Ring-A-Ling

At this time of year, I prepare myself for my annual eclesiastic adventure. The weird thing is: I don't go to church anymore.

From day one, I popped out to be a Catholic. Everyone in my family, from way up the generational stream, it seems, is Catholic. Or, they all composed themselves in such a manner that, were they not baptized during their infancy, priests probably hunted them down because their guilt and prudence and fertility was such that the Catholic God on the Council of Almighties would not let these sorely deprived fathers rest until their souls were confirmed.

So, the family is Catholic.

I'm not. And, really, I don't think I ever was. As a child, I attended church skeptically. First, I didn't understand what they were trying to get me to believe. As soon as I did, I didn't like it. Sunday mass always incited my greatest rage, and I cultivated my skills at lies and deceit to avoid attendance. Once my parents found the paddle and whacked me one, I took some comfort in the fact that you can always wear patent leather shoes to church.

Once I got to church, I spent most of my time considering the silliness of monotheism. Okay, I didn't call it that. But, I obsessed about my inability to believe fully in what everyone else seemed so willing to repeat. I took to worry. I worried about the position of my hands in prayer, wondering if a Communist God, again, on the Council, might smile upon me for my petulance, send kidnappers with poisoned Twinkies, cover my head in a paper bag and steal me away to Moscow. I could see the Soviet God giggling over his great acquisition, with one finger over the button of course. And, as soon as I collapsed on the pew in fright for my fate, and my absolute certainty in my parent's disinterest in the possibility, I would tempt the other Gods with various hand configurations. With only fingertips touching, I would think, "I am now praying to the God of Asian people." With fingers crossed like kindling and sticks, I would proclaim to the God of the Navajo people. The absolute scariest risk I took was the prayer to the God of Robbers and Aliens, which could only be effective if I twisted my palms outside and linked fingers in a really uncomfortable way, and got my thumbs to touch. I had to hold it. This God, the scariest God, was the God that I believed controlled the worst element in my world-- those who sneak into houses for evil reasons. There was absolutely nothing scarier in my world than aliens and home invasion robbers.

There is absolutely nothing scarier in my world now, either.

And now, it's Christmas. Last year, I officially stated to my mother and sister that I would never again attend Christmas Mass, unless I decided that I would, but certainly not that year. My mom was cool. My sister was bummed, but also cool. She tried to remind me of tradition, and I tried to remind her that tradition kind of freaked me out. No one else cared. My partner was elated. This year, I hold to that commitment. I am so relieved that I don't have to work up the nerve to state all the reasons, preoccupations and misgivings deterring me from established religions, and I don't have to lie. Anyone who knows me knows that I couldn't possibly believe in only one thing. And, they also know that I really don't like to lie.

Feliz Navidad Goofballs.

Assault

I have counseled victims of crime that they are supposed to talk about their experience in order to shed the fear that lingers after the event. To that end, here I go.

On Friday morning, I walked to get coffee at 11am. I walked on the sunny side of the street to warm my face. I was two blocks from my work and one block from coffee when I saw a group of 6 kids walking toward me. They had the whole sidewalk. I wondered for a moment why they weren't in school because none of them could be older than 17. And then I stopped thinking about them and kept on walking. As we approached each other, I moved to my right. They did too. All of them. I slowed down, and they did too. All of them. And then they surrounded me.

All six of them pressed up against me and one kid pinned my arm to a wall. Three boys were putting their faces into my face, and pushing against me. One kid backed away and told the others to stop. He said, "Quit it; you're harrassing her." Two more backed off, but the three closest to me stayed where they were.

I said, "Excuse me." Then I said, "Okay, enough." Then I said, "Stop it." Only two boys remained, but they wouldn't let me go. Finally, one of them pulled the kid who had my arm away, but he wouldn't leave. He held on to me and kept asking me to let him talk to me. "I just want to talk to you, baby," he said.

It was so irrational, and there is no reason for me to be scared of this happening ever again. But it was also so irrational that I don't know how I can't worry about what happened happening again. The boys surrounded me en masse. I know they didn't plan it, but they all reacted like a swarm does, mindlessly and powerful because of the absence of reason. There is no way to predict the direction a flock of pigeons might take when they all leave the ground at the same time. And there was no way for me to avoid walking into the path of these boys who pinned me to a wall on Folsom Street for no reason.

When I got my arm free and moved on, I didn't look back. I thought, "I just got assaulted by a bunch of kids." And then I stopped thinking about it until another group of people came into view on the sidewalk. Suddenly, I didn't want to pass them and I didn't want them to pass me.

I spent most of the weekend thinking that I would prefer to work in a field where I wasn't trying to help kids like that. But I do. I thought that I would prefer to say it was senseless and no big deal because I wasn't hurt and there's no harm done. If I didn't do the work that I do, at least I couldn't think that this must be the universe telling me that my direction is wrong, or that I am unwanted in my profession, or that my efforts are pointless because there is no changing the fact that senseless acts are frightening. But I thought, and continue to think all that.

I am not scared, but I am so sad that those boys had to take my security away for a moment.