Catechism

Like everyone else I have a lot of stories to tell, and I've often considered writing my memoirs, but since I'm not being famous or haven't done anything extraordinary with my life, I've often wondered why I would consider that others might be interested in my lifestory. Plus where would I begin? Maria Von Trapp said, "Let's start in the very beginning; it's a very good place to start," but my life is a jumble of paths taken and avoided, a maze with no solution.

One day on a whim, I went on social media and asked folks what questions about my life they would like for me to answer. I had a few responses, and from those responses, I started to write a narrative which I entitled Catechism. As the proverbial good Catholic boy I spent most of my childhood reading and memorizing catechisms, so I decided to put my life story in question-and-answer form.

But I still wondered if anyone would be interested in reading what I had to say. Then a colleague suggested to me to try out Vocal, to post some of what I had written in this space to get feedback from the creative folks who hang out here, so that's what I decided to do.

Life is pretty hectic these days, so please be patient if my posts are infrequent. Thank you for reading this introduction, and thank you for whatever criticisms you pass on to me.

One final note. Because my family moved so much in an era long before email and social media, I haven't been able to contact all the folks who might appear in these posts, so I've limited myself to first names, save for folks whom I only knew by their surnames or folks who are very close to me. Those names I've changed. Proper names of cities and towns where I lived and of institutions in which I was involved I've retained.

Q. 1. What is your favorite color?

(asked by Eliana, my wife)

I have two favorite colors, black and purple. I'll discuss my attraction to black today and to purple on another.

My love of the color black begins with a childhood interest in astronomy, but would later reflect more interior issues with which I would struggle.

Early on in my childhood, I became fascinated by those twinkling lights in the night sky. I knew that God had put them there to “govern the night," in the words of Genesis, but what were they?

At some point early in life, I learned that those lights, called “stars,” were like our Sun and that they could have worlds around them, like the planets in our solar system. I wanted to learn more about them, so I haunted the public library in search of books about stars and planets and other cosmic phenomenon. After a while I had exhausted all the storybooks and readers on these topics, so I moved on to more advanced books.

As an aside, I was an advanced reader for my age. My parents had signed me up for a Dr. Seuss book club when I was a pre-schooler. Every month, a new Dr. Seuss or other Beginner Reader Book showed up in our mailbox. My mother would sit me in her lap and read the book to me, then I would go off by myself and read it over and over until I had it memorized. Hence, I was reading from an early age.

This led to a humorous incident in Mrs. Handy’s kindergarten class at St. Joseph Catholic School in Fayetteville, Arkansas. One day, Mrs. Handy wrote something on the chalkboard. I raised my hand and politely told her that she had misspelled a word. She looked at the board, then turned back to thank me for the correction. After school, Mrs. Handy told this story to my mother who was picking me up after her shift at a department store. Mrs. Handy concluded by saying, “I didn’t know that Philip could read.” My mother told her that I had been reading for close to a year, thanks in large part to Dr. Seuss.

As I started elementary school, I began to read books about astronauts and the space program and often imagined myself traveling to the Moon or to Mars or living on Skylab or some other orbital platform. But those dreams were dashed.

After I finished second grade, my family moved north to Washington, Missouri, where I attended Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School for third and fourth grade and the first semester of fifth grade. I don’t remember who my teacher was in fourth grade, but she invited to speak to our class a man of science. He talked with our class about his work in a laboratory and then asked if any of us were interested in a career in science or engineering. I raised my hand and said with much enthusiasm that I wanted to be an astronaut.

Before I give his heart-shattering answer, I need to digress again. My parents are both short. Hence, I inherited their genes controlling my height and stopped growing in eighth grade at the height of less than 5 and half feet tall. But even before then, I tended to be the shortest person in class and, unfortunately, the butt of short people jokes.

As I said, I told the man of science that I wanted to be an astronaut. He laughed and said, “Son, you’re too short to be an astronaut. You need to be at least six feet tall to fit properly into a space capsule.”

I was crushed. I never speculated that being the shortest person in class would deprive me of the dream of traveling into space aboard a Saturn V rocket.

It was also about this time that the color black would come to mean more to me than a tapestry across the night sky littered with pinpoints of light, and it started after Christmas vacation when my family moved to the Melville area of St. Louis and I started the spring semester of fifth grade at Most Precious Blood Catholic School. That's when I started to become depressed.

Everything started well at Most Precious Blood, even though I was a bit confused at first since the class had studied topics the fifth grade class at my previous school hadn’t while I was already familiar with topics my new class had yet to learn.

I was further confused by the boys in my class, who over lunch would talk about sex. They weren’t sexually active—at least I don’t think they were—but they knew a lot more than I did. The conversation was sprinkled with “pussy,” boobs,” “dick,” and other vulgar terms I was familiar with, but didn’t use publicly. They began to quiz me on my knowledge of intercourse and other sex acts. My ignorance became a source of derision. Plus, my short height and glasses also became popular sources of teasing. And soon the girls joined in, making recess and lunchtime extremely intolerable.

But none of this bullying occurred in the classroom. Mrs. Queen ran a disciplined room, but she was also fair-minded and easy to talk with. When a child said something demeaning to me, she cut them off with a sharp word and a glare, prompting an apology from the offender.

Then came sixth grade, and my spiral into depression began as the bullying started up right from day one, and our teacher that year, Mrs. Douglas, allowed it. She seemed to dislike me from the beginning. Why? I never learned. She never reproved a classmate for their comments, often stating that I must have done something to upset the student who had been so rude to me. She also found fault with my work when there was none. An example that still stings came from her low marks on a report I had written on Albert Einstein. Mrs. Douglas had asked each of us to write a five- to ten-page long paper on someone we admired. Since I was still enamored with astronomy, I decided to write about someone who had a major impact on that field, and I chose Albert Einstein. My mother took me to the local public library where I found three books for young people about Einstein and his work. I read all three, taking careful notes, then wrote a paper which described his life and contributions to astronomy and physics. My father, a nuclear engineer, liked the paper, stating that I had done an excellent job in explaining the basics of relativity. Very excitedly, I turned in the report, only to receive it back a couple of days later with large red "C+" on the last page. I was crushed and cried on the way home from school. My mother couldn’t understand why I had gotten such a low grade, so she asked for a conference with Mrs. Douglas. In the conference with my mother, the principal Mrs. Cahill, and me, Mrs. Douglas explained to my mother that I must have copied the paper because it was impossible that a eleven year old would be able to grasp Einstein’s theories as well as I seemingly had. My mother retorted that I had read three books on Einstein and that my father and I often talked about physics, so Mrs. Douglas had presumed incorrectly. At this point the principal, Mrs. Cahill, intervened and stated that the grade I had received on the paper was final and would not be changed as per school policy. My mother was furious and stormed out of the after-school meeting, taking me home and venting on my father her rage at Mrs. Douglas and Mrs. Cahill.

Shortly after this, I slipped and fell and broke the joint that held my little toe to my foot. The emergency room doctor wrapped my foot tightly with an Ace bandage and suggested I try to stay off of my foot as much as possible. The trip to the hospital was early in the morning, so my father took me home and then to school. Since my foot was wrapped in a bandage, I couldn't wear any of my shoes, so he lent me one of his slippers. It had also lightly snowed during the morning, and my father was concerned about my foot’s getting wet, so he picked me up and carried me across the parking lot, something every student on that side of the school building, including my classmates, witnessed and became a further source of harassment since to them I had to be carried by my father like a baby. And my classmates would purposely step on my foot, eliciting howls of pain, which they found hilarious. And when one student, while Mrs. Douglas was out of the room, threatened to hit me, I quickly climbed over a desk to escape him. My foot hurt a lot from that maneuver, but my classmates took this maneuver as a sign that I was faking my injury, a view Mrs. Douglas also shared as she forced me to use my hurt foot to kick the large, bouncy ball when my class gathered on the playground to play kickball later that morning.

But the most painful moment that year, emotionally, that is, was an invitation to a classmate’s house to work on a group project. His name was David, and he had this beautiful cascade of dark, wavy hair that flowed down to his shoulders and framed his lovely face. Now that I reflect on it, this was probably the first time I noticed that I had a same-sex attraction, but at the time I only noticed how handsome he was; I didn’t have any romantic or nascent sexual feelings towards him. Yet to be invited to his home was exciting. But the whole time I was at his house, I was completely ignored. My input on the project was not sought, and any time I brought up an idea, I was ignored. The project completed, everyone adjourned to David’s backyard where the other four started to play a game. I wanted to join in, but David insisted the game was only for four people. I nodded in understanding and went inside where I asked David’s mother if I could use their phone to call my parents. She obliged, and I called home where my mother answered and said she would be over in a bit to pick me up. I retired to the basement where we had worked on the project and where David had a modest bookshelf. I pulled out a book and read for the next half hour until my mother arrived. I thanked Mrs. Norton for having me over, but said nothing to David or my other classmates. The following Monday the report was turned in with David’s making a point of telling everyone that I had done nothing to help with the project, earning me an "F" in Mrs. Douglas’ grade book.

That night, I was looking for something in the laundry room, and I came across a box of razor blades. I had heard classmates talking about how to use a razor blade to end one’s life, and I seriously considered doing just that sometime that evening, feeling that no one at school would miss me if I suddenly died. But I also knew that it was a sin to commit suicide, so I put the box back where I had found it and left the room.

But now black had a new significance for me. No longer was it merely the color of the magnificent tapestry on which hung the stars, but now it was the color of my soul, a place so dark and insular that I preferred to hide there than to interact with others. And I found a new set of heroes. I no longer celebrated the achievements of scientists and astronauts, but instead folks whose job it was to explore the darker side of humanity and the "things that go bump in the night." Sherlock Holmes; The Batman; The Phantom Stranger; and Kolchak, “the night stalker"; to name a few. These were the folks whom I now admired, folks who moved and breathed in the dark, people who arose at nighttime to fight against all that is dark and evil in the world.

My brush with suicidal ideation also brought me to a keen awareness of my sinfulness, and I doubled down on my efforts to live a good life, to not break any of the Ten Commandments or any other rule handed down by my parents or another authority figure. And even though I was a good child and was complimented as such, I knew deep down how sinful I was, but I couldn’t let anyone know. This led to my accepting the physical and verbal abuse of my father since in my pre- and post-puberty mind I believed I deserved such harsh treatment for breaking a rule or not measuring up as the macho young man my father wanted me to be. This also led me to consider suicide on two other occasions and to even make an attempt on my life while a senior in high school.

It would be at least two more decades before I was referred to a counselor and then to a psychiatrist who diagnosed me with clinical depression, and I started to receive the help I needed to escape the darkness.

I no longer carry such dark thoughts within me, yet I still love the color black, for I still love the night sky, and I still love those characters who prowl in the nighttime to right wrongs and bring justice and light to those victimized by crime, abuse, and bullying. Plus black also reminds me of my mortality, of the need to do good work and foster good relationships everyday from the time I rise to the time I sleep.

And black has come to signify something else. One morning many years ago, I woke up early--I think it was close to 3:00 in the morning--and my dogs made a dash for the back door. They had been trained that when I rise in the morning to be ready to go outside to take care of business, so they went to the back door and hopped around in excitement, waiting to charge out into the dark. I opened the door for them, then followed them outside. And as I stood on the back porch in the dark, I was overwhelmed by how quiet and peaceful it was, so serene and calm that I started to pray, and the prayer flowed out of me.

Now practically every day, I rise around 3:00 and let the dogs out as I make a cup of tea and gather my breviary, rosary, and journal, and after the dogs come back in and have raced back to the bedroom to sleep with my wife, I light a candle and set it on the kitchen table, open the blinds to invite in the darkness, and spend the next hour praying, meditating, and writing. Hence, black has gained another association for me, as the color of the sky when everything is calm and I can feel the presence of my Higher Power close to me, embracing me with his warmth and love.

Thanks for taking the time to read this lengthy passage. Next time, I'll talk about my love for the color purple. That story is much lighter than this one.

good life, to not break any of the Ten Commandments or any other rule handed down by my parents or another authority figure. And even though I was a good child and was complimented as such, I knew how sinful I was, but I couldn’t let anyone know. This burden led me on two other occasions to consider suicide and even make one attempt on my life, but it would be at least two more decades before I was diagnosed with depression and received the help I needed to escape the darkness.

And even though I no longer carry such dark thoughts within me, I still love the color black, for I still love the night sky, and I still love those characters that prowl in the nighttime to right wrongs and brings justice and light to those victimized by crime, abuse, and bullying.

not break any of the Ten Commandments or any other rule handed down by my parents or another authority figure. And even though I was a good child and was complimented as such, I knew how sinful I was, but I couldn’t let anyone know. This burden led me on two other occasions to consider suicide and even make one attempt on my life, but it would be at least two more decades before i was diagnosed with depression and received the help I needed to escape the darkness. And even though I no longer carry such dark thoughts within me, I still love the color black, for I still love the night sky, and I still love those characters that prowl in the nighttime to right wrongs and brings justice and light to those victimized by crime, abuse, and bullying.

So that is the reason why black is one of my favorite colors. Fortunately, the reason why purple is one of my favorite colors is a much lighter narrative that begins when I was eight years old and discovered John Steed and Mrs. Emma Peel.