Escaping "Catechismic" Disaster

On April 19, 1969 I received confirmation.  I was 8 years old. I wore a white polyester robe with a red collar. And on my head I wore a red beanie cap that looked suspiciously like a yarmulke with a pom-pom. Under my robe I wore my communion dress since it still fit me and my mother had spent way too much money on it at B. Altmans and Co. to only get one wearing out of it.

For Catholics, confirmation (like bar and bats mitzahs for Jews) symbolizes entry into adulthood from childhood. You, upon the Holy Spirit’s bestowing of 7 gifts (wisdom, knowledge, understanding, council, fortitude, piety and fear of the Lord), become a soldier of Christ. And I was to become this warrior of Christianity despite the fact I wasn’t yet allowed to cross Bolmer Avenue. Somehow, in the infinite wisdom of the Catholic Church (or more likely scheduling difficulties with the attending  bishop) I was mature enough to become a Christian soldier.

In preparation for the sacrament, I went to catechism classes. Every Wednesday at 1:00 pm, me  and all the other Catholic kids at Emerson Elementary school had “release time.” We took buses lined up in the front circle of the public school and were driven to Christ the King grammar school to learn all things Catholic.

Sister Mary Ann was my teacher. Sister Mary Ann called us public school animals. Sister Mary Ann wasn’t a beacon of Christianity. Sister Mary Ann’s didactic style was intimidation. Sister Mary Ann handed us a mimeographed  8  page single spaced question and answer spiritual  guide on the sacrament of confirmation which she expected us to memorize. Sister Mary Ann told us that at any point during the rite of confirmation, the bishop could ask us questions from that guide and if we did not know the answer verbatim the bishop would refuse us the sacrament. Sister Mary Ann further told us that the shame of the bishop’s refusal would bring un-restorable dishonor to our families and we, as individuals, would become a household pariah. 

Oh my—this was serious business.

I was only 8 years old. The questions and answers in the guide were so abstruse that even if we children could manage to memorize the script she gave us,we would have been clueless as to the meaning of its content. I had had trouble enough memorizing the Act of Contrition prayer which I admit despite rote recital, remained enigmatic to me until I was about 16.

And as the date of confirmation drew near, Sister Mary Ann would turn the screw more and more. She would  ask the class who had memorized all 8 pages. And kids raised their hands—including me.

But I lied. 

I didn’t want Sister Mary Ann to suspect my unpreparedness nor did I want to memorize those 8 pages.  I really didn’t care about becoming a soldier of Christ  I just wanted the confirmation money and the catered party. I just wanted my cousin Betty to become my sponsor and give me a gold bangle bracelet with my name engraved on it just like the one she had. I was an 8 year old kid with 8 year old aspiration and none of them included being a draftee in Christ’s army. So I took my chances and did not memorize one word of the confirmation Q and A guide. And for that, I suffered mental anguish.

At confirmation practice I noticed that I was seated in the middle of the pew and I guessed that the kids most in danger of the pop quiz from the bishop were seated at the end. But I still was very concerned. I also wondered if my lying had made my soul unclean and if and when the bishop bestowed those 7 gifts of the holy spirit on me they would  even stick—as if my lying  had coated me in anti-venial full-on mortal-sin Teflon.

But Confirmation day arrived as scheduled. And I was an emotional wreck. My cousin Betty sensed my concern, but simply thought I was excited and nervous about the sacramental bestowment. That wasn’t it at all.  I was concerned about being out-ed. I was a Catholic poser. I knew nothing about this soldier of Christ nonsense and I feared soon everyone would know it.

 My fate was to become a household pariah.

And the bishop, in his tall pointed bishop’s hat and his ornate bishop-ly garb processed down the aisle--but did not conduct a Q and A session as threatened by Sister Mary Ann. And when that chrism hit my forehead and the bishop gave me his blessing gifted from the Holy Spirit, I felt nothing but relief. It was the same relief I felt at age 17 when I got my driver’s license but knew I was a terrible driver. Those 7 gifts were bestowed upon me with the same ease that the DMV man issued me my driver’s license.  I had gambled my family’s honor and I had won the bet.

The bishop blew in, did his bishop anointing thing, and blew right back out again. But before exiting he did offer a photo op to the faithful—and people lined up and had their picture taken genuflecting while kissing the bishop’s ring.

 It seems surreal as I think about it now.

And despite becoming a soldier of Christ it took me another year before my mother allowed me to cross Bolmer Avenue. And my ¾ bell sleeved smocked linen dress from B. Altman and Co. was worn 3 more times—not by me, but by my 3 daughters. And my cousin Betty gave me my gold monogramed bangle bracelet that matched hers. I still have it. And my catered party was awesome—as was the confirmation money.