I was brought up in a Catholic family, sort of . . . My mother claimed she was a devout Catholic. My sisters and I assume my brother, all attended Catholic school to some extent, mainly throughout grade school. My father was brought up in what I assume was a non religious household from the south to which I’m guessing would have considered themselves Baptist if anything at all. My father was the type of man who fell asleep in church and ‘forgot’ on occasion that the words ’shit’ and ‘goddammit‘ were not acceptable during Sunday mass. Needless to say that my father was eventually left at home while we, his children, were pressed and dressed each and every Sunday.
There isn’t much I can honestly say that I learned from those torturous mornings other than . . . I am not Catholic in any way, shape or form. The only memories I carry with me of my ‘religious’ prelude: I routinely questioned the gentleman that had been so rudely nailed to that enormous cross (I mean, how fucking scary is that to a five year old)!! The other . . . I could count on the fact that I was sure to receive a ’tissue’ spit bath facial dealio each and every Sunday.
