Days of Religious Oppression

KJA and I are emotionally scarred by torment inflicted on us by our dad and stepmother. We were kids in a Maryland suburb with huge houses filled with huge Catholic families who went to Mass on Sunday at whatever time suited them. Not us. We were rousted from our snuggly beds early, so we could take our place in the line for the bathroom with our 50-million siblings, then obliged to dress in our Sunday duds, then packed into the station wagon, and taken to church for the 8:00am yawnfest. Then we went home, had a meal and read the funnies, and went back for an evening crucifixion in the form of 20-minute "talks" delivered by the oldest, most fragile church members available, most of whom were years past lucidity.

  I think KJA was even compelled to go to a third meeting, the mysterious gathering of men who held the priesthood, starting at age 12. As a future little homemaker, I was barred from the priesthood, so I didn't pay much attention to that rigmarole.

There was no way to get out of going to church. We had too much sense to waste a fake sick day on church, where at least we didn't have homework. Sick days had to be stored up for school. Once, I thought I had a legitimate out when I was sunburned beyond recognition, but no. Not a chance, because the sunburn was actually my fault. The idea of simply saying, "I'm not going" was truly beyond comprehension. Only juvenile delinquents defied their parents, and we were good kids.

Decades later, with hundreds of miles between us, KJA and I both woke early today and reflected on the memory of Sunday morning with the fam. The liberation that has come with age and excommunication hasn't quite wiped out the involuntary resentment and wave of nausea that accompany that memory. Will we ever shake it?