The Puppeteer/1981

(My 16th birthday.)

When my brother Boi and I were teenagers, we started attending confirmation classes on Wednesday evenings. My best friend Cindy was in our class too. A petite nun named Sister Rosa was our teacher, but she wasn't mean like the nun from the Catholic school in Los Angeles which was a relief to me.

The confirmation classes were more indoctrination into the Catholic faith. There was no talk of a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. It was more about the doctrines of the Catholic Church, the holy sacraments. There was no instruction about repentance this religion like many religions, was an indoctrination of the things of man, man’s way of looking at God, not God’s way of looking at man.

Sister Rosa informed us we were going to the Cathedral next Wednesday night for Mass. I don’t know why I looked forward to going. Boi and Cindy were not as enthusiastic. _________________________________________________________ The rest of the week passed quickly as I worked arduously on the Dred Scott case in Mr. Sischo’s U.S. History class. I was determined to be the best pretend lawyer to impress Mr. Sischo, mainly because I had a crush on him. I was 16 and he was about 50.

On the day of the final he kicked me out of class but that was another story entirely, I misbehaved in his class I craved his attention. I did immature things like drop books on the floor when he was writing on the chalk board, and juvenile things like pass comic books to the students around me. But Mr. Sischo never noticed me, not like that. I didn’t even know what “like that” was, or if I even wanted to be noticed “like that”.

Momma and I went grocery shopping at Hanoian’s Market. There were no major outbursts between momma and daddy. I was grateful for every moment of peace we had.

On Wednesday evening, Mr. Soto the other Catechism teacher drove us in the white Church van to the Cathedral it was already dark when we arrived. Sister Rosa told us to file in quietly and sit in the designated pews. We all did the sign of The Cross, The Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit. The Mass began with all of its pomp and ritual.

I think the reason we came was to confess near the altar to the priest instead of kneel in a dark little room. I would be able to face the priest and give my confession then receive the Holy Eucharist. We would meet the priests before the altar, one on either side of the aisle. There were two priests receiving the confessions that night, one was a young priest with light wavy hair, the other was an older priest with horned rimmed spectacles. I wanted to confess to the older priest, but Cindy crowded in front of me and grabbed the priest I wanted.

I walked down the long aisle to give my confession, with such urgency as if to urinate. The priest stood at the altar like the groom in a wedding. I stared at him for a long time without saying anything. Suddenly I began to shake, in front of everybody without a reason. I stuttered. I don’t know what I was trying to say, if anything at all. I put my hands on his shoulders so I wouldn’t fall. I wept hysterically, grieving as if someone had died. The young priest asked me what was wrong.

“I’m a puppeteer.” I muttered.

At 16, I couldn’t stand to live my life anymore. Everything up until then had been a charade I needed to destroy as rotted skin. I couldn’t stand the strings attached to my body anymore, like thick hooks. But it was I who was the puppet, and I rebelled against the sheer hell of having my strings pulled. Momma and daddy had been pulling them for years, making me dance, since I was the well behaved child. I had been their personal Pinocchio, as unreal. I ripped off my strings, in Church, cutting the strings, with every lament.

I mourned. My mask had slipped. He led me, the young visibly upset parishioner outside. I was so distraught he had to hold me to help me get down the few steps. The night air was cool. The two of us sat on the cemented bricks around the cathedral. He was kind and put his arm around me to comfort me. The young priest was genuinely kind. I could tell he was from England from his accent. He was patient. He let me squeeze as many tears as I needed out. The tears like poison had been building up for a long time. I should have been grateful, instead I responded with anger.

I expected him to be a certain way, like Jesus, I guess, and when he lit up a cigarette, utter disdain came over me, as if nothing was right with the world. I struggled to get away from his grip, he held onto me with tenacity, until our hands tore apart like paper links. I needed to tear the world and start over. So I ran into the night to recreate myself in it.

I hid myself in pockets of darkness, away from the English priest who smoked his cigarette. I found part of a demolished brick wall to hide behind where I would be safe. This was my sanctuary. I couldn’t imagine why he would have been a priest. There were very raw and disturbed feelings inside of me love and hate became enmeshed. I wasn’t going to go back home.

Sister Rosa my teacher was the only one who began to look for me. I didn’t want to go home. There was nothing for me there. I loved momma and daddy, but they weren’t parents. I was looking for a father who wasn’t my daddy. I stopped having faith in daddy after he beat me when I was 13.

I remembered sitting on a bar stool in the kitchen in the afternoon with momma and daddy. Suddenly an argument erupted. There was never any rhyme or reason to their arguments. Daddy just started with momma, I was fed up, not thinking, as if to give a visceral scream, I spewed as venom the words, “I hate you!” But he didn’t leave it there. Daddy pulled his belt off to use as a weapon against me, his stronger hands pushed me to the floor. Before I recovered his belt descended upon me with such ferocity. Momma betrayed me and ran out of the front door all, of the kids followed her screaming, except for me, daddy kept hitting my legs, and pulling my hair deep from the roots. I think he got confused thinking I was momma. My eyes were blinded from all of the tears. It was the pain of all the force daddy exerted. It was the continued whips. I didn't know when he was going to stop. Daddy thundered a lot of words that instilled terror. For a brief second, I knew the fear momma must have felt all of these years. I didn't have the voice to scream, between breaths I sobbed. I can't remember if I begged daddy to stop or not. I was trapped.

However this was not the worst part of the story. The worst came after when the police came over, and arrested him. The female police asked me to take off my pants so she could see my legs. She told momma there were bruises and welts. My legs were still trembling like a baby deer learning to walk.

My two brothers Boi and Jimmy were visibly angry, blaming me for daddy’s arrest. They gave me dirty looks the next couple of days. I didn't hold it against Jimmy, but Boi was a year older and should have known better.

After daddy was released, he was watering the front lawn like nothing had happened. I don't know why momma sent me to call him for dinner. But daddy said I deserved what happened to me for talking back. Momma agreed with him.

I covered myself in the darkness this was my new home, away from everyone, nowhere. This is where I belonged. I didn’t know where that was, maybe that was here, sitting on the ground across the street from the cathedral behind a partially demolished brick wall.

For years I had a deep affinity with loneliness, I was invisible. What was I supposed to confess to the priest? I didn’t trust daddy to love me anymore. After daddy whipped me I made up a character named Avery to be my daddy. Avery looked a lot like Peter Sellers only he was kind. He didn’t live anywhere. If I could have climbed into the pages of my imagination, I would have.

These people didn't even look for me. But, I didn’t see a search party. No one scoured the pavement for me. It was just as well I assimilated into my new world. I was truly freed.

In my new world, I spied a dirty old boot just laying there it had been abandoned too. I connected with this object two discarded items that were destined to end up in a trash heap somewhere.

I don’t know why I made my way back to the cathedral, holding onto the old boot I found. As I saw the priest with the horn-rimmed spectacles from confession, I walked into the basement of the cathedral, to avoid him he appeared to be looking for me.

I was finally cornered in the basement of the Cathedral a small animal that had no place to go. The old priest stopped me from leaving by standing directly in front of me. There was no place to go but into his huge embrace. The priest held me in his lap, and cradled me with the dirty boot still in my arms. He held me like a baby until momma and daddy came to pick me up.

It was obvious to the priest that I didn’t want to go home with them.

“She is crying out for help.” He seemed concerned.

They always said that when they didn’t understand. But I wasn’t crying out for help, I was searching for the deep things and I wasn’t finding them. After he released me from his arms, the priest told momma and daddy that I needed to go see a counselor. There was a gaping wound inside me bleeding. If it didn’t get bandaged soon I was only going to bleed to death.

________________________________________________________

“Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 19:14) ________________________________________________________

The Lord Jesus came for the little children too, how often are children the victims of their parent’s failing marriages? The children suffer, being the victim of their parent’s anger, and of their frustration. My father didn’t mean to take out his anger on me but he did, and the pain stayed with me for years. I know my late father loved me, but my parents were consumed in their broken marriage for years.

We went to Church, but we were just going to a building week after week. Without a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, that is all it was a building with people in it. You are not connected, only The Holy Spirit connects you to the Body of Jesus Christ. We were only Catholics. Even though we went to Catechism we did not understand or know the Grace of God.

But I want people to know that God has healed this 16 year old girl I wrote about. I forgave my father of all that happened in the marriage. As an adult, I learned how hard it was for my parents to stay married without Jesus Christ. They actually tried very hard, and they loved each other at one time very much, but it wasn’t enough to keep them in their marriage covenant. They stayed together for 18 years but they were lost in the enormity of what it means to be married.

Only God can heal us through His Son Jesus Christ, through the Holy Spirit He gives to us when we truly repent.