Sunday, March 28, 2010

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet, Tread softly because you tread on my dreams ...


At the Vatican, Up Against the World

Black Day headlines in our real world, click on link to read the full NYTimes editorial. I went to Catholic school and really was more afraid of the other appendage - wood ruler like a switchblade, coming from nowhere and slapping plump child hands for the terrible error of sloppy capital J's. The SugarDaddy lolly to the finest capital J stung more; dreadful cursive lessons. The nuns and priests, we had a monseigneur too, seemed vague and curiously large in heavy cosplay. The altar boys were pitied more because they had to master Latin, Latin not the really cool pig-Latin we thought was just for we the innocents, which was so much work.

There were hints of sexual thoughts. Callused palms were cool and earned the best way - upside down on the monkey bars, plaid skirt oops not on my mind. A cold "wear shorts, you'll tempt the boys" did confuse me. Why would the boys be tempted? By what? In second grade one's already looked and played doctor with a huh, what's that all about. There were no tales of bad, just bad mean waddling nuns that were all special and we were not. Escaped before middle school and I suppose that would be the dangerous years. Yearning and hormones and a Church that "understood," move the perverts to a fresh parish and maybe, just maybe, a weekend retreat. So sad that children seemingly come programmed with reluctance to yell and scream. Polite little children and it doesn't work for me.

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