Irish Catholics
There are certain connotations that come with wearing a cross on your neck, especially on a college campus. I took a religious studies class as a sophomore, and one day the class was engaged in a discussion about common misconceptions concerning religious and non-religious people. I said something about how sometimes people tend to assume (oftentimes wrongly) everything you believe from one or two things you say. To clarify my point, I offered the example of self-identifying as a Catholic but disagreeing with many of the church’s teachings. A girl in my class replied indignantly “I just don’t understand how you can be Catholic and not hate gay people.” I was so shocked at her bluntness that I could only respond with laughter. My reaction delighted about 5 people in the class and horrified the other 10. The professor was quick to defuse the tension with a boring monologue before I had a chance to respond. As I brooded silently, twirling the silver cross of the necklace I was wearing angrily between my fingers, I realized that to a lot of people, my donning the cross was a tacit endorsement of the Catholic church’s crusades against gay marriage and abortion. That its presence around my neck denoted a willingness to overlook the rampant pedophilia of priests and systemic cover-ups by high ranking clergy. That I subscribed to all the most unsavory, reactionary beliefs in all of Catholicism. A part of me still wants to tell that girl to go fuck herself, but another part of me understands why she might have thought that. The cross is a symbol of oppression to many; and why would I wear one if I wasn’t proud or serious about my religion?
I have a complicated relationship with my religion. I come from a long line of Irish Catholics who emigrated from the mainland during the potato famine and made their home in New York. My mom’s side of the family isn’t religious, so my two sisters and I naturally found our godparents in my dad’s three siblings and their spouses. My spiritual guidance was a burden bestowed upon my dad’s eldest brother Scott, and his wife Robin. They didn’t do a very good job. They divorced about 15 years ago, and Robin hasn’t had any contact with my family since. Scott came out as gay in the early 2000s and committed suicide a few years later. The irony is not lost on me that my godparents, the veritable pillars of foundation of my Catholicism, divorced. It isn’t lost on me that my Godfather, a man who gifted me a gold cross necklace for my first holy communion, was gay. It isn’t lost on me that the man who was tasked with being my spiritual mentor committed his third and final mortal sin when he took his own life. I realize that Uncle Scott is not included in the heaven that my wearing a cross would indicate I believe in. In many ways, I am a product of this hellish contradiction.
The specific cross he gave me is no longer present in my life. It was lost at the bottom of a pool long ago, after it was torn off my neck. Though even then I didn’t subscribe to the spiritual implications that came with wearing it, I was distraught at losing it, and dove back down into the deep end of the pool. Trying desperately to keep my eyes open and resist the building pressure, I searched for the slightest glimmer ten feet down until my lungs burned. I failed, and it was lost. Back then, the necklace was only itself; to my young brain it was no more than an ambiguously precious object. Now I realize that it’s the memory of my uncle.
A couple years ago, I was thinking a lot about Uncle Scott. While grappling with his demise and my faith, I saw various silver cross necklaces in a Walmart display marked down: 2 for $5. I bought two of them. When I put it on, I felt closer to my uncle and godfather, as if wearing a cheap imitation of the necklace I lost would somehow preserve or honor him. It had nothing to do with religion, or faith; it was a misguided display of affection. I say ‘was’ because I no longer sport a cross, plastic or otherwise. I bought two more from Walmart soon after the first pair but they were similarly lost or broken. Later, after conversations with his sister (my aunt) and his ex-partner Patrick, I don’t feel the need wear a cross anymore. I have some measure of closure concerning my godfather. It helps knowing more about what he was like when he was alive. How he worked with charities and was great with kids. How his summer job was lifeguarding and how he was a promising football player in his youth. How his smile could light up a room and his laugh could fill it. I am satisfied with my image of him; I no longer feel the pressure of 8 feet of water squeezing my skull like a vice, or the fire in my lungs, or the disappointment of losing something I knew was precious and would never get back.
A part of me is still angry at that girl in my religion class for her remark. But how could she know all this? How could she know I haven’t attended mass in 3 years? Or that I broke at least two necklaces after I ripped them off in impatient rage because my sweaty fingers couldn’t find the latch? How could she know that the last time I prayed was when I broke into the chapel shitfaced at 3 am during finals week? How I pleaded to rows of dark, empty pews for 2 hours, begging God for a sign that he existed? Well, I have news for that girl and anyone like her who should read this: God didn’t answer me that night in the chapel, and I haven’t spoken to him since. My Uncle Scott is still dead, and alcoholism and depression are genetic. And I still identify as a goddamned Irish Catholic.
