“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession. Ever.” As practiced four minutes earlier, these words escaped my dry mouth in April of 1988. I was seven, buck-toothed, short-haired, and guiltless. But thanks to my teacher, Mrs. V., I was saddled with enough shame in advance of disappointing the priest with the lack of anything interesting to say, that I did what any self respecting, middle-class second grader would do in a such a severe and potentially self-incriminating situation. I lied.
Well, what choice did I have? For the past six months, we had heard nothing from Mrs. V. but how thankful we should be that we were swiftly approaching our first chance to free our hearts, souls, mind, body, and spirit of all the horrible things we, as seven-and-a-half year olds, were certain to have committed by this time.
What the heck was she even talking about?
So far as I could tell, the worst thing I had done was stuck my tongue when Donny Shiltz turned around in his chair during the Big Math Test to tell me I was 'doing it wrong.'
"Oh, yeah, Donnie?" I had replayed myself saying to him over and over ever since, "At least I don't stand up when I pee."
Ha. Take that, Shiltzy-boy.
But why, you ask, did I never say this to Donny in person? In real life? In cold blood? Because. I'm Caaaaaatholic. I'm a gooooood girl.
My sisters, on the other hand, seemed to take their seniority over me as a direct request from God, Himself to be exceptions from the Rule. So while they were breaking crayons, hiding the remote, throwing tantrums and pretending not to know where my She-Ra doll's sword was, --even though I saw them flush it-- who gets to sit knee-to-shin with a priest in the velvet phone booth of Sin?
Yeah, that'd be me. So there I went into the telephone-booth-sized confessional. He was kind of like an uncle to me, after all. What was I supposed to do? Bow? Was nausea part of everyone else's First Confession? Because it sure as heck was making an appearance at mine. It was hot and stuffy and formal and awkward in there and his bright green dress reminded me of that itchy turf at Putt-Putt birthday parties. I hate Putt-Putt. And that stupid windmill.
"Ahem. " Father was looking at me. Smiled. Then said, “Tell me your sins, my child.”
And that’s when I almost threw up.
This man... This Holy Man, who on so many occasions prior to this confusingly awkward moment moment had been present during some of my ever expanding family's lavish Sunday Night dinner parties, who had not only baptized me, my sisters, married my parents and baptized each of them, was now, truly a deity to whom I had nothing to say. Confess, rather.
I tried to focus on something to say, but all I could think of was when my first elderly relative had died. Father Kettler had been the first person Mom had taken us children to speak with about our Tragic Grief. In confused tears at why my four sisters and were crying, I remember saying out loud in the most convincingly devastated voice I could muster, “It’s all Adam and Eve’s fault. Snakes are nasty.”
Here, Father Kettler looked at me, his bald head tilted to one side about to say something but that’s when Mom thanked the priest and packed the five of us up; scarves, mittens, backpacks, and woolly hats and all. Then, took us to Sweet Jenny's Ice Cream Parlor.
Back in the confessional, all of these memories, even the foggy, recent ones, came back to me with full force. I thought of all the times that he, Father Kettler, had been there for me and my family, and here I was sitting before someone whom I could only imagine as nothing short of God’s Right Hand Man’s Secretary's Assistant and staring at the wall. He coughed again. "Tell me your sins, my child."
“Umm. My sisters and I were fighting--” --this much was probably true-- “–over an apple...so, my mom cut it in half and we had to split it.”
Conflict resolution? My First Confession centers around conflict resolution? Lame.
Lame. Lame. Lame.
It's a wonder I could go to the bathroom after that, considering the depths from which I had pulled the fabrication. And what was it worth? Nada! I knew for a fact that Pattie O'McPatrick had at least ten Hail Mary’s and three Acts of Contrition. And that was her very first time. How did I know this girls penance? She told us of course. Not to mention the sin Oh-the-glamour-of-it all! That she had kissed Donny Schiltz --the math jerk-- by the drinking fountain every day after gym this year, much to his horror, I’m sure.
Not only was Pattie McPatrick the prettiest, tallest, most self-declared popular girl in our class, she was the nastiest.
Minutes, earlier, when Patty had entered into the confessional, I remember the collective gasp of twenty some-odd fourth graders sitting nearby, who had seen her enter into the screened room. This was bad. I don’t know why, or what it meant, but it had to be. Everyone was looking over there, the whispers, lashing against the gritty stained glass windows like Da's cold over-cooked spaghetti, sent chills up my slouched spine. Once she left the confessional she made a pretty big show about the time, and sighed as if exasperated, or pissed. “Seven minutes and forty eight seconds? That’s three minutes and twelve seconds longer than you Donnie-pooh...”
But what was so bad about it? I thought of this, as I sat across from Father Kettler. He was not an old man, really. Though what little hair he did have was already white. He had what I can only describe here as at least a few dozen chins. Like Santa Claus’s nephew, he forced a small smile at me.
“Do you have any other sins to confess, my child?”
Only that I lied to you. A man of God. Just now. during my First Confession. "No," I shrugged.
He did not respond, but looked at me. The hint of a railed eyebrow, too much like my own mother's threatened the smoothness of his shiny forehead.
Then it hit me. Why else would he just be sitting there, staring back at me.
I was a sinner.
Maybe it was my imagination or maybe it was a sign, but I could no longer say anything for fear that yet another verbal demon of my own creation would bring my downfall.
In my guilty minds’ eye, I tried to imagine what my bedroom in Hell was going to look like. Probably not too different from what it was then, I thought: Dirty laundry waiting to be done, NKOTB posters everywhere...my sisters screeching at each other about what boy did who, or about pop stars or crushes...No windows, No air conditioning and really, really hot. But clean.
Eh, it didn’t seem too bad at the time, but I was snapped out of my reverie by Father Kettler's pending sentance, er, Penance. “Child...”
But my thougths, and the guilt, were still coming...
“For your repentance...”
How could I have just done that? I just committed a sin. A real one. Heck it might have even been a Commandment --I'd have to check later. I could taste the bile...
“You shall say...”
My face burned. I choked down an unexpected sob. More words --maybe it was vomit-- were about to come spilling up out of my toes...
“...three Hail Mary’s and an Act of-”
“--Father!" I blurted, not caring that I had just committed yet another act of horrifying shame: interrupting... "Can you hold on just a sec?” and before I could register the look of utter disinterest on his face, I ran out of the telephone-booth-sized-booth, and ignoring as best I could the incredulous looks of my fellow pseudo-guilt ridden classmates, turned a sharp right and another until I was pushed with Godspeed into the private screened booth.
I was in the anonymous confessional. Otherwise known as "Traditional." As I knelt down onto the cold comfort of the pleathery kneeler, I could just make out Pattie craning her abnormally long neck to look at me, then sharply down at her watch.
The dusty velvet curtain fell shut, I took in the darkness. Once my eyes had adjusted to the dim half watt light, Father Kettler cleared his throat.
This time, I did not dawdle. “BlessmeFatherforIhavesinned,” I spat in one breath. “This is my...um...still my First Confession?” Already, I could feel the relief of the weight of my real sin lifting. Because, at least, now, he couldn’t see who I was.
Brilliance, thy name is me.
Through the slatted metal screen I could still make out Father Kettler’s grey hairs. I noticed how odd it was that the spaces in between the metal looked like two Mickey Mouse heads stuck together at the chins, but it was neat to look at.
I pressed my eye up close to see through and see him all the better, when he said in my general direction, “What are your sins, my child?”
“I lied just now. That never happened about the apple before, and I didn’t have anything to confess and Sister Margie didn’t tell us what to do if we didn’t have anything to confess because she said that everyone had something to confess, and I guess she was right since I lied which is one of the Top Twelve Commandments and I know I shouldn’t lie, but I did because I didn’t want you to be mad at me because I had nothing to confess even though I do now, which is why I am here because I am really sorry and please don’t tell my mom and I am really sorry I did it, I won’t ever do it again and now I can see why people come here since it feels a lot better to tell the truth, thought it was true that my sisters and I fight a lot and I know it makes Mom mad, so I guess I am sorry for that too, for always fighting with them but sometimes it seemes it’s the only way I can get any of them to talk to me, even my cousins. It’s because of their new friends though. Ever since they left this school, they’ve done nothing but ignore me or if they are watching me they order me around and I won’t do it, or I will get them a glass of pop but I fill with a little bit of warm water and two ice cubes instead of three ice cubes like they asked and I don’t even know where mom and dad keep those tiny umbrellas but I think they are in that locked cabinet that only gets opened on holidays or parties or Sundays and I tell on my sisters when they hit or swear at me but the hitting doesn’t hurt, though, so when I swear at them I use the D-A-R-N word and last week I may or may not have given all of them the finger when they were not looking and there is nothing I can do that makes my mom laugh when she's mad at us and make sure your mom doesn't brush your hair when she'd mad at dad, but I guess you don't have to worry about that, but not just because you don't have hair, but because I betchya they pay people to do your hair and stuff so you look nice at mass and I know she will be so mad at me for lying to you but she works alot and I don't really get to see her too much and I am sorry for lying to you but I didn’t know what else to say, so...yeah.”
Father Kettler was then kind of coughing, but it sounded more like a sneezy-gag so I said ‘bless you.’ Which made me feel like an even bigger you-know-what since he was the one that was supposed to be doing the blessing.
Finally, he spoke. But I don’t really remember what he said, since I was more focused on how surprised I was at how good I felt.
I mean, really.
I had told him some pretty heavy stuff afterall, which I had not even thought of as sins at first. Just more of a necessary...well...evil for surviving as the youngest of five girls. But what really iced my cupcake was what he said next:
“You say, that your mom has no time for anything but work, correct? Yes?”
“Yeah."
He was silent.
"I mean...yes, Father.” I looked down at the floor. It was an ugly purply-grey, but it was familiar. How many Sunday Masses had I spent staing down at the ground upon which I was kneeling, trying to see what colors and shapes I could imagine if only to keep from falling asleep standing up... How many pieces of lint? How many threads in an inch square? How many people were wearing orange?
“Your Penance will be...”
I looked up and braced for the Sentence-of-Certain-Godly-Doom. My pulse banged in my throat.
“...Six Hail Mary’s. Four Acts of Contritions...Unload and reload the dishwasher, fold the laundry, put away the laundry, do anything and everything your mother asks of you without contest, even, when you can, before she asks you. And ignore your sisters. For one week.”
My mouth fell open.
Big sins, little sinners, my grandmother's voice rattled in my brain.
Before I could open the Pint-sized Pandora's Box that was my yapper, Father Kettler raised his beefy right hand, as if to silence me, once and for all. I braced for the wrath of his backhand, but it never came. Then, I heard, “Lord, Bless this innocent child of yours. Keep her in Your Protection, and guide her to make the best decisions until she meets You again in the Protection of Your Grace. Go in Peace, child to..."
But I had stopped listening somewhere around "innocent child."
Was it true? Was I really as innocent as I had originally thought? Without thinking, my hands mimicked his--forehead, abdomen, left shoulder, right shoulder, hands together, finger entwined. Eyes to the floor.
Through the patterned double Mickey screen, he said to me, “Go child, your sins are forgiven and do good work in the Name of God.”
“Thanks, Father.” and I gave him a half hearted bow that he hopefully did not see, and exited the booth--er, Confessional. When I left the thing, I looked for Pattie's face. But I could not find her. Or Mrs. V., for that matter. As I made my way back to the pew from whence I had come, I saw them at the back of the church.
Now, I may have an active imagination, but I am pretty darn sure that I did not imagine seeing Patricia O'McPatrick getting what looked like a rather intense scolding, off to the side was a sheepish looking Donnie Schiltz.
At the back of my relieved mind, gnawed my pending penance...waiting like a cute little non-housebroken puppy to be taken out of it’s kennel of hibernating salvation. It was all I could to keep from giggling with the relief of it all! My First Confession was over. Once again, I was innocent. A clean slate! A guilt-free soul, right here in this body! A new beginning! How much longer till lunch?
As I sat there in rote recitation of my first few contritions, my stomach grumbled, shamefully loud and I thought of how many more times my fellow classmates and I would be there like that. parallel sinners waiting...just waiting...in the House of a God we knew so little about, yet feared as if he were our own Big Brother, so to speak.
It was, I assumed somewhat naively, that it was the first of many bonding opportunities to come. But still, there were those who had been with me, supporting me, laughing with me laughing at me, knowing me, secretly liking me, maybe hating me, maybe loving me...They were right there...by my side. My classmates. Regardless of alphabetical destiny.
In hindsight, I should have known that I was not the only one who had thought there was nothing of import to confess in the lowly life of an Upstate New York Third-Grader. But, even so, what gave Sister Margie Largie the right to be so vague about sins and everything, anyway? I wanted answers. Of the twelve of us, give or take an exchange student every other month or so, this would be the beginning of a long social and academic timeline of ups and downs. Truths and lies. Crushes and loves. Sins and Betrayals. Though, for the most part of our rapidly approaching horizon of adolescence, we were, the twelve of us, in it together.
