In the attempt to save their children from the more dangerous components of our souring Bronx neighborhood, our parents enrolled all four siblings into a Catholic Parochial School, six blocks away and curiously plopped across the street from the more menacing Public School. And, initially, at the whopping cost of $7 a week, per unsuspecting child. In doing so, we were sacrificed to a long string of nuns and their indiscriminate habits, the Franciscan Sisters of Allegany. While many of these sisters were genuine in their quest to enlighten and customize children for their eventual entry into a nebulous heaven, wings and harps included, others were deliberate in their severity, a lot of their frustrations exacted on us physically. In retrospect, the indiscriminate forms of discipline we tolerated seemed to have made us hardier in character, if not jaded in trust. In truth, these were simply women, imperfect, repressed and living on a dime, while the priests freely cursed, smoked and threw their muscle around. The nuns didn’t eat mush or wear hair-shirts, rather they could be caught feasting on pizza and Pepsi colas when the opportunity presented itself. This image is an ode to the rookery of nuns I braved, more pious on the surface than in practice; some ogres, some heaven-sent, all intriguing. Despite how I perceived them then, it’s peculiar how often I wish I could revisit that strange and confusing world.
To be inducted into the peculiarities of a Catholic faith, one is expected to take on its varied and, sometimes, creepy iconography, all with a straight face, of course. Most of its imagery was benign in intent; pleasant representations of what it means to achieve selflessness and obedience. To be virtuous throughout one’s time on earth. Admittedly, these visuals and trappings could have a positive effect on the senses. Permeating aromas of incense, meant to ward off sin, mixed with the musky fragrance of expensive, aged wood, the beautiful yet painful-looking depictions of the man on the cross wherever you turned, benevolent saint statues reminding you that you were always being watched, as well as gossamer studies of children praying for absolution as Jesus floats, without strings, above their bed. And, priests and nuns resplendent in robes and rosaries, deep in prayer, imparting the notion that they had given up all things venal just for your benefit. Other representations were much more disturbing; likenesses of Joseph, Mary and baby Jesus, in rapture, their fiery heart bursting from their upper chest. While baffling in many ways, their effect could be comforting as well. And, once you believed in it all, you were captive. For a long moment, I did. This image reflects the period I was happily engaged in the parade, content to be accepted as God’s vessel and supplicant, while trying to ignore the bleeding heart below, engulfed in flames and poking from my rib cage.
From my first memory of it, Easter was honored by my mother in various, sometimes, excessive ways. The four children were looked after like dress forms; our Easter outfits were package-fresh: new pants, coats, bow-ties, underwear, socks and shoes whose leather was so stiff, they would chomp into my ankles. Of course, my sister would be decked out in her girly things, bought for cheap or handmade by my industrious mother. Dinner revolved around pasta pie and a fatty leg of lamb with its accompanying dish of imitation mint jelly. The apartment would be tricked out in cardboard rabbits, baby chicks, dozens of plastic, colored eggs, and a line of prized Easter baskets, full of candy and centered around a large, hollow chocolate rabbit nesting in imitation green grass. Our rooms reeked of the white vinegar used to dye hard-boiled eggs the day before, which our father hogged for consumption. The kids anticipated those baskets every year, the large chocolate bunnies slowly being picked apart over a period of a week. Seemingly, we didn’t express our gratitude enough over the decades so, one year, my mother decided to skip the added frill. This deletion had more of an effect on us than she anticipated, with me almost crying my usual crocodile tears. A year later, the fully-stocked Easter baskets returned but for the last time. She finally abandoned the tradition. This image is in memory of those unassuming days, and my tiny testament to how much more we appreciated my mother than she ever figured.
About midway through my early education, a stretch of just over eight years, I starting questioning my own wisdom, and from where it was being nurtured. At what point did I feel the need to become an altar boy and how would it serve me later in life? What were these original sins that I was being accused of and how often did I need to confess to them? Was sneaking a few hits off my mother’s L&M cigarettes really a transgression and must I be trotted off to hell for it? In the wake of being “touched” by the Lord a few times, I started to see through the magic show and how bound to the earth the fantasy of a Christian belief system really was. Seriously, walking around all Ash Wednesday with burnt palm ash smeared across my forehead was never going to free me from an imagined purgatory. This image conveys the moment I passed over to the introspective and non-theoretical, that maybe there wasn’t a holy plan, after all. The power of God’s symbolism was starting to wash off of me.
When I was a kid, the perception I was given was that the only people who’d risk having a tattoo were degenerate sailors, toothless truck drivers and cheap floozies. Back in those days, you rarely caught a glimpse of most tattoos as they were more likely to be discreetly buried under clothing. Today, tattoos have burst out into the open, sometimes engulfing an entire human, occasionally extending to the whites of the eyes. It’s like a form of mass hysteria, the need to permanently brand one’s body with a devilish mural, threatening skulls with flames for eyes, or a love note to someone who’s already dumped you for somebody else. Of course, one can’t help but respect the artwork and effort involved in permanently scarring yourself, but I’d never want to wallpaper my flesh in such a manner. This is my fantasy self, embellished with years of naughty or patriotic tattoos, tough and salty, reeking of bourbon and nicotine and ready to hit the town during Fleet Week.
My family was split into two, maybe three camps; bloodlines from Ireland, with a trickle of German, and the more dominant Italian extraction. As to dominance, I mean that most of our meals, relatives and funeral hysteria skewed Italian. The common answer to the question “What are you?” was either Irish or Italian, never American. The colder German component took a backseat to the others and seemed akin to a family secret, like a demented aunt they put away years ago. Neither of my parents were from those territories but their parents were. And, unlike the Italian holidays, for instance Columbus Day (when we were still allowed to celebrate it), the Irish put more rambunctious spins on their observances, the color green being the central theme to them all, and wildly revolving around drink. The Italian holidays were more focused on food and lots of it. Their saints and celebrations seemed hitched to pain and retribution, statues perpetually crying tears of blood, looking for someone to forgive them or put them out their misery. The Irish had saints tied to cold water sailing and one famous landlubber, Saint Padraigh, or Pat, whose super power was as exalted exterminator, possessing a warped fixation on snakes. And, having rid the country of the vermin, its half-starved and hard-working populace anointed him their patron saint, even though he most likely just sold shoes. Sadly, centuries later, St. Paddy’s Day seems more synonymous with drinking from 32 oz. beer mugs, wearing foam leprechaun hats, four-leaf clover antennas and dotting the parade routes with green vomit. Gladly, my Irish relatives were of the rosy-cheeked and gentle variety, having just a little bit of vinegar running below the surface but more interested in being good to each other and taking the occasional hit from a Ballantine Beer can. It was one of my mother’s favorite holidays and, if you forgot to commemorate her heritage with an inane Happy St. Paddie’s Day card, a five-minute phone call or sent her a bagel dyed green, there was some hell to pay. In this image, I embrace all things Celtic, Hibernian and touristy Irish. It expresses a cheerful irreverence to the subject and proof that my Irish ancestors would be highly embarrassed to have me as a descendant.
I don’t know what constitutes all evil but Catholics seem to perform a lot of it without even knowing. As young students, we were reminded often that an action as simple as having impure thoughts was enough to send you to the underworld. With that tidbit in mind, I’m guessing that the boys who peeked under the skirts of our third grade teacher as she walked by, were in for a big shock. As asserted by other holy scholars, merely seeing a strand of hair that accidentally slipped out from under a nun’s wimple was enough to condemn you. And, of course, the supreme evil of “touching oneself” would instantly put you on God’s hit list. There are other unhinged examples of what amounts to sin. On the second floor of my grammar school, at the far end of the hallway, stood a rectangular plinth which supported life-sized holy statues, interchanged almost yearly. One such statue was of Saint Lucy, or Santa Lucia, signifying heavenly light or vision. One arm, outstretched, held a paten, a small plate usually reserved for a consecrated host. On such plate were two toothpicks, the same kind you could find at the front desk of any Bennigan’s Restaurant. Alongside the toothpicks stared two eyeballs, as shiny as marbles. According to a very vague story, Lucy witnessed something impure. Children were simply left to fill in the blank because the nuns refused to clear up what she saw. I assumed that she came across some couple having sex in an ancient alleyway but you couldn’t get a straight answer out of these nuns. And, upon seeing such savagery, Lucy felt the only way to make good with God was to pluck out her eyes with the toothpicks. Now, who would do such a thing and with such unsanitary items? When I was about five, I accidentally walked in on my parents “doing it” but there was no way I was going to blind myself for it. It was punishment enough to have seen them in that predicament in the first place. And, to really confuse the hell out of me, the statue of Saint Lucy had two eyes still in her head. What miracle was this medieval woman sainted for? Was it for martyring her eyeballs or was it for her ability to grow an extra set? It was all a crapshoot in logic. Sin seems to be in the eyes of the beholder. Here, I’m embracing my inner demon even though I’ll never know what I did wrong.
Easter was one of three Christian observances when you got to see people you wouldn’t meet at any other time of year. I had the impression that most church-goers made it to mass if there was something to get out of it. Christmas, the big day on the calendar when Jesus was supposedly born, glowing with an 18-carat gold halo, in a donkey stall. It was regarded as the one day you had the best access to God’s love and mercy. Palm Sunday, when, without having paid a dime for them, you could get your hands on an armful of palm fronds, which were then contorted into various cross shapes and stuck on apartment walls until they were choked with cobwebs. And, Easter, when parents dusted off their kids, shod them in patent leathers, gussied themselves up in the biggest hats and newest outfits, and paraded around like a form of Bronx royalty, all to commemorate that Jesus scrambled back out of a cave and took off into the ether. This image pays tribute to all the fun and glee and self-love involved in the radiant pageantry put on each Spring.
Saint Valentine: The poor, venerated, but ultimately forgotten priest, who ended up having his head removed, all for spreading the positive facets of love and marriage. That’s a lot to pay for a bit of sentiment. Today, his special day is honored with cringe-worthy cards of fake affection, fattening chocolates, “heart-shaped” Necco wafers and overpriced dinners. And, certainly, some disappointments. For years at our home, walls, handrails, window frames and lamp shades would be strung with red lollipops, like you would faerie lights, or with cardboard Cupids and Valentine hearts espousing the want to be kissed or hugged. It was all the handiwork of my mother who refused to skip a holiday without turning the house into a commemorative showboat. We would all like to be loved or find it somewhere soon. This image is to meant to say that anyone can be struck by Cupid’s arrow, hopefully, without too much pain.
World War III and our nuclear eradication will most likely take place one day. Chances are, the end of times will catch us by surprise. It will probably occur while watching another pointless “American Idol” episode or while we’re about to sit down on the toilet. Its origin will be simple. Either by a country getting a side-eye from a close neighbor or by some careless child mixing up too many solutions from his Chemistry Set, unwittingly splitting a trillion loose atoms in his bathtub. His mother wouldn’t have a moment to be pissed off. I was kinda disappointed to have just missed out on the “Duck and Cover” air-raid drills of the 50s and early 60s. If the Cold War had any positive effect it was by allowing students a meager amount of time away from their ABCs to dodge headlong underneath their indestructible desk. The radiation would never know how to find them there. Here, I am gleefully looking towards a promising future on the day we all go to blazes. Obviously, I was standing a bit too close to ground zero.
