Many details about my First Communion passed by in a blur, because I had a lot on my mind. There were rituals and special prayers to memorize, the service to perform, family members and friends buzzing around, the special dress and the outfit I wore—so much activity and talk for a child to take in. But there are some aspects I still see in my minds' eye with the crystal clarity of truth. I was frightened by the old, dark, spooky house, near the church, where we had the First Confession that prepared us for the ritual of communion. We waited on line on the stairs leading up to the old house, greeted by an old, retired (and scary looking) priest who said nothing to us as he held open the door. We went into small, dark, wood booths that must have served as their private ones to use. I fretted about what to confess: I was in 2nd grade, and there wasn't that much I could tell a priest about life, or sin. So I told him the truth: I cursed at my brothers, spoke back to my parents, and once I had taken candy from a store, but I told my Mom while we were at the car, so she marched me right back in to the store to take it back to the clerk, apologize, and pay for the item. I got 10
Hail Marys (which I dutifully said to myself, kneeling on a pew, as I counted them out on my rosary), and I was done.
As Catholics, we purge ourselves before receiving the earthly embodiments of our Savior Jesus Christs' body and blood, in the form of wafers and wine. It's a process called "
Transubstantiation". The mythic aspect of this ritual that we undertake as children has roots in other cultures, too. Ancient warriors often ingested the body or blood of their slain enemies in battle, as a way of conquering them to imbibe their power. By this process of ritualized ingestion, we acknowledge that we are pure enough, during the ceremony called Communion, to take in the body and blood of the most holy person of our faith—we are worthy vessels for Him to live in us, too. It is an ancient and key aspect of Roman Catholicism that draws heavily from Pagan mythology, which accommodated peasants who converted from older, pre-literate ways.
We dress in outfits that resemble miniature brides and bridegrooms because as children, we "marry" into our faith, becoming one with the Holy Spirit, the Creator of the Universe. We celebrate the miracle of life on Earth every day, as we willingly embrace the many mysteries that surround us. It may seem like heavy stuff for children because of its' mature subject matter, but given the rigors of the education we undergo for our entire lives, I'm glad I was initiated early. There is so much for us to know. To this day, many of our educated faithful are still asked to build schools, so that we may teach and share what we know about how we manage the complexities and difficulties of this thing called "Life".
Little, sharp details pop out into my mind like they were yesterday. I remember the boy who was partnered with me for the walk down the
aisle towards the altar. (
Hi, Anthony!) Looking back at photos for this piece, I see my neighbor was also in the line with me (
Hi, Kristine!), as were some classmates from Chestnut Grove Elementary (
Hi, Brian!) Prior to this, the first ritual we undergo (as infants) is
Baptism, another one common among many cultures. Water is seen as a spiritual cleansing element, like it is for Hindus who bathe in the Mother Ganges. At the time of our baptism by water, at a font in the church, we are given spiritual Mothers and Fathers, who pledge in front of the priest, and the baby's family, to always protect the well being of the child they are bonded to. These men and women are called our
Godmothers and
Godfathers. My godfather is a handsome and charismatic man who I do not know now, but back then he came into my life sporadically, infrequently and abruptly, with lots of volume and energy. That my parents would choose such a character as an authority figure to guide me speaks volumes about our hard, working class, New York roots.
He was the first counterculture figure I had in my life, and he gave me my first stereo: a hand-me-down system with a bunch of 8-track tapes, most notably Cheap Tricks'
Live at Budokan. I had a set of headphones to go with it, and I loved spinning the dial for hours, listening to whatever I wanted. Privacy had to be fought for and won in my household. If my brothers didn't like the music I played, they would warn me to change the station by loudly yelling and banging on the wall that divided our rooms, then they would violently burst open through my door (we all knew how to pick those chintzy locks) and change it for me: "I
TOLD YOU to change the music!
", then they slammed my door shut. Headphones, and then a Walkman, became my salvation to musical freedom. I relished privacy because it was constantly violated.
I also prized a small, pink, barrette that my godfather gave to me on a visit to Queens. It was hand-painted with floral designs like I've seen on touristy Mexican items. I noticed the pretty barrette lying on his dresser, and he immediately said I could have it. He said it was from a girlfriend, and she wouldn't notice it missing. Even as a kid, I knew that meant she slept over, because I left things behind at friends' houses when I had sleepovers, too. And that baffled me, because he still lived in my grandparents' apartment. How did they keep quiet? I giggled all night during sleepovers! I used the tiny barrette for many years, because it was the perfect size for my Barbies' hairstyles. My cousin was impetuous and wild and fun and dangerous, the same up and down ride that I now know marks families with alcohol and drug issues, passed down from generation to generation. And he is also my Godfather, the same one who gave me the ride of my life—my first motorcycle ride, on the afternoon of my First Communion.
My parents must have been caught up in the festivities back at our house, or they were in a good mood after this special occasion, because they were usually very strict with us. Yet somehow, on that perfect sunny Sunday, I got to ride with him on his motorcycle while I was still wearing my white communion dress. It was a very short ride, but oh, how I loved it—the cool breeze that hit me, the bursts of speed and the lurch of the bike as it rumbled to life and sped off, and the dappled sunlight that hit the pavement.
Every time we stopped at a "Stop" sign, I knew I would never forget this day, or how I felt. Too soon we came to a main road, where a decision had to be made. We could turn left for more of a ride, or right, and make a series of turns back to the house. We turned right onto a boring suburban highway in our town, and another right, back up the hill past a church, around a thrilling sharp turn on the way back to our house in New City. As disappointed as I was by the brevity of the ride, it made me relish every detail of it that much more.
I don't know my Godfather anymore, because he spiralled down into drug addiction, and it's not safe for me to know him. But, every season when communions come around, I think of him and my first motorcycle ride. Wherever you are, this little girl never forgot you. May God Bless you and keep you safe. And that's the true story of my First Holy Communion.
