From Sister Christian to Twisted Sister
My childhood is mired in Catholicism. Catholic school remains the biggest influence of my life, the storehouse of mythology that follows me yet. My days with the nuns at St. Joachim's were devoted to choir rehearsals, perfect penmanship and rules (socks: always pulled up; skirts: down to the knees; starving children in Bangladesh: send canned goods; boys: avoid at all costs).
From my collegiate, nascent feminist perspective, religion flunked. I discovered that Catholicism stifles, suffocates and snares women, robbing them of their souls in the name of flaccid salvation. Women were either Virgin Marys or "fallen" Mary Magdalens. What a choice. I didn't want to be a saint, I wanted to be a lawyer. But when it came time to cast the school play, Joey Salvatore got to be the judge; I got to be St. Lucy Fillipini.
I hate it that I sometimes miss the quiet comfort of confession, the anonymous consolation that a united congregation can afford. Why is it that I want to send my kids to Catholic school to learn discipline and selflessness? So they can rebel against the Church, too? Sometimes I miss being told what is good and what is evil. The Church is good at sharp delineations. Forced to be self-reliant, the distinctions get perilously murky. Yet I will savor my destiny proudly -- a lifetime struggling with doubts about abandoning a faith that continually belittled and insulted my womanhood, my intelligence, my soul.
Drowning in plaid-skirted, rosary-beaded nostalgia, ARIANNA PAVIA ROSATI, 25, confronts her Catholic past
Religion was never about spiritual Christian values. It was uniforms, plastic rosary beads and a losing boys' basketball team. This didn't matter until I stopped blindly accepting and started thinking about the meaning of the things I said in church every Sunday.
I realize (despite imperialistic missionarism, the Inquisition and intolerance of family planning) that the Church has been a great force for many people and even for the cause of Western Civilization itself. Pope John Paul II is not only its well-loved moral and spiritual epicenter but also its outspoken and calculating diplomat and king. My opinion of him has come a long way since my fifth-grade class got down on its knees to say eight rosaries after the assassination attempt. I respect the security he inspires in Catholics. But he is no better or worse than any world leader -- his crosier does not immunize him from political machinations.
I abandoned my religion in a post-adolescent identity crisis, when I was a little younger, and anger mattered a lot more. Now I view religion with intellectual detachment and cool amusement. But the joke is on me, because self-excommunication is the center of my identity. The childhood myths linger, despite my resistance and denial.
