Stiff blue carpet and dark, wooden pews stretched across the expanse of the large church. My parents always chose to sit near the front on the right side. Even when we arrived almost late for ten o’clock Mass, my mother would rush my father, siblings and me up the aisle to squeeze into the last remaining spaces in the pew and crowd those already waiting there. Sometimes, when there was obvious space for a family of five, my mother would show a smug smile indicating how she perceived our invisibly reserved section, as if the other families knew not to sit there because we would eventually be coming.
What I also remember is the smooth-looking skin of the young, handsome priest and his brown eyes that resembled slightly melted M & M candies. He is the one standing next to me in the photograph which commemorates that rite of passage ordained for every second-grade child at St. Stephen’s the Martyr Catholic Church—the sacrament of Holy Communion, the First Eucharist.
I vaguely recall there were a few catechism lessons and practice sessions (how to place our hands—palms up, left one resting in the right like an oval candy dish), all of which were organized by a few religious education leaders and some parents. But how much could a group of seven and eight-year-olds really understand in regards to centuries old tradition and doctrinal teaching? It would be many years later until I finally started to understand the complicated theology of the Catholic Church. We were polite, though, as much as a group of white, suburban church kids are expected to be. Though I’m sure we shifted in our seats and picked our noses more than listened to the elementary-simplified explanations of this very important sacrament.
One thing I do remember well is the dress. I can still feel its crinkly pleated skirt and chiffon sleeves. Though I preferred sundresses and saltwater sandals, I knew this pristine white dress meant I was ready to receive the host—a small flat circle of processed bread-like ingredients, imprinted with a cross. This dress was like wearing an invisible palm over my mouth, I was such a good girl. To make my transformation as the “bride of Christ” complete, I also wore a small white plastic crown with an attached veil. But I didn’t feel holy or pious. Instead, I felt scratchy and confined. I submitted to my fate in the J.C.Penney department store girls’ fitting room. (Though I would realize that day of the sacramental Mass that I was merely playing the role, while inside I knew I perceived the divinity of Jesus in a more personal, relevant way.) At that moment in front of the three-way mirror, with my mother gushing over how beautiful I looked, I really did feel like a pre-pubescent bride. But it was all just a costume. This early veil-wearing experience would eventually ruin my desire to wear a wedding veil. Now all I can think of is how I already wore one and walked down the aisle, though I didn’t want to marry God; I just wanted him to love me.
It would be over ten years later, when I moved away for college, that I started to really define my own spirituality. Even though I would make more conscious decisions of the heart in junior high in regards to God, faith, and Creation, I didn’t have courage to change religious affiliations until I was eighteen. Even then, it was a fairly silent transition. I just didn’t go to Mass anymore. But I didn’t turn away from God; I simply started going with my college friends to the Presbyterian church that was within walking distance from our dorm. (None of us had a car, and it was the only church close enough to walk to, but they also warmly reached out to the college students.) I also joined “The INN”—a college ministry that met on Tuesday evenings. Their gatherings featured a worship band, overhead transparencies with the song lyrics, and intellectual, application-based teaching by a pastor named Mike. I embraced this new mode of religion, of grace and spirituality, because at age 7, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have a choice. I realized even at the time that the rituals, especially that processional of small brides and grooms, was more for our parents, as evidence they were raising good Catholic children and keeping a good Catholic home.
At age seven, I didn’t even know about fractions yet, how could I understand the Holy Trinity and the metaphysical transformation of bread to flesh, wine to blood? I didn’t revere the sacrament. I remember feeling more nervous and slightly scared, actually. I only cared about no longer being left behind in the pew while my parents and older siblings took Communion every Sunday at Mass. I wanted to swallow wine. I wanted to place God on my tongue and digest his body.
Though I understood the implied mystery of this ritual and the significance of my initiation into the sacrament, I didn’t learn to appreciate the symbolism of it until much later. It was at “The INN” one night before spring break with candles, acoustic guitar music, and surrounded by my closest friends. Pastor Mike ripped a sourdough mound of bread in half, like the round loaf found in the grocery store bakery section, and he said the same words of Jesus and the handsome priest. Then Mike placed the bread on the large wooden table at the front of the church sanctuary, next to two cups—one labeled wine, the other grape juice. Then in reverent fashion, we walked individually to the front to have our own moment with God. That night I walked to Him, tore off a wispy piece of bread, dipped one corner into the cup of wine and ate it. Rather than being compelled by tradition and family expectation, this moment was an act of love.
When I look back on the photographs from that First Eucharist Mass in the spring of 1982, I see the distinct discomfort on my face. I’m not smiling with my teeth showing like I normally do. Instead, my lower lip is biting my upper lip on one side. My hands are clasped tightly together, knuckles turning white, and one foot and ankle is rolled outward, so the sole of my shoe stares at its mate. The handsome priest has his right arm gently resting around me with his hand on my shoulder. He has a slow smile, like an awkward too-tall groom. He was maybe thirty-years-old and did not realize how many years away I was from really being married.
What I also remember is the smooth-looking skin of the young, handsome priest and his brown eyes that resembled slightly melted M & M candies. He is the one standing next to me in the photograph which commemorates that rite of passage ordained for every second-grade child at St. Stephen’s the Martyr Catholic Church—the sacrament of Holy Communion, the First Eucharist.
I vaguely recall there were a few catechism lessons and practice sessions (how to place our hands—palms up, left one resting in the right like an oval candy dish), all of which were organized by a few religious education leaders and some parents. But how much could a group of seven and eight-year-olds really understand in regards to centuries old tradition and doctrinal teaching? It would be many years later until I finally started to understand the complicated theology of the Catholic Church. We were polite, though, as much as a group of white, suburban church kids are expected to be. Though I’m sure we shifted in our seats and picked our noses more than listened to the elementary-simplified explanations of this very important sacrament.
One thing I do remember well is the dress. I can still feel its crinkly pleated skirt and chiffon sleeves. Though I preferred sundresses and saltwater sandals, I knew this pristine white dress meant I was ready to receive the host—a small flat circle of processed bread-like ingredients, imprinted with a cross. This dress was like wearing an invisible palm over my mouth, I was such a good girl. To make my transformation as the “bride of Christ” complete, I also wore a small white plastic crown with an attached veil. But I didn’t feel holy or pious. Instead, I felt scratchy and confined. I submitted to my fate in the J.C.Penney department store girls’ fitting room. (Though I would realize that day of the sacramental Mass that I was merely playing the role, while inside I knew I perceived the divinity of Jesus in a more personal, relevant way.) At that moment in front of the three-way mirror, with my mother gushing over how beautiful I looked, I really did feel like a pre-pubescent bride. But it was all just a costume. This early veil-wearing experience would eventually ruin my desire to wear a wedding veil. Now all I can think of is how I already wore one and walked down the aisle, though I didn’t want to marry God; I just wanted him to love me.
It would be over ten years later, when I moved away for college, that I started to really define my own spirituality. Even though I would make more conscious decisions of the heart in junior high in regards to God, faith, and Creation, I didn’t have courage to change religious affiliations until I was eighteen. Even then, it was a fairly silent transition. I just didn’t go to Mass anymore. But I didn’t turn away from God; I simply started going with my college friends to the Presbyterian church that was within walking distance from our dorm. (None of us had a car, and it was the only church close enough to walk to, but they also warmly reached out to the college students.) I also joined “The INN”—a college ministry that met on Tuesday evenings. Their gatherings featured a worship band, overhead transparencies with the song lyrics, and intellectual, application-based teaching by a pastor named Mike. I embraced this new mode of religion, of grace and spirituality, because at age 7, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have a choice. I realized even at the time that the rituals, especially that processional of small brides and grooms, was more for our parents, as evidence they were raising good Catholic children and keeping a good Catholic home.
At age seven, I didn’t even know about fractions yet, how could I understand the Holy Trinity and the metaphysical transformation of bread to flesh, wine to blood? I didn’t revere the sacrament. I remember feeling more nervous and slightly scared, actually. I only cared about no longer being left behind in the pew while my parents and older siblings took Communion every Sunday at Mass. I wanted to swallow wine. I wanted to place God on my tongue and digest his body.
Though I understood the implied mystery of this ritual and the significance of my initiation into the sacrament, I didn’t learn to appreciate the symbolism of it until much later. It was at “The INN” one night before spring break with candles, acoustic guitar music, and surrounded by my closest friends. Pastor Mike ripped a sourdough mound of bread in half, like the round loaf found in the grocery store bakery section, and he said the same words of Jesus and the handsome priest. Then Mike placed the bread on the large wooden table at the front of the church sanctuary, next to two cups—one labeled wine, the other grape juice. Then in reverent fashion, we walked individually to the front to have our own moment with God. That night I walked to Him, tore off a wispy piece of bread, dipped one corner into the cup of wine and ate it. Rather than being compelled by tradition and family expectation, this moment was an act of love.
When I look back on the photographs from that First Eucharist Mass in the spring of 1982, I see the distinct discomfort on my face. I’m not smiling with my teeth showing like I normally do. Instead, my lower lip is biting my upper lip on one side. My hands are clasped tightly together, knuckles turning white, and one foot and ankle is rolled outward, so the sole of my shoe stares at its mate. The handsome priest has his right arm gently resting around me with his hand on my shoulder. He has a slow smile, like an awkward too-tall groom. He was maybe thirty-years-old and did not realize how many years away I was from really being married.
**Note on Form: use of flash-forwards, treatment of authorial self vs. narrative self, and tone is meant to emulate what Hellman does in her first memoir, An Unfinished Woman. This was turned in as a three-page, double-spaced essay for Nonfiction II final, along with a five-page essay analyzing Hellman's nonfiction technique and style.
