in my relationship with Mom. She didn’t really touch me that much as a rule.
I was always torn in matters of the Church. I loved Jesus and his message, and I liked the candles, incense, and the Holy Mother. I also had a special relationship with my father, who clearly favored me over my brothers. It took many years for me to realize that my most valued status with my father was strictly transactional. He chose me to spy on my mother and to report back to him exactly how much she was drinking, what she was drinking, and where.
I would report to him, and that night the walls of the house shook with screaming.
“We’re doing this to help Mom,” he lied to me. Mom knew I was Dad’s spy, and this did not endear me to her. The situation was entirely confusing for me.
In my bid to please my father, I embraced the Church and all its rituals. I had a special affinity for Easter, likely because it meant pretty new dresses and the arrival of the Easter bunny. I studied the stations of the cross when Dad took us to confession and I found them bloody and gruesome and unbearably sad. The idea of Christ rising from the dead had little meaning to my 6-year-old mind, but a new dress and the Easter bunny were theology I could grasp and hang onto.
Mom and I were out shopping, and there it was: The Dress. The most beautiful dress I had ever seen. The tiny garment was made of white satin with a tulle overskirt of rainbow colors. I longed for that thing with all my heart, but Mom said we could not afford it. I entered into a sulk that seemed to linger for months. I could not think of anything else but the enchanted rainbow dress. My resentment toward Mom was likely misplaced; I am sure that Dad controlled the pursestrings, but as Mom had said no to the dress, I blamed her.
Then one day, I returned from kindergarten, and there it was, hanging in my room. I do not know what negotiations or fighting may have occurred to make this purchase possible but I knew that Mom bought the dress. There it was, my Easter miracle.
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Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.
I am writing my memoir.
