I grew up the anomaly of my grammar school class, Saint Margaret’s School, class of 1981. The “anomaly” part was purely cultural as I was always a pretty nice kid, very social, and I just liked to please and I liked people.
Pearl River was known as “Little Dublin,” and I was, I believe, one of maybe four non Irish kids in my class. I asked my mother once for Irish dance lessons, and my friend, Cathy was in a feis, and she taught me a few moves. Fitting in is very important to a pre-adolescent. But, sometimes I felt “adopted” and out of place. I didn’t have anyone to share my traditions with.
Not understanding how important culture and tradition was, I was in shock that my Sunday, meatball and pasta ritual was not shared with others. Kids used to tell me they had a sandwich for lunch after Mass, and in my mind, I’m like, uh, “a sandwich, on a Sunday? Where the fuck did you come from?” My sandwich came the next day, leaking through a Bamberger’s bag, a meatball sliced in half, one half per Italian bread slice. They looked like two boobs if you opened the sandwich flat. My mother did not buy the handy pack of lunch bags at Shop Rite. Every lunch bag she used revealed where she shopped, indelible for all to read. Embarrassing.
She would slice an orange for dessert because I was chunky. Cute, but chunky. She took a knife and sliced sections from top to bottom so I could peel and eat. I think I threw it out half the time. I was mortificata.
The food isn’t where the contrast stopped. I started body shaming myself very early on. I had boobs…early. My grandmother had them. My mother was normal. My very skinny cousin had them, so we commiserated a lot, but she was still skinny, so I could not even exhume a fragment of sympathy for her. My hips were curvy, and I did not resemble a boy…I was jealous I didn’t…not in a masculine way, in a feminine way. I wanted flat. Flat chest, flat ass, and forget my thighs. OMG…the crowning glory…NOT! To this day, my nemesis.
I remember getting ready for a class trip in 8th grade. I wanted to be like the other girls, so I wanted Sweet Orr pants..do you remember them? The cargo pants of the seventies. Of course, spandex and Lycra were a thing of the future, so stretch wasn’t even an option. The night before I went to sleep, I took two big text books to emulate my spreading thighs, and put one in each pant leg, with the covers open. I prayed God would stretch my pants with the text books and they would fit me like they did the other girls. I was sadly mistaken. I stayed short, rolling up every pant leg, and I stayed “not skinny.”
My hair was also incredibly curly. That completely messed me up because I wanted that straight, nothing, pinned to your head like grease look, similar to getting caught in the rain. Instead, God opted for the white chick “fro,” which my mother kept short, and in the humid weather expanded like a whoopie cushion with even the slightest suspect of humidity. I started realizing my face wasn’t that bad, but everything else…I was just so different and unappealing.
My Nonna, my mother’s mother, was an amazing cook. Her immigrant Abbruzese roots spawned the best peasant food this side of Vasto…and she was always feeding me…her sheet pan pizza was not to be messed with, and everything else she made, I would eat. She skimped on nothing fattening…oil, butter, cheese. I think as a little kid I didn’t get it. But, after a while I caught on…this is yummy but it’s not making me skinny.
By the time high school came around, and girls were getting more feminine figures, some plumping out, others looking great in bikinis with itty bitty boobies. I only paid attention to the bikinis, small boobies and flat stomachs. Remember, Kate Moss, was my idol. She lived on saltines and ginger beer more than likely, and never gained an ounce. But, by freshman year in college, I had had it with the Italian thighs…so I went anorexic for a summer.
Do you remember the book “The Summer of My German Soldier?” This was “The Summer of my Anorexia,” by Linda Grace Perillo. I think it was the summer of my freshman year at Fordham, and I was a DJ on WFUV. I loved it. I lived for it. I loved talking, an audience, and after four years at the Academy, I had guys in my life. If you ever wanted to motivate a curvy girl to lose weight, this was it.
I was down to 105lbs. My skinniest ever. I followed Weight Watchers to a tee with measuring cups and a food diary. I did aerobics every morning. My clothes fell off, and it was joyous. Our PD, Dr. Jennings, lifted up my arm one day outside the studio door and said, “Do you eat?” I was so proud of myself as I ate a turkey sandwich with nothing on it, and one piece of bread. I wasn’t “Fat lard,” anymore. This only spurred me on to continue my dream of looking flat and Irish.
That summer, I went to Italy with my niece. I ate nothing but vegetables and a cup of pasta and fish every day. When I came home, I was so skinny my father looked at me and said, “Linda, you need a steak.” Oh, dad, you are so funny! Deathly skinny is in. Just ask the boys in my class at St. Margaret’s.
A few weeks went by and I managed to pass out at the beach with my boyfriend, and with the same boyfriend I passed out in church, and cut my lip and my tongue on the pew in front of me on the way down. He told my parents when I got home. The next day, I had an early radio shift, and I had just gotten my class three license for the patch panel, so I had no engineer and I had to get there with the tweet of the first summer starling. I got up at 4 a.m., and found a sticky note on my mirror: “Linda, even the President takes a day off.” I think there was a part of my dad that recognized my drive like his early on. He tried to save me. Ok, so being skinny had it’s drawbacks. But like my friend says: “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”
As years passed, and adulthood and pregnancy took its toll, skinny was a distant memory. Contrary to my belief that skinny was the bomb, my pregnant body was the bomb. I felt so beautiful, so Madonna and Child, that I didn’t care about the flat figure. Models like Kim Alexis, Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell were at the fringe of curve acceptance. They got wider as the years passed, and J-Lo proved, the latin thigh was sexy. Kim K shoved silicone in her butt to make it wider, and suddenly, in my forties, my body was “in.”
Getting older, I worked harder on my body than I ever did, and I finally reached acceptance.
Admittedly, when Brynn had a breast reduction three years ago, I was jealous. I’m short. 5’2 is short. You can call it what you want, petite, tiny, little,…I’m short. My boobs are half my torso, but I started to realize there are women out there getting implants to recreate what nature gave me. Victoria’s Secret makes padded push ups to achieve what I had naturally.
I’m gonna work it, work with it, through it and love it. I have a 24” waist, and bigger hips, and I will never have a small ass or thighs. The solution to my psychosis was working with what I had and making it the best it could be.
I have dreams of walking in my fourth grade classroom even though I hated my teacher, Mrs. Courtney. Oh my God…little shop of horrors. But, I would walk in proud of the Italian thighs, raised on my mother’s Carbonara, nonna’s pizza and fritelle (fried dough with ricotta), aunt Lena’s meatballs and sausage, and not care if I wasn’t “flat.” Keeping myself in check, eating right and omg, working out with trainer Greg, and cardio are the key, even in my early 50s.
But, loving yourself, telling the haters and the mockers, the bulliers to “F off,” is the most refreshing, liberating thing I learned from my Italian thighs. If you got it, girl…work it...someone is gonna love holding you at that tiny waist, even if your hips come out like a shelf. And if they have a problem with it, walk those thighs far, far away and put on the hot pants and blow yourself a kiss in the mirror like my daughter does…
Lots and lots of conversations with the Lord have happened during my “can’t move off the couch except to use the bathroom” period at 53 years old.
I never thought I would have the downtime I do, the quiet days I do, the time to finally write that I do. But, as I now concretely believe, God halts you in your tracks, sometimes without warning. We live our lives with great anxiety, rushing from place to place, minus moments of meditation and quiet…never realizing this is all temporary, and life, as trite as it sounds, is a gift…every moment of health is to be worshiped. It is short. It is temporary. Scary, right?
As what I defined as being a faithful follower of Christ and a devout Catholic seemed in place, I was unaware of how much of it was routine until now. Taught. Ingrained. I loved God with my whole heart, as well as my Catholic upbringing, but I started reflecting on that upbringing and what has changed. From my first day at St. Margaret’s in Pearl River in September 1973, until now, and growing up with my Aunt Lucy who makes Mother Teresa look like Gloria Steinem.
Most of it has brought me closer to the Lord in a very human way, not looking to God as the ultimate punisher of all that is wrong. But rather, to Jesus, as man, as human being, as a reflection of those he created.
Do we stray as Catholics? Yes, we are human, but that is the point. If we look at Jesus as forgiving and human, we might have better luck being better Catholics. But, as I encountered a post Vatican 2 Catholic rearing, some of what we were told to believe may defy what we should be doing as Christians, trying only to stay within the margins of Catholic Doctrine.
Pope Francis has shed much light and love and made great inroads into some of this fire and brimstone portrait. Loosening the reigns, just a little, might invite more back to the church, more freely, without anxiety and fear of diabolic punishment.
So, here is what six-year-old Linda thought, and what she thinks now:
Six-year-old Linda on Sin:
Bad, bad, bad. Hell awaits you for lusting after the cute boys at school. You will go blind.
Hell awaits you for daydreaming in Mass and praying for it to be over.
Hell awaits if you have a cookie one hour before Mass.
Hell awaits if your dress is too short or you wear a bikini…anywhere.
Hell awaits if you cheat on a test or throw half your lunch away.
Hell awaits if you don’t go to Confession even if you make it up.
Hell awaits if from 12-3 on Good Friday you don’t shackle yourself in solitary.
Hell awaits if you don’t wash your hands coming out of the bathroom stall.
Hell awaits anything that isn’t perfect or kind, or exemplary of a cloistered Monk. Anything foible and human deserves hell.
Fifty-three-year-old Linda on Sin:
We sin every day. We are imperfect beings and God knows that. We are sinful. The only specimen of human flesh who did not sin was the Blessed Mother, and sister. Let me tell you, nobody comes close to that perfection. She was created without sin, in order to carry and deliver incarnate, perfect divinity. Aside from that, she lived among sinners. The best saints sinned constantly. St. Augustine was a drunk, Mary Magdalene, a lady of the evening, Mary of Egypt, a total trollop, St. Dismas who was crucified with Christ just to name a few. But the key to recognition of that sin, is asking for forgiveness. We want to be “Christ-like,” we don’t need to be God-like. There is a difference. Sometimes just saying “God, I’m sorry I thought that woman was ugly.” “I’m sorry I missed Mass today,” “I’m sorry I forgot today was Friday during Lent and I downed that Chick-Fil-A.”
On judgement day, I believe, that God will not say, “You had a good run for 90 years, but we really have to discuss that Friday in Lent, 1983 when you ate Chicken Matzah Ball soup before I let you in.” No. Christ welcomed sinners to follow him to let them know love was the key…not doctrine or regiment.
Six-year-old Linda on Mass:
Shoot me now, please. Like most six-year-olds, I didn’t relish going to Mass. I found it a burden, and major cut into my Sunday morning Partridge Family marathon. My mother used to tell me it was 45 minutes, and the only obligation I had for the week. But, OMG, if Aunt Lucy was around for the weekend, this added an entire 15 minutes onto the ordeal because she would never, ever be late for church.
I’m not sure if there are too many kids who love Mass. My kids have matured into being okay with it, but the moans and groans still exist. I think a young child who is that enamored by their religious obligation probably isn’t really enjoying youth. It takes cultivation, maturity, understanding and life experience to truly value Mass. I think it is unnatural to expect so much from a child, which is why we keep asking, like Gianmarco does, “How much longer?” And Holy Week... just send me to the guillotine…Veneration…Holy Thursday Mass and oh no, evil of all evils…Easter Vigil.
Fifty-three-year-old Linda On Mass:
My respite. My Zen. My journey into spirituality. My time to meditate on the life of Christ, what he went through, what he tried to teach us about love and forgiveness even when it was most difficult. He was human. Was he divine? Yes. Did he have emotion? Yes. But Jesus as Jesus came for us to understand that we are not perfect.
My takeaway every week is gratitude…my life is actually dreamy compared to the trials of others, and I have learned not to bitch. When I ask the Lord to guide me, that takes hold of my conscience. He is constantly tapping me on the shoulder…saying, “Um, you, with the healthy kids and gifted life…stop bitching about stupidity. You have it all…pay it forward.” This does not mean that I have never, ever looked down at my phone, answered a text or headed into the shopping zone in my mind, ever…it happens. I am human. I own it. St. Teresa of Lisieux admitted there was a nun she found incredibly distracting.
“Formerly one of our nuns managed to irritate me whatever she did or said. The devil was mixed up in it, for it was certainly he who made me see so many disagreeable traits in her.”
If the beautiful St. Teresa could have an issue with another human being, well, then, who was I to think I was better?
As mother Olga would say, “All God asks is 45 minutes a week…and the rest is on him.” If we look at it that way, how can we argue the sanctity and grace we receive in that 45 minutes. That’s if we truly give those 45 minutes to God and ask him to lock the dial…
Six-year-old Linda on prayer:
Believe it or not, I was always a good pray-er. My mom taught me early about its powerful attributes, but a kid uses it for stupid stuff like “Blessed Mother, I promise the Rosary, every day, four times a day if I can get %^&*&^ to like me and kiss me behind the Five and Ten.” (I was older, then, lol). “Or, Malibu Barbie has a new Beach House…I really need it.”
But, in the rudimentary beginnings of our Catholic schooling, it’s all about the scope, right? What else would I be praying for? I was well-versed in every prayer from the first grade on, knew every mystery of the Rosary, every ancillary prayer to the Rosary, and funerals. But I did learn that prayer was important, and it was powerful and useful. Did I really understand its spiritual value? Maybe a little, but not fully. It was a means to an end…always a good end, like something shiny and new. But shiny and new eventually meant a resurgence of faith, and soul.
Fifty-three-year-old Linda on prayer:
The most unbelievable tool we have to keep us in touch with Christ. We don’t need to pray formally. Sometimes I forget my novenas, and think, screw it. Just go with it…If I need to pray, I’ll pray. God gets me, hears me, no matter where I am, or how I say it. As a matter of fact, he knows what I am saying before I even get there. The saints I love were people before they were saints, most of them in desperate need of conversion. Worse shape than I am, and through prayer, through God’s trust that they could be redeemed, they were. All through prayer. Prayer is miraculous. Period. It is our connection with God and his intercessors, and we need it every day, for everything.
God does not care what you are asking for, how much or when. He asked us many times through his Gospels to pray, pray, pray. Sometimes, as I am finding out even now, answers are not uncovered for years, weeks, months, or even the way we intended sometimes. But, when you are aware of the answer, you understand.
How else do you connect if we don’t connect with God in a spiritual way? We cannot connect with him in a physical way because He is not tangible as Himself, yet we find him in others. We find Him in answers to problems that we did not expect. We find him when others speak to us and we are inspired to find solutions or better, bringing us down a notch when we complain about our baggage going over life’s weight limit and yeah, having to unpack some shit and throwing it in another bag. This is all prayer.
It is not limited to the formalities of Adoration, Mass, sitting in church, holiday Masses, novenas, chaplets. God asks us, as His beings, His sheep, to come to Him, call on Him, ask for Him. Remember, he gets us…when Mattel made Barbie and Ken, they created dolls in an image of what they thought were beautiful people. God did the same thing. He knows better, always.
Six-year-old Linda on the devil:
Yikes. Scary shit. The devil. Lucifer. Beelzebub. Saddam Hussein. Bill Clinton, David Berkowitz, Charles Manson, Jim Jones, Jeffrey Dahmer... yes, he is many forms. But the devil I was introduced to in my childhood was a being. He was MF-ing ugly as all get out, that face and that tail, those beady popping out of your head eyes, horns like huge zits and a pitchfork. And all I knew is if I didn’t return the nickel overpayment to the guy who owned the pizza place on Central Avenue in Pearl River, he was going to steal my soul.
He was the vat of temptation and iniquity in its most ever-present form, and the true nemesis of Christ. You did not want to go within ten thousand feet of his pitchfork, and if you sinned once, just once, or looked at Sr. Thomas Joseph the wrong way, you were a goner.
Jesus could not save you from hell if you sided with the Devil. According to our Bible, Jesus did have arguments with the Devil, Matthew 4:1-11 and places Jesus in the wilderness with Satan himself. But Jesus does win every time. I think that was the message to kids…always err on the side of caution.
When in doubt, whip out the Rosary, pray all the mysteries from the joyful ones to those ugly sorrowful ones… and then he might go away. But be careful if you have one dirty or disrespectful thought… you are fair game for that ugly soul stealer.
53-year-old Linda on the devil:
Ok, time to dumb this down. Does evil exist in the world? Oh yes it does. Hugh Hefner, Larry Flint, El Chapo, Pablo Escobar, Al Capone, Harvey Weinstein, Al Qaeda, Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Eva Perón, Jeffrey Epstein, Snow White’s Stepmother, to name a few of the immoral and evil’s most personified. These creepers took what God gave them, be it creativity, power, trust, money and turned it into shiny gold, immorality while luring or destroying the innocent.
They certainly had diabolic plans, and the worst part is they knew it…they didn’t make mistakes, misunderstand, or “accidentally” act immoral. They preyed on the innocent for financial gain and fame, never thinking they would have to answer to a higher being. Yes, temptation at its best, right? They just said yes to “evil,” flat out, not caring about anyone but themselves, morphing into the devil incarnate among us.
But, the Catholic school devil temptation of good, everyday people is, in my opinion, a little overboard. Sometimes, as I have learned, what we might view as temptation, if we listen closely enough to God, is actually God repositioning us and making us think in real time. He’s urging us to listen to what he wants from us, sometimes taking us out of a place we thought was so right and binding.
In God’s world, there is no such thing as cement. We feel so contracted to the written law, like the Jews, that what is fire and brimstone, good and bad, black and white, basing it all on punishment, that we don’t allow Jesus to take the wheel and move us all over the board. We feel it might break a vow, destroy a relationship, promote immorality…(like my kids wanting to move in with their significant others).
But it’s the rigidity that promotes the schism. Not that we should bargain with God, but I think sometimes his message is, “not everything is a sin. Change is not a sin. Weighing things is not a sin. Not loving and fortifying understanding is the sin. Anything pulling you away from God into the lust of the netherworld and dragging others with you is the bigger sin.
Meeting someone, like your kids, where they are, is actually more promising of a relationship with you and them and Catholicism than dismissing them to stand your ground. This has been a difficult one for me. When I met my husband, I was divorced in my mid-thirties with two children, and I still wouldn’t move in with him. Now, I’m getting divorced.
So, keeping those morals 100% in check because I was supposed to, didn’t really make a difference. But God stopped me in my tracks to say, there are greater sins, those which are blatantly committed than allowing me to change your life. The marriage vows you took were with sincerity, but as a follower of mine, I need to pull you out of a situation that is not for you, for there is a greater, more fulfilling, abundant love which will bring you and your family closer to me. This marriage, when you look back, tore you away in small pieces, and trickled onto your children. You are not sinning. You are listening. Don’t push me away.
Six-year-old Linda on clergy:
Yeah, I was around a lot of clergy. Although nuns are not considered clergy, I am going to box them in because between Aunt Lucy and everyone who taught me from St. Margaret’s to AHA has this “special” place in my heart.
They were interesting, that’s for sure. I could not understand, how the nuns could “choose” this way of life. Why wouldn’t you want to put on make-up, do your hair, shop, wear different clothes every day? Why would you want to live with six-foot statues that look like their eyes are following you into the bathroom? Waaaay after six years old, I started thinking about the sex part, and was like, WTF.
I remember overnighting in Aunt Lucy’s convent, and even though the nuns fussed over me, offered all kinds of wrapped goodies, which I thought were a lure into the sisterhood, I could not understand this choice. No good food, old, simple living accommodations, no fluff. No pretty anything.
The nuns who taught me bore the same demeanor for the most part, wore heavier habits, and looked really old, even when they were probably 30. I think they all looked the same, every day, even after I graduated, and they finally passed away. It was like spiritual formaldehyde.
At Holy Angels, some nuns tried to integrate by porting a delicate piece of jewelry, no habit and maybe a change of polyester skirt. Nope. Still didn’t get it. I respected them, but I wasn’t having it. They never seemed to be aligned with real life issues. I mean how could you be when you’ve probably never kissed a boy, used a tampon, shopped for fun stuff, ate anything that wasn’t wrapped in tin foil or came out of a musty cabinet.
Priests, in my estimation at six, probably co-habituated with the Munsters on 1313 Mockingbird Lane, with the same “cuckoo” clock Herman and Lilly had that was a black raven cooing “Never More” at bewitching times of the day.
They reminded me of ghosts, or spirits that floated around, appearing only for Mass, were sermonizing zealots who were as perfect as Christ, and the more important, intimidatingly unapproachable.
I never understood their homilies, found them long, boring, painful and irrelevant to the life of a kid. I used to think unlike the nuns, they were born this way. They had no youth, or understanding of it, and akin to a groundhog defying death to cross a busy road to get back to their den, they skirted in a circuitous movement, serpentining from church to rectory to avoid the congregation.
They were impenetrable, and taboo, melting like the Wicked Witch of the West to the human touch. Aunt Lucy revered them as though she was their faithful subordinate. But looking back, it was the nurturing nuns who did more to cultivate my relationship with God and definitely the Blessed Mother than any priest.
Fifty-three-year-old Linda on clergy:
Nuns. I thank the nuns, and certainly my aunt, who was a teacher, earned her Master’s, and started the first Catholic Montessori nursery School in the state of New York, for allowing me to connect with my nurturing prowess.
Women nurture, and even the strictest of nuns I encountered had some particle of maternal instinct. In their hearts they are married to the Lord…he’s the husband they are dedicated and faithful to.
They are allowed to have jobs as nurses, teachers, and most have the innate desire to nurse, which served me well. I found the nun who slapped your ass with a ruler or who wickedly drooled and smiled like Annie Wilkes in Misery when your wrapped knuckles bled are either ficticious or few and far between. I never encountered these nuns. Ever. Ok, a scowl, yes, always.
Sister Norice, my principal at AHA probably wouldn’t smile even if Jesus himself wanted to reenact the Transfiguration in front of her eyes. Personality is personality, but I learned to respect their devotion to the Lord. I learned that, contrary to what I learned about priests, their devotion was pure. They would not participate in the Angels and Demons set up of power the priests were. They were never even given that opportunity to lead a parish, when actually, they probably would have done a good job leading a congregation and coming down to a lay person’s meeting point. Do I regret not being a nun? Um, no. But, as an adult, I have learned to understand and respect their choice to serve the Lord, and admire their simple lifestyle.
Priests. Still a little daunting, but we are getting better as time goes on. Unlike the nuns, I do think, a thought even fifteen years ago I would have choked on, that priests should marry. To be reverently idiomatic, men are hunters. They are not nurturers. They need….um, let’s say, flesh. Yes, they need sex, and celibacy is completely unnatural to ask of any man, no matter how they “roll.” How can you ask a man, (yes, a woman, too, but I think that’s easier), to “keep it in his pants,” and perform his job and duties naturally? It’s a complete contradiction and I am sure, an uncovered frustration to what God created man and woman for: procreation.
The Garden of Eden started out with Adam. Alone. Then, God, yes God, thought he needed a mate…so he gave Adam a…car? A chalice? NO! A woman! Why? To be his mate and make babies! Read between the lines… and this is God…for Pete’s sake!
Did I think this as a kid? No.
Priests were untouchable eunuchs, not even human enough to be looked at as attractive or let alone a sexual being. However, as priests have become more human, interacting more with the outside world, leading parishes and migrating among the congregation because they feel less separated than they did at the turn of Vatican 2, it’s becoming apparent, that by choice, they should marry if they want to. A friend of mine who is a bishop has always said to me, “we should have the option.”
My girlfriend from childhood and I used to laugh that “Father What a Waste” never existed during our time. But leave it to the Italians, at Vatican/Basilica central to come up with this: https://www.thetalko.com/12-hottest-priests-that-make-you-want-to-confess-your-sins/
Even Pope Francis admitted he fell in love during his teens but had to turn off what came naturally in order to enter the priesthood. When approached about priests and celibacy, he admitted the Apostles were probably all married:
“Certainly, the majority of the Apostles were married. In this modern age, the Church must observe these things. It has to advance with history.” Indeed, while Archbishop of Buenos Aires, the future Pope Francis acknowledged that “the celibacy rule is simply one of tradition and is flexible.”
If a priest falls in love, as nature intended a man to do, he is more likely to suck at priesthood if he is kept away, and if he leaves the priesthood for the more natural path of marriage, is he punished for his honesty?
He should be lauded for his honesty, allowed to preach as a deacon, and the church should say, “Psych! Look at this, a happy guy, with a faithful wife who will get more involved in the church on a layman’s level, more relatable to the congregation, and get this…bring more Catholics into the world…cha-ching!” My God, isn’t that a win-win?
From six-year-old Linda, to fifty-three-year-old Linda, I think this is a better move to open up the doors of the church not only for its leaders, but from the standpoint of a cradle Catholic who believes that priests need to come off the throne, and sit on one of those hard, cold, stick up your butt chairs used in every alary church gym or cafeteria around the world.
A priest can certainly argue they are “approachable” or “understanding,” of real-life issues, and are bound by the Catholic dogma or margins of the church, which is good. But to relate to genuine dilemmas of a layman, they must be able to relate, and I don’t think they can appropriately or authentically do that “if their kingdom is not of this world.”
Christ came incarnate to relate to us, to understand us, and in turn for us to relate to Him as a human being. If He did not suffer “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” as he did for us, we could not call him the true savior of mankind. We love Him because He was human. We love Him because we can relate to His pain, to His doubts, to His tears, to His joys, and understand His teachings because they were based on love and simplicity.
This fifty-three-year-old cradle Catholic believes with true and adoring faith in the Lord, that in order to truly love God, we cannot look at him, or the Church as dictators of the Church in the 1500s, but as is the entire point of Christ’s life in the New Testament, rather than what we were waiting for as descendants of the Jews in the Old Testament. The Messiah was not the pontificating, unapproachable priest on the altar, or the nun with the wrapped Twinkie and bloody ruler. He was a human being, and without moving towards that element, the Church, I believe will lose more and more of its congregation.
Am I advocating a free for all? Absolutely not. I am advocating for reasonability in a time when people have lost faith. Come down to the humble, more human level of those who want to love God in their way, whether they are divorced, gay, clergy who want to marry, fallen away Catholics who are afraid to return because of chastisement.
The Lord God made imperfection. We all sin, but as Catholics, we need to see Jesus as the Shepherd who will not turn us away, and if the Catholic church is what we believe to be the most powerful representation of Jesus Christ, they need to lower to those standards of judgement and call clergy, nuns, and layman to forgive, be forgiven, and most importantly, the greatest Commandment…To Love One Another.
So, for those who know me…some call me sensitive, lots say I’m dramatic, but those who truly know me know I am devoted, driven, goal oriented, and love harder than anyone they know.
But, the one who knows me best, and has opened my heart and my eyes to myself is the Lord.
I pray. All the time. Sometimes they are formal prayers, like Novenas, my mom’s legacy, the gorgeous Memorare to Our Lady and now my new bestie, St. Rita’s novena, (she absolutely has me in her registry as a nutcase), my ancient Act of Contrition, which, btw is waaaay off base with the one my kids know.
Mostly though, my chats with the Lord are in the vernacular, the way he made me…chatty but real. Deep thinking, but deep loving.
When I busted my achilles, in the middle of a very difficult, emotional time in my life, I was angry. So angry. I was beginning to heal, piece by piece with ardent self persuasion every day, trying to inject myself with reflexive feelings of self worth, determined to self soothe. I thought I was going to start sucking my thumb again.
I asked God every day for new life, new love, and more importantly, acceptance of a difficult situation, trust in his new plan for me, and the most important, appreciation of the blessings around me, which, admittedly, I was ignoring.
So, here is how this very devout layperson segued into an even stronger relationship with God.
GOD to LINDA on DIVORCE:
Look, I gave you beautiful children. You were made by me to nurture and love, and care. Your choice of men to give you those children was not the best for you, but you took one for the team in order to bring these new, precious, talented, healthy lives into the world.
Now, as you have matured in your thoughts on candy-coated love, I will send you someone eventually, who has already been through the wringer, made tough life choices, but is as deeply rooted in family and faith as you are.
You were too busy raising the family I sent to truly understand marriage love. You deserve a partner…even if it is for the next thirty years. You will continue to raise your children with an even deeper faith, no combativeness regarding Holy Days of Obligation, receiving Communion, and Mass will be a holy, amazing part of your weekend. You have followed me, cared for the fragile lives I have sent you, and continued to pray, even though it was at times to lose weight and gain muscle. And, you did gain muscle. Spiritual muscle. You continued your devotion to my mother Mary, and my word, even when you could have ditched us at the bad times. Your blind faith has led you to an amazing reward, which has not been revealed yet. It is coming. I promise.
Nothing is impossible with me.
But, listen, seriously, cut yourself some slack and be patient with yourself. All that is coming is a TBA without warning. Just keep bugging St. Rita. She’s an Italian woman who gets you…
LINDA to GOD:
Oh, I see...so all this transient pain, death of my parents, my brother, my cancer, failed marriage was leading up to a better life at 53? God, seriously? If I wasn’t so immersed in my Catholic faith, I would have gone evangelical…less rules, better music.
But, I have learned to trust you more and more each day. There is no verbal conversation between us ever. It’s usually me ranting in my head like a madwoman begging for peace. I get it. It would be really weird and unstable if I heard your voice on the phone or through my computer. Your responses come vis a vis mini epiphanies or a sudden revelation of some skewed path I don’t understand until it straightens. You did say your true followers would endure more than the less faithful. These are all crosses, but can I be done, please?
GOD to LINDA on INJURY:
As a follower of mine, you are never “done.” My followers don’t take breaks. But, I did say to hand me that cross, and I will walk with you and take care of you. You need to learn for once, that it’s ok to be cared for, and despite the fact that you feel unloved and completely worthless because you couldn’t “fix” your marriage, I had to detach your achilles to contain all your pent up adrenaline, give you anesthesia and keep you off your feet and dependent for weeks so you could finally understand how Linda’s love, her faithfulness and parenting has inspired others.
You needed to be shown the love you doubted, and feel valuable. Someone once said about me, God, I don’t make junk. You were very easily throwing yourself on the junk heap. Cut the crap…yes, I am God, and I said, crap…because it is. I have watched you grow your entire life. I created you in my image...even the Italian curves you possess, and the cellulite you hate. Even when Aunt Lucy made you crazy spitting out your breakfast an hour before Mass, I had you pegged for my spiritual team. You have not failed me. To doubt is human…and, may I also tell you that not every doubt, or question you have is fueled by a tug of war with the devil.
It is me, showing you a different life and a different path you were not aware of. A life you were made for, even if I instilled a holding pattern into your 50s. Your best life is just beginning.
LINDA to GOD
Boy are you tough…we did not have to go to these lengths to renew my life. But, as you said, you created me and you know me, so I needed to get hit over the head “with a 2 by 4, as Mario used to say…” which is really the only way to get my attention.
But, I will admit to you, I have seen more and more love, genuine love and caring every day I have been disabled. I am loved. Period. Those around me have given me unbridled comfort. Relentless care, renewed friendships and unconditional kindness and emotion. Some say I inspire them, which I find quite dubious…how can I inspire anybody beyond taking a shower, wearing make up and getting lash extensions.
I inspire because you infused me with love that I share? Is that it? Doesn’t everybody love this much?
I thought love was love…isn’t that what that Lib Lin Manuel Miranda said? I think at Confirmation each candidate needs to write a thesis on St. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians…1 Corinthians !3. It is clear that “love” isn’t just making out in the backseat at a drive in…it is harsh, yet beautiful. It is sacrifice coupled with the purest emotion we can share. I think pre cana couples need a week to understand this content and believe it. But, in the four short weeks since my injury, and seven months since my separation, I got the Evelyn Woods version from you of what it means and doesn’t mean.. romantic love, mother/child love, friendship love, girlfriend love, neighborly love, and God love. I am surrounded and appreciated by so many, and in turn, I feel more confident and whole every day.
GOD to LINDA on MARRIAGE:
Ok, knock this off. Like now, ok? I created you to be a wife and a mother.
You flew through acadamia as a Summa Cum Laude graduate, published writer, and almost owned a company. But, you were not created for those roles…you were created to show love to others, even when it was not accepted.
You were created to go through the trials of carrying and delivering new life. You embraced it with immense fervor and passion…you called on my mother for help every step of the way, even when you lost your own mother when Devin was born. You never said no to life, even in your late forties. We cut a deal, remember? You said healthy, and I said “how many?” Together we accomplished the task of procreation and new life…that was your purpose.
But marriage…you think you failed? How? Broken vows? Where does it say I will punish you for broken vows when you entered “willingly and without reservation?” You are a human being, and foible. You did not predict a change of events, cause them or ask for them. That’s my job. You went into marriage with your whole heart…and I know that.
Vows are not always broken on the side of sin, sometimes I need you to be somewhere and then, somewhere else. If you entered into your commitment with full intent and purpose, there is no sin. Entering knowing it was not your commitment is the sin. But trying to hold on to your commitment and realizing I have other plans for you is more faithful than playing the game of commitment. with doubt, or in your case, farce.
Remember, surrendering to my will, no matter how it looks on the outside world is the challenge.
You have not failed. Love comes in many forms, and you are worthy of great love, for you have shown me what you are made of.
LINDA to GOD:
Sometimes I don’t get you. But I’m not supposed to get you all the time. I’m supposed to give in to your plan. And, these past few weeks have made me do just that. I have changed my view of myself and my circumstances. I don’t bitch about the little things anymore. You have given me the gift of a resurrection within myself. And, the gift of recovery, not just physically, but emotionally. Some people are in a place where they cannot recover, physically or emotionally.
You have to know I tried. I tried to make my marriage work…I feel guilty for failing at my vows, but you are right…vows are not always broken for wrong, cheap reasons. Sometimes they need to break in order to move on to new life. A more valuable life.
I did not walk away. I tried, even in moments of sadness and darkness I tried. I tried for my children.
I had a revelation while I sat under St. Joseph at May Crowning yesterday… St. Joseph did not speak in the bible. Would you? I mean, wow, first you haven’t even kissed this woman, then you find out she’s pregnant, and not even because she was messing around in some desert dune, but because, um, God made her pregnant with the Savior of the World? What a mind “F”. Like really, this poor guy…he was like 15…
And, what does he do? He becomes the poster boy for stepfathers. Faithful, faithful, faithful. Trusted in God’s odd plan, and went with it. I prayed that he would send me someone, some day that would share my faith, my intense devotion to the Lord, go to Mass with me, pre cana, deliver the Gospel in its many forms to others, and for my children, solidify the faith in my home from a father’s platform.
St. Joe is the strong silent type, so I didn’t hear back, but some day I will.
LINDA to whoever is out there:
I made a new hashtag…it’s called :
I told a friend recently that whoever puts themselves in my path again looking for my never ending love has to be able to “abdicate the throne.” King Edward abdicated for Wallis Simpson. The abdication was just symptomatic of how deep his love went for her. No walls. No boundaries. No bargaining, abandonment, no question.
Because whether love is romantic love, friendship love, child/parent love, it needs to be selfless, all encompassing, passionate, doubtless and unconditional.
After the love I have been shown in these past few weeks, I will no longer “sell” myself as a parent, a wife, a friend. I know I am worth walking through fires…because whoever I chose to love is worth it, too.
All I need is God’s plan, and God’s hand. We have been talking a lot…we’re good now.
Check out this feature in Bergen Magazine.
Maybe I am a kindred spirit with Selena Gomez.
We are both July 22 babies, she had lupus, so did my grandmother, she needed a kidney transplant, and I lost a kidney to cancer. I think she is a lovely girl, seemingly different from the pot-smoking, pill popping Starbucks clutching, Patron shooting celebs of today. I wish I was her age; I wish I looked like her, but, wait, she’s been through a lot of shit in her 28 years.
She probably thought her life would end with Barney… because as the mother of two young thespians, the goal is achieved at the time it is achieved… the lead in the school musical, the bit paid employment gigs, and boom…you are defined by fourteen or eighteen because there is no Baba Vanga and Jean Dixon meet and greet to tell you the life you bob and weave through now may be totally different than it will ever be when you are thirty. Enter wisdom… enter hindsight… enter the hungover Monday morning quarterback still wreaking of Doritos and Bud Light. Smelly, vile, but it got your attention.
So, Selena. I guess she offered her world and her “old soul” to Justin Bieber a few times, and although he didn’t roll down his limo window to spit at her like he did an adoring fan, he buried her beauty in his own insecurities, and like we oh so nurturing, insecure sensitive July babies tend to do, we take it on. We believe who Justin says we are…and we just keep trying harder and harder to conform, to make Justin happy, and then, the pivotal moment of destruction, the implosion of all that is good in our souls results in the interment of our heart in a shallow emotional grave via rejection… and we take it on because we couldn’t do enough, be enough, jump harder, more hoops, more energy, like an exhausted poodle and PT Barnum. And when you are done performing for the day, all energy expelled, waiting for the treat and the accolade of acceptance and obedience, it doesn’t come. Your only job is to try harder, because maybe tomorrow is the day.
Obviously Selena and I do not know one another. Through the magic and filth of social media, I know her very well, and this cute little Latina, through her trials at only 28, gave me a gift: her song, “Lose You to Love Me.”
We are all told we need to “love ourselves” in order to be loved. It sounds like just a trite little crumb of pretty advice to get you to self empower, kind of of like Stuart Smalley’s Affirmations on SNL. But, I am living it more and more as I crawl out of the catacomb of divorce. What did my love Keala Settle scream to the world in The Greatest Show…”I am brave, I am bruised, I am who I’m meant to be…this is me.”
I am Linda. I am a writer. A great writer. I am not an angry writer. I am truthful. I am an overbearing, nurturing pain in the ass mother who lives for her children every day of her life. I am funny… I have a good sense of humor and can initiate humor and not just laugh at someone else’s jokes. I’m chatty, but I can talk to Mr. Bean and still have a conversation. I have body shaming issues since I was twelve because I always had boobsand an assnow I’m proud of those Italian curves. My father gave me money to live the rest of my life comfortably because I was his child, and I will spend that money on others who may never, ever have the opportunities I did or give to their friends and family like I can. I will cook and give to others and not be ashamed because it is what I was given by the Lord…the gift of kindness and talent to bestow upon others. I will no longer be embarrassed by my generosity… from the smallest task to the most gargantuan show of love. I don’t care if I haven’t cleaned out my closet or my office in a decade… I was busy taking care of my family. I chose, instead of running a business to be a wife and a mother. I am not a failure… I have learned my level of giving and dedication and devoirs to my vows is unprecedented. I don’t walk away from commitment or obligation. I stand firmly in that promise to my children, and I will not walk away from them. My dedication to the Blessed Mother and the Lord will not waiver… it is genuine. I don’t care if the sermon at Mass sucked or was pontificating and condescending. I was there to receive the Lord. I am proud of what I have accomplished as a Summa Cum Laude graduate and the choice I made to be a mother and wife instead. If someone does not appreciate the beauty that is Linda, well, I have learned to. And, the most amazing part is that my mirror was delivered by others… those who have shown me love at a difficult time in my life. Those who came out of the woodwork to offer help. Those who call me strong, and my friends who love me for who I am and who call me an inspiration. I made a difference in someone else’s life. Even the smallest difference is my purpose on earth. My purpose is not to bolster someone else’s insecurities or be a punching bag, it is to give all I am warts and all to someone who loves me unconditionally, cuz guess what, nobody is wart free.I have learned that love and forgiveness are not easy sometimes, yet, are easy… and liberating. So liberating. I will not promote hatred or sneers… it is uncomfortable. I am human. I fail. Every day, but I will not be defined by a messy closet or unfinished paperwork or clutter. My focus is on other things… I am a cancer survivor with a penchant for living. I will not waste my life or wallow in pity.
My Italian guilt and tears will initiate my reactive demeanor, but after that, it’s all hands on deck. So, to those who put me down, see me as a Real Housewife of NJ..FUCK OFF. You don’t know me. For the first time in about 30 years, I am proud of who I am, and what I have to offer, and I will never, ever be a salesman for myself…if you want me, you need to work for this…give up what I am willing to give up for you, compromise like I compromise and love so fucking hard…like I do.
And, remember all you Nostradamus' out there….not so fast…just when you thought the Lord had you firmly planted in your life…think again. Not every temptation to change your life is the devil, or evil…sometimes God is bringing you on a journey you did not expect because you deserve better…or different…or because someone else needs you. Let Him take you there.
Yes, Selena, thank you, because, after 30 years of conforming and giving in to someone else’s happiness, I had to “lose you to love me.” And, I did.
I went to get a flu shot at Wegman’s in October, (they are the best, truly), and as the pharmacist was going through my health history in a prequel to the next event, the big scary needle (not), she asked about cancer. “Yes, in 2004 I was diagnosed with a malignancy and had a left nephrectomy.”
“Really?” She replied? “Well, congratulations on being a survivor.”
A survivor? I don’t really consider myself a survivor in the true sense of the word. As we remember October as breast cancer awareness month, I think of all the women, especially my mother, Olga who braved hair loss, nausea, near death days, fear of the unknown, fear of dying, days and nights in the hell that only a lonely hospital room can bring, trepidation of what your demise as a mother will do to your family, fear of not having enough control to save yourself, and all the lucid and non lucid dreams this diagnosis can bring.
After a clean five years, my mother’s stubborn tumor resurrected itself and that was the ultimate demise. Her battle ended shortly after her second diagnosis as soon as my first son, Devin was born. But, that’s a post within itself. She was not a life time survivor. And even though technically I am a survivor, I don’t feel I deserve the accolade in comparison to what real survivors endure. Unless of course, the “surviving” isn’t just physical…it’s a mental fuck that prepares you for the rest of your life.
But, I will tell you where I am a survivor, I survived fear. A cancer diagnosis right to your face is the most unbelievable life-altering event one can have. The details are in my book of that fateful day, but over and over like a bad episode of the Brady Bunch (“Mom always said don’t play ball in the house”), it repeats and repeats in my ear every day of my life. Just one excerpt from that night replayed in my brain brings me right back there…in the flesh, to that very moment in the Valley ER in my white go-go boots.
I actually fainted, I thought that was in the movies, or when Wilma found out she was pregnant with Pebbles on the Flintstones and Fred passed out. No, it’s real. An out of body experience you hope you wake up from like waking up from a dream because you have to pee, and it’s over. It wasn’t over. That will never be over.
When my father passed away from Lymphoma in 2003, I knew cancer was our wrath…an uninvited force…you think hell hath no fury as a woman scorned…try cancer. Its scars are indelible, whether you survived a torturous physical war, a minor one, or the voyeur to a loved one’s struggle, there is no pain, no wound, no loss of human control that rivets the emotions. You writhe in the agony of helplessness…waiting for every test result, gauging the look on the doctor’s face when he walks in the room to deliver news…any news. It’s an all consuming divet in the road of life that you cannot trash or forget or even minimize. It’s ravage boggles the most intelligent, the most gifted and prodigy-like scientists, the most devout, and eats away at the hearts and emotions and sanity of the little people on the outside that are effected.
But, when the pharmacist at Wegman’s said I was a survivor, I thought of those who went before me, those who waited weeks, days, hours for hope in a hospital, or news of their lives being cut short. Those who withstood treatment until they were almost dead, those who knew they would see the Lord shortly, and continued treatment. Those who would do anything to go home and yell at their kids because they didn’t clean a pan in the sink, throw out water bottles or flush the toilet. Suddenly the mundane are gifts.
I was lucky, through God’s plan, that I would not suffer the physical treatments, only the surgery and knowledge that I was living on one kidney for the rest of my life, and the horror and mind fuck every year I go for a scan…the nightmare of that night in January 2004 when all I said is “What do I do to survive this for my family…I’ll do anything.”
God has been good. And cancer was a gift in its ugliest form. It gave me the perspective to hold nothing in my day to day for granted. I look at the most hum drum of days and tasks, especially the Groundhog moments of this pandemic and realize they are gifts, and that my children being in my home forcefully lol, is transient, fleeting and a dream. Embrace it. Even the moldy towels left in the washer. The gazillion water bottles reproducing around the house, the plethora of books and papers growing each day from virtual learning soil.
I have the gift of strength at this moment in my still early fifties to run, jump and swim the marathon of emotion God has put in front of me the last few months…to endure the emotion of life, to cry and sob and scream into a pillow like a toddler, and know that there is strength in my veins, my blood and my heart to tug when I feel like I can’t breathe.
And to know that my choice to have eight children was acknowledgement from God that I can handle it, and that they are my beautiful most coveted salvation.
So, cancer, you are an ugly, relentless bitch…like many women I know personally. But, through your bitchiness, I outsmarted you with emotion, compassion, altruism, love, and empathy. You have fortified me with a strength that has nothing to do with your physical warfare, but rather the psychological, the emotional, the deranged fear that accompanies you wherever you go. And, I thank you for that, oddly enough to take me and my family down life’s foggy and crooked path.
Growing up in an Italian household means a lot of food, loud chatter, drama, and a lot of religion…preferably Roman Catholicism. In my family, not only did we have all of the above, we had il capo dei I capi, Sr. Lucy Sabatini, or in the more demonstrative for me, Aunt Lucy.
When your mother’s sister is a nun, and since life began, you know nothing else, you find it odd that nobody else lives in the sea of fire and brimstone, nor clergy in their family. I knew more about the do’s and don’t’s of my religion by the time I was in nursery school. Aunt Lucy was not a wishy-washy cosmo-nun with no veil and cute shoes. She was what you would find on Wikipedia when you looked up “nun”:
Unwavering Religious GI who follows Jesus and his teachings to the letter of the law without renunciation, hesitation, or modern guidelines. Black and white, whether describing apparel or thought are the only colors that exist. They believe priests are too liberal and live lives similar to civilians, which defies the law of marriage to the church.
And, married to the Church she was. Her love was the Lord. The same commitment a good wife has to her husband, her provider, her mate for life is the same servant she was to Christ. Unlike a husband and a wife who hopefully communicate through verbal transactions, my aunt only communicated through prayer, faith and trust. Her only responses came from the spiritual world, and she believed always in that communication. God had her back, and she certainly had his.
As a kid, I would get annoyed that a half hour before Mass, she would be waiting at the door wondering why we were not piling in the car to get to the Church BEFORE mass started. Like a teenager going to a concert to avoid the crowds. Once we got there, she would leave us far behind, and find the very first pew, the one that got her closest to the altar. If she could sit on the altar with the priest, and was invited to do so, without reservation, she would. There was no embarrassment, no hesitation. She was worshiping our Lord in her dedicated trance and like Bernadette in front of the Blessed Mother, she stayed.
She liked to remind me of the time she asked me, after I had all my eight children, that when I was about ten, she asked what I wanted to do when I grew up. I said “Get married and have a lot of kids.” She responded, “Do you think maybe the Lord wants you to be a nun?’ Now, you are talking to a kid who was taught by nuns since the first grade and wanted nothing to do with this lifestyle at all. She told me later on that I just stared at her and ran out of the room asking for my mother. I can laugh now, and she laughed then, but I was mortified.
When she was around her family, she kind of let her habit down, we did have some laughs…especially when she was with her sisters and her brother. I would love hearing stories of their life in the Bronx, with my grandmother and grandfather, their really cheap landlord, Mr. Fillipone, and so many other tales that pulled her out of missionary zone for a few moments, enough to laugh and love. She did have a good sense of humor. She came with us to Italy many times, and those memories were indelible. Especially the time I went with her alone…I was about 20, and when the plane touched down at Fiumicino, instead of a clap, this little nun who was pinned to her Rosary for eight hours rallied for a Baptist like “Praise the Lord!” shout out to her man. I wanted to dissolve with the life vest located under the seat in front of me.
But, as I got older, I understood her better and better. I was privy to her life steps thanks to my mother, her sister, who would tell me how she entered the convent as a novice at age 17, and it was a good thing she was cloistered because my Nonno, her father, wanted to kill her. She could only communicate by letter, and was not able to attend my mother’s wedding. That dedication only comes by a special calling to a limited few who are staunch believers with no other mission in life except to spread the word of the Lord. If you consider yourself a good Catholic…don’t buy yourself a trophy t-shirt until you consider the life my aunt lead.
I remember when my mother passed away in 1996, instead of being riddled with grief, which maybe deep down inside she was, she looked at the bright side when my mother was passing away, “she is going to the Lord.” Everyone should embrace that goal. At that moment, I was like, “Seriously, this is my mother. Stop. Bring her back.” But, now I can comprehend she felt my mother had achieved the ultimate..
She was steeped in her love of children and education, earning a Masters Degree in Spanish and becoming principal of St. Francis School in Poughkeepsie, NY for many many years. She used to give me a piece of chalk and waltz me into a classroom while class was going on, and let me draw on the board. I loved it! However, that visit was probably because my mother was taking cooking classes at the CIA nearby, and she would drop me at the school, and then the convent for an overnight..I was creeped out as I remember, but it was etched in memory, and today, if I had the chance I would go back and do it again, I would, realizing the privilege to be in the presence of the Lord’s servants.
She grabbed me and my friend to work in an anti-abortion clinic. Her adherence of Right to Life was staunch and solid. There was never, ever any excuse to end life unless the Lord chose that time. I learned patience and understanding, and how to be less judgmental of those who may not know better. I became an unshakable Right to Lifer myself. I also found out during that period that Sister Lucy Sabatini had a criminal record…for refusing to unbarricade herself from the front of an abortion clinic. She was arrested and proud of it. The police sweetly let her go, but those tiny embroidered feet always clad her habit until her final days.
After Poughkeepsie, she was stationed at Nazareth Nursery, on W. 15th street in Chelsea (New York City). Nazareth was the only Catholic Montessori school in the state, and for over thirty years, she ran it, with love…love of the Lord, love of children, love of education. With that, she never oscillated in her stringent laws of the Lord. She said a lesbian couple had come in to register their child. In the most eloquent yet directly centered way, she told the couple, “The Catholic Church does not support same sex unions. We are happy to have your child, but only one of you can register as a mother.” End of story. If they walked, they walked. She would not fall victim to a test of what she knew as right and wrong.
When Nazareth Nursery abruptly closed in 2015, life as my aunt knew it changed. The zest, the rhapsodical life she lead for the Lord and His children would ultimately be defeated. In those five years since it’s sale, I saw a decline in my Aunt I would never have imagined. She deflated like a balloon losing its helium, and I believe, in my heart, she pushed for her final goal, the final prize… meeting the Lord. It took five years, and thanks to the buoyant genes on the DiCicco, her mother, my Nonna’s side of the family, she lived just steps past her 91st birthday in June.
Although we can now sit around the proverbial campfire and tell many “Aunt Lucy” stories, one, among many stays in my mind…it was my daughter Brynn’s first Holy Communion. Of course, any religious celebrations were marked with her presence. We were leaving the house for Mass, and Brynn had not eaten. I gave her a quick bagel, and when my aunt saw this transaction she almost catapulted herself across the room to insure the bagel saw its final demise. “It’s less than an hour before Mass!” Brynn stood there frozen in time, turned and walked her way over to the garbage and spit it out. Mission accomplished.
And, that is exactly what she was…a missionary. She believed in everything she said, did and slept well never wondering if what she said or did was incorrect. That alone is a gift from the Lord. Some may have found her fire and brimstone approach an annoyance. Debating with Aunt Lucy was not a simple endeavor, and you had to face the fact that even at commencement of the debate, you started on the losing end. You could walk away aggravated, or choose to digest her simple, thoughtful words of wisdom. And, if you choose to follow the Lord, her answer was always the right answer.
A friend said to me upon her death…”I once asked your aunt, what is the meaning of life.” Her quick, immediate response, “To serve others.” And that she did…from the Lord, to children, to the unborn..it was never about her. It was indeed, about others.
Today, at 53, I can thank her for what I used to possibly find annoying, has morphed into the greatest gift next to my children: my love of the Lord, my religion, my church and the desire to be altruistic and philanthropic. My insider information of right and wrong, saints, Church history is all from her…some subliminal, some very direct. When my skirts were too short, she would tell me the story of St. Maria Goretti, who was raped at twelve by her 18 year old neighbor, Alessandro, dying a virgin and a martyr. I never forgot the story, and she infused a me a love of patron saints, and who can do what in a time of crisis.
Oh, and NEVER receive Communion in a Church that is NOT Roman Catholic…for shame.
May we all learn, in her honor, to stand in the cement of our conviction, and to be able to walk away, with utmost confidence and no afterthought, when we are presented with diabolic temptation or the adversity which might cloud right from wrong. It is the most fortifying and confident way to live life.
Rest in peace, Aunt Lucy. If anyone deserves the fast road to heaven, it’s you, and waiting, I am sure were Nonna, Nonno, Aunt Lena, my my mom, my dad, Aunt Lena, Uncle Peter…..and above all the litany of saints, the Blessed Mother and the Lord himself to escort you with the loudest trumpets and the angels into paradise..our final reward where life has not ended, only changed. Watch over us so we may chose the same path, and avert any challenges and mortal distractions you overcame to be a true, unequivocal follower of Christ.
Do you remember Adam Sandler in Billy Madison?
“Back to school..back to school to prove to dad I’m not a fool….” As he circled around his Bel Air mansion driveway waiting for the little yellow school bus to pick up his twenty something ass…and drop him off to Miss Lippy’s first grade zone of safety.
It has to be one of my favorite movies of all time because the theme and dialogue are so incredibly ridiculous. Nothing real about it…some of the best lines ever in a big screen comedy came from this flick. When I’m in the dumps I think about burning bags of dog poop and Miss Lippy’s interpretive dance, and I pee and laugh a little.
I wish our 2020 return to school could be that funny and that ridiculous. Well, I take back the funny part. It is ridiculous.
Back in June, I reacted and posted all the lovely accommodations put forth by our governor to capture and freeze our children in time, hold them captive by separated desks, plexi glass and masks while they remain in their desks motionless only to get up and use the facilities when their baby bladders just can’t take it anymore. Teachers would rotate around with centrifugal force like planets to each classroom wearing a cross between martian garb, a welder’s mask, and dentist loops. Sounds like the perfect solution to re-socializing our kids who just spent the past five months trying to manipulate zoom meetings, not brushing their teeth or hair and adjusting their earbuds while staring out the window like Grace Kelly in “Rear Window.” Ya, this is the solution.
However, I have noticed schools making up their own scenarios…some by district…private schools with their own plan. What I am so confused about is this…if the guidelines were put forth in black and white, how can you reprint your own menu? Some offering half days, some offering full days, in person. Some offering a hybrid…some offering the pick one method and you can’t go back mode. So, really, what the “F” is going on? Is anybody guiding these schools or is this “and we have a winner!” Or, holy shit, we need tuition funds..who cares if anyone gets sick…let’s lure them back so they pay. I am actually incredibly distressed and angered with these back and forth ideas. WHO HAS THE FINAL SAY? It’s like the “O’Doyles Rule” scene, and then they all fall off the cliff.
If one method isn’t deemed as the way du jour…then whose method will be correct? If children are not really susceptible to this virus, then why the worry? I saw some children donning uniform masks, and it brought me back to a high school world history class when kids were being suited for bomb attacks in WWII.
Is this really ok? Do you expect them to comply? In all honesty, I am not sure what to think.
What are the reasons to send them back? Normacly? Socialization? I don’t find much of either in any plans I have seen. Are we expecting teachers who are the most at risk to police children who start spinning their masks around their fingers like lassos or shooting them across the room like rubber bands? Are we expecting grammar school children to spend robotic periods glued to their chair as if they were sitting on epoxy resin. How real is that?
Do I have the magical cure for school? No. I’m just a 25 year mom veteran. I just think it is so simple…if we cannot eat in a restaurant, go to a movie, a Broadway show, shop to capacity in a mall…then obviously the medical and legal consensus is that society isn’t safe yet.
If the contortions, flipped schedules, hybrids, are being heroically slapped together because “kids need to go back, “ then it obviously isn’t safe to go back. If it were really, safe and ok, and life as normal, then rip off the masks, serve lunch, have gym and recess. And, I am almost certain, someone, be it child, adult, teacher, family member or neighbor of a child in the school will test positive. Now what…isolation, quarantine? Close school again? And, how do you control parents’ integrity if a child is knowingly in contact with a positive person but the kid is asymptomatic…and they don’t tell the powers that be. There are so many dangerous components to this…who are we protecting? The kids, the schools, funding, parents who can’t wait to dump their kids off like an albatross into the sea.
“The selfmoment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.”
― Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
I can make no judgement here, although I can certainly opine. I am lucky enough to be at home with my children, and I feel tremendously for those parents who need to work. But, in my heart of hearts, the ones I know would certainly jump through hoops to rearrange life if they had vacillating thoughts about their kids’ safety in a place where we think our kids are sheltered and comforted in our stead.
So in the end…the right call? Is this really benefiting the children…or are we selling these new fangled cell block ideas to parents like the emperor’s new clothes? And, if I don’t send my child back, and their friends do go back, I am now the guilty parent who held my child back from these illustrious, spacious and protective new digs and their friends. Although I may have known better.
All I can say is, I pray we have all made the right decisions…but in my heart, kids should remain home, properly homeschooled in the true way homeschooling is accomplished until school becomes school. I can’t even go into church for Mass without a “reservation,” yet are kids are walking back into the same building every day. So, I will continue to pray, because nothing is more powerful than prayer, that we have learned, and that even though the mass opinion may be as luring as opium to a drug addict, we choose the path we think is best for our own flesh and blood…the most important commodity we have, and the greatest gift put in our net of safety.
On a lighter note, let’s hope we all become:
for our children.
Governor Phil Murphy tells us:
"The return to school will pose challenges, but we are confident that New Jersey's school districts can move forward in a way that best serves the needs of their district while also achieving a safe environment for students and staff," Murphy said.
Challenges? Then I guess Alcatraz had its challenges, too.
Here are the main rules and guidelines designed to protect students and staff in the classroom:
Here are the main rules and guidelines designed to protect students and staff on buses:
Here are the main rules and guidelines designed to deal with students and staff who show symptoms:
Does there even have to be protocol for the next three bullets? GO THE “F” home…and don’t send your kid to school. If you can’t even get on a bus healthy, why the hell do you have to explain this to anyone?
Here are the main rules and guidelines designed to protect students and staff during meal times, physical education classes and recess:
Here are the main rules and guidelines designed to protect students and staff by encouraging them to use hand sanitizer:
Here is how districts should deal with contact tracing:
Students and employees may be asked to leave or not come into school if they test positive for COVID-19, or exhibit one or more of these symptoms:
Do the next 16 bullets really need to be addressed?
Regarding bathrooms, schools should:
I’ve been sending kids to school for almost 23 years, and I gotta tell you, I found these almost like a really good SNL skit. Yes, over the top..sarcastic, but really, truly, can you imagine, in real time, real life, trying to implement these procedures? Yes, kids are resilient. They adhere an enjoy structure. But, this is beyond. Beyond hell.
In the end, we need to be allowed the choice to homeschool in conjunction with the school we are attending, not because I think it’s the best choice in a normal world, but because I am not sure if this is really going to work.
Look at this rubric. Look at all the restrictions. School, although not a Chuck E. Cheese field trip, should represent a haven for learning, loving and friendship. These provisions are a hate joke, and will be frustrating for everyone who is in academia.
Kids can be trained to do anything, from killing, to loving, to hating to feeling, etc. They need nurture and protection in their school…and this ain't it. Alternative, please?
Next post: So, how do we fix this new normal?
My last Italian “say it isn’t so” menu seemed to strike such an irritating cord in those who know how to say, cavatelli and not GAH VA DEAL…several more of these Mediterranean culinary slanders came up..
Is this Italian Halloween?
It’s Pronounced: CAPY-KO-LAH
It’s Spelled: Capicolla or Capicola
It’s a fatty, Italian cold cut, similar to fatty, Italian salami.
What kills me is these Italian deli owners can’t pronounce it themselves, and have taught their customers and deli sandwich makers to order the same, ghostly delight: (It always starts with yeah, um…must be required to order):
“I’ll uh take a, GABOO-GOOL special with oil and vinegar.”
I’m sorry…but WTF is this? Is this a chant to ward off the evil GABBO-GOOL?
My good Jesus, I beg you to help me with this ugly, distorted version of your beautiful, aglio e olio.
It’s Pronounced: AH-LI-OH AY OH-LEE-OH
It’s Spelled: AGLIO E OLIO
It’s so simple, just means garlic (aglio) and oil (olio).
I will kind of give you the difficulty with the Italian dipthong, “gl”. Unless you are native or taught young, it does not just roll off your tongue. But, frieking OLIO? Just lazy.
Yes, somebody please shoot me with my bra, because this is painful.
It’s Pronounced: PRO-SHOOT-OH
It’s Spelled: PROSCIUTTO
Italian cured ham. So, prosciutto on its own is a general term for “ham.” However, “prosciutto cotto,” is like American deli ham, so there is a difference. You probably won’t find that here…but you might in the boot. Armed with that porky knowledge, if you ask for Bra-shoot in Italy, they probably won’t give you anything but a weird stare, and a dialect chat with one of their friends and empty bread.
This is not a cute little cookie for your kitty.
It’s Pronounced: BEE-SCOH-TEA
It’s Spelled: BISCOTTI
It’s a G-damn cookie. (Sorry, God). Nothing crazy over the top….Italians are actually very, very simple bakers. My nonna used to make them with real anise and that’s all I knew as biscotti. Americans call anything baked with some resemblance of a cookie, biscotti.
Biscotti is also plural. Un biscotto is singular. Stop asking for ten cookies when you only want one.
Excuse me? What is this? It sounds like Mandarin Chinese. Are you ordering Moo-Shoo or cheese?
Oh, you mean Parmigiano? Ahh…yes.
Beautiful, unmistakable Parma, Italy. The capital of all things cheese and prosciutto. Please, please do not desecrate the sanctity and esculent grail of gastronomic delight.
It’s Pronounced: PAHR-MEE-JAN-OH or, for those who might have a prosciutto leg up on pronunciation, try this:
It’s Spelled: Parmigiano
Just so you know, a native of Parma can be referred to as Parmigiano, or Parmense. (PAR-MEN-SAY). And, anything with parmigiano cheese or cooked in the way of Parma, is alla parmigian(a). This is an ending agreement issue which sometimes gets distorted, so do not get me started.
Another fly in my sauce annoyance is, do you know really and truly now how many authentic Italian dishes are parmigiano???
Not many. I have heard waiters snicker at Americans who order : “Shrimp Par mee zan.” Italians will most likely never put cheese on fish unless forced to do so by an unrelenting tourist. I saw a waiter hand a cheese dish to another waiter and say in Itailian about a woman and her pasta. “She wants cheese on her clams. I can’t do this. You do it.”
Americans will par-me-zan everything from meat, to fish, to vegetables to tablecloths and other non edibles. Please, do not embarrass yourself if it’s not on the menu.
Ok, another Italian import that made the menu. But how many are you ordering??
It’s Pronounced: PAH-NE-NE (phonetic)
It’s Spelled: PANINI
Un panino, (pah-nee-no) is one. One baby sandwich. So, unless you are ordering more than one, you are ordering:
Un panino or one panino.
I get it…a menu may say PANINI, which if they are offering more than one type of PANINO is correct. However, you are only ordering one, it’s just one PANINO.
Oh and what a delicacy this has become…it’s really peasant train food sold at the train station or a “bar” as a snack for transportation. They are not overstuffed with slabs of cheese and mushrooms and nitrate meats. They are made to aid in sustaining life until you can get to the next meal.
Oh Lord, please help me educate the know it all American public on Italian coffee. It pains me when I see menu items that mean well in their description but have nothing to do with their true Italian counterparts.
A LATTE: If you walked into an Italian bar, or sat down for breakfast in your hotel, and asked for a very cosmopolitan “Latte,” the waiter would show up with a glass of milk. And, rightfully so. In Italian, latte LAH-TAY. Comes from a cow. Plain and simple. (I was with someone who asked for a latte, and the waiter, knowing I spoke Italian snickered at me, “Ma dove’ il bambino?). Translation: Where’s the baby?
Now, if you asked for un “caffe latte,” you would more than likely get a cup of “Café Americano” with warm milk on the side. PLEASE DO NOT ASK FOR ICE OR A STRAW. Italians do not use ice on the hottest day of the year. They will not put it in their coffee.
PRONOUNCED : OON KA-POO-CHEENO
Americans will probably have some basic luck here, as a cappuccino is just espresso with hot, frothed milk on top. You won’t embarrass yourself or get laughed at if you keep it simple.
Pretty basic at Starbucks, but it’s wrong. So very, very wrong.
In basic Italian, “macchiato” means stained, or “marked.”
Un café macchiato is an espresso with a “spot” or dot of milk.
It is not a triple grande iced, cinnamon, almond milk, caramel monstrosity with milk. What we have done to this very, simple, simple concept. It wasn’t made in a lab. It was formulated by some Italian barber in like 1846 who wanted to cool down his espresso.
The basic of all Italian coffees, and we can’t get that right, either. It’s not express anything. As a matter of fact, before we ever had an “espresso” machine, I remember my mother making my father coffee with grinds and water in that tiny silver cast iron pot that became a weapon in every Italian household. It took forever to boil…and on Christmas Eve you prayed only four people wanted a cup.
I’ll give you the pronunciation somewhat, but the origin is wrong. It does not mean express or quick coffee. The genesis of “espresso” actually comes from “esprimere” (es-preem-err-ay) which means to press or press out. The old Neopolitan silver coffee pots explain it the best. (Or a…gulp..French press.)
Around 1900, Luigi Bezzera created a machine which did combine steam and coffee, making it “faster.”
But, the java roots came from a very basic Italian barista who decided to press coffee and water, and called it “espresso” or pressed coffee. GENIUS.
When I sleep at night, or try to after I take my night time pack of personalized vitamins, I think of what to write next. Lately, the English desecration of Italian cuisine just seems to be free flowing. This is part two, will there be a part three? Only my melatonin knows…buona notte.