Religion – Tess Perko's Blog

Character Study: Hazel

“You shouldn’t go to college,” said Dad, looking down at us kids. “There’s riots and immoral behavior. You’ll get brainwashed for sure.” Dad sat in his brown recliner with the foot rest down, his hands fiddling with a cigarette and match. The four of us, my two older sisters, me, and my little brother, sat cross-legged on the worn-out carpet in front of his chair, even though we were teenagers. We should’ve been sitting in chairs like him.

The news was on television. Dad had just seen pictures of students rioting at U. C. Berkeley for women’s rights. He had turned down the sound and called us into the room from our bedrooms that were right down the hall. I had been doing my chemistry homework, and I still had to finish math.

A wood-framed picture of the Last Supper hung on the wall right above Dad’s chair. To the side of it on the mantel was a porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary that Dad had bought Mom when he flew an Air Force mission to Portugal. A pile of rosaries filled a basket next to the statue. They reminded me of earlier years when we were ordered to kneel on the scratchy carpet to say the Rosary for 45 minutes. Thank God, Dad didn’t make us do that anymore. I’d never get my homework finished.

“Hazel, give your dad his ice cream,” said Mom from the kitchen. She stood at the counter, a box of vanilla ice cream in front of her. Jars of caramel and chocolate, too. Cherries.

I got up from the floor, happy to escape the lecture that I knew was coming. Whenever Dad got on his soapbox, we were stuck for at least an hour. Backpacks open on the floor in our dark bedroom. Homework books splayed wide on our desks. Pencil case contents spilled over half-used binder paper.

Dad put his cigarette and matches down. I gave him his bowl of ice cream.

“I need a spoon,” he said in his booming voice. A scowl made two deep furrows between his eyes on his sun-tanned face.

I jumped, turned to the kitchen, found a spoon on the counter next to Mom, handed it to him, then sat down.

While Mom finished scooping the ice cream into bowls, Dad, in-between his own bites, talked about how college wasn’t good for kids.

“They preach against religion,” he said.

I had heard Dad defend his religion ever since I was a little girl. The thing was, he didn’t seem to be a happy person, even though he went to church every Sunday, prayed at every meal, and raised money for new church buildings.

What good was it doing him?

I didn’t like how the parish priests treated women and girls either. We were treated like appendages of our fathers. No authority. No voices. No purpose except for one day having babies.

Luckily, our high school was run by nuns who were great examples of what women could do when men didn’t oppress them. The principal was a nun who had been educated in London in both education and school administration. My chemistry teacher was a pretty blonde married woman who one day wanted her own children. Our choir teacher was a nun who had a college degree in music. She taught choir, violin, flute, and piano.

But I loved my English teacher most of all. She’s the one who introduced me to the English and American poets and Edgar Allen Poe. Poe wrote such delicious horror stories. Murder. Psychological torture. Manipulation. People buried alive. So incredibly creative.

In Sister Elena’s class, I wrote my own poetry. She entered our poems in contests. I won first place once. We also read Shakespeare plays and acted them on stage for the whole school. Someday, I’d like to write a sonnet as good as he did.

What these nuns taught me was that my father had a narrow viewpoint when it came to education and women. He sent us to our high school to learn religion. But these nuns had taught us their version of Catholicism, and it had nothing to do with oppressing women.

Dad was still lecturing. His loud voice filled the room, but it wasn’t filling my ears.

Nodding my head “yes” every so often, I was far away. I saw myself walking through a university campus, my arms filled with Shakespeare, Marlowe, Emily Dickenson, Jane Austen, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

I definitely was going to college.

The Kashubian Warriors of Winona

Even the sweetest human being contains a little bit of wickedness, and the most awful person possesses at least a little goodness. This is because each person is made from a complex collection of DNA that has been blended over and over again, generation after countless generation; furthermore, these durable genes have survived a variety of political systems, religions, geographic locations, war, peace, cruelty, and kindness—all of the experiences of their ancestors.

One day, when I visited the Polish Museum in Winona, Minnesota, I saw a photograph of one of my ancestors, Lawrence Bronk. I thought I was looking at a photograph of my father—a man of fine build, blonde hair, and handsome face; however, Lawrence was the brother of my Great-great-grandfather Ignatius, and he immigrated to Winona, not from Poland, but from Kashubia, a place that bordered the Baltic Sea. This man inspired me to find out just who these Kashubians were and what made them Kashubian instead of Polish.

Not only did I research the immigration of the Kashubians to North America, but I also investigated how the Kashubians settled in Kashubia. What I found out was that I was related to people who had lived complex lives of peace, aggression, oppression, and chaos throughout the centuries. This is their story.

After the Roman Empire dissolved in the 6^th Century, Slavic tribes from the East, mainly from the Ukraine area, migrated north into Russia, west into what is now known as Germany and Poland and the Czech Republic, and south into the Adriatic Region. These were distinct from the Germanic tribes that had migrated from Scandinavia into the Roman Empire starting in the 4^th Century.

The Kashubians were a Slavic tribe that settled in Eastern Europe on the coast of the Baltic Sea at that time. Specifically, they claimed a region of land that was south of Sweden, north of Poland, east of the German homeland, and west of Lithuania. Their ancient territory stretches from the Kashubian capital city of Gdansk to as far as the German Capital of Berlin. It lies between the Odra River to the west and the Vistula River to the east. The whole north side borders the Baltic Sea.

During the migration, the Slavs became a nuisance to the Byzantine Empire, which was really the eastern part of the Roman Empire that lasted for a thousand years after the fall of the western Roman Empire. Since Slavs were an adaptable species, they learned how to use the weapons of those they conquered and attacked cities instead of trade routes.

These pillaging Slavs believed in nature, and they had adopted a mythology consisting of a pantheon of gods. Their shamans were known for telling great tales about their gods, and the Slavs traditions and way of life were developed from these tales.

The Byzantine rulers wished to calm these robust terrorists, so they ordered two scholars and brothers, Cyril and Methodius, to educate the Slavs in the Glagolitic alphabet, which was closely connected to the teachings of Christianity. This is how Kashubians and other Slavs became Roman Catholics.

When the Byzantine Empire ended, the Slavs created Slavic kingdoms across Eastern Europe, effectively squelching the influence of the Mongol tribes who wished to spread their Muslim religion.

The Kashubs were also called Pomeranians, which translates to “the people by the sea”. When they settled by the Baltic Sea, they spent many years isolated from other Slavs and peoples. This allowed them to develop their unique Kashubian dialect and create their own traditions, folklore, music, dance and cuisine. Their access to land induced them to become an agricultural people, farmers who worked the land to provide for their families. They organized their smallest community structure into Catholic parishes, and their lives centered around their religion.

Eventually, the German Empire encroached upon the independence of the Kashubian people, and Kashubia became part of Prussia. Their German rulers forced priests to say Mass in German instead of the native Kashubian language, and the Kashubians strongly resented this. Farmers had large families so that children could help work the land, but when these broods of children grew into adulthood, there wasn’t enough farmland for them to farm; therefore, the German government offered Kashubians free or cheap travel to North America where homesteads and land were abundant.

On May 14, 1859, three sailing ships left Hamburg, Germany for Quebec, Canada, carrying a host of Kashubian families. The names of the ships were the Laura, Donau, and Elbe. The river that connects Hamburg to the Baltic Sea is the Elbe, so the ship named Elba was likely named after this river, a common German practice for naming ships.

On board the Elbe were families with the surnames of von Bronk, Galewski, Kistowski, Konkel, Libera, Piekarski, Platowna, Rzenszewicz (Runsavage), Walinski, who knew each other in their homeland. The records of the ship were posted in German using Prussia as the land of origin; however, Kashubians never did consider themselves German.

My ancestors on the Elbe consisted of the Joseph and Francisca von Bronk family, including their five sons—Johann, Ignatz, Vincent, Lorenz, and Jacob. Von is a German preposition meaning “from,” so this label indicates they came from a place called “Bronk.” In the Kashubian region, there is a forest known as “Bronki” so they may have originated from that specific place. All of the passengers listed on this ship were classified as “Landsmann,” indicating that they were farmers.

Joseph von Bronk is my Great-great-great grandfather. His son Ignatz, who changed the spelling of his name to Ignatius, is my Great-great grandfather mentioned above. The family left Quebec and traveled south, eventually arriving in the Winona area before the end of 1859. Many of the families who traveled across the Atlantic with them also settled in the Winona area. Others stayed in Canada and founded another Kashubian town known as Wilno.

The Winona area was a lot like their home in Kashubia where there were plentiful forests, abundant water and fishing, and land for farming. At first, the Kashubians settled on the east side of what is now known as Winona where they established a Kashubian village. In 1886 after his second wife died, Ignatius bought land in Pine Creek, Wisconsin. This property is owned by my Uncle David and Aunt Linda today.

Artifacts in the Polish Museum in Winona revealed that the Kashubians were a literary and creative people. Many of their descendants have continued the strong story-telling and writing traditions of the culture, including me, for instance. Their colorful embroidery and distinctive pottery are world-renowned, and their flag and national symbols are celebrated today, not only in Kashubia, but now in the Kashubian communities all over North America.

Today, in Winona and in the surrounding farms, the Kashubian descendants live in harmony with Polish, German, and Swedish peoples. They work in each other’s businesses, attend each other’s weddings and baptisms, and share the same merry-go-rounds.

This is the Kashubian story. Now this is my advice. If you have a Kashubian neighbor, laugh at their jokes, never insult them, keep the peace. A Kashubian is a warrior. Behind that friendly gleam in his eye, behind her engaging smile is a constitution of ferocity. Those DNA have migrated over mountains, through valleys, into war, across water, and have survived.

References:

Larry Reski. Poland to Pine Creek, Wisconsin. https://polandpinecreek.blogspot.com/2014/02/elbe-departing-from-hamburg-14-may-1859.html.
Haden Chakra. The Great Migration and Early Slavic History. https://about-history.com/the-great-migration-and-early-slavic-history/.
Welcome to Wilno. Wilno.com.

A Place for All of Us

Last week, I saw Steven Spielberg’s remake of West Side Story with Rachel Zegler as Maria and Ansel Elgort as Tony. Rita Moreno, who played Anita in the 1961 version, played Valentina, the wife of Doc, who was the original owner of Valentina’s drugstore.

This fabulous musical—which whips emotions into a frenzy with enthusiastic dancing and impassioned characters—was relevant back in 1961, a time when racism was high in the United States. For goodness sakes, the Civil Rights Act wasn’t even passed until 1964, three years after this original musical.

The Civil Rights Act outlawed discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, national origin, and later sexual orientation and gender identity. This act sought to establish equality for voter registrations, prohibited racial segregation in schools and public places, and outlawed discrimination in employment.

West Side Story, first written in 1957 by Jerome Robbins was inspired by Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Remember, Romeo and Juliet came from two different feuding families in Verona. Robbins wanted his lovers to come from two different religions in America—Maria was to be a Jewish girl and Tony was supposed to be from a Catholic family.

But when Laurents and Leonard Bernstein started collaborating on the musical, they drew inspiration from the Chicano riots in Los Angeles. By the time the musical was complete, the setting had been moved to New York and the opposing gangs were represented by the Puerto Ricans and poor white communities of the city’s West Side.

The 2021 version is spectacular, and as relevant as ever. The two opposing factions could be any community in America: men verses women, Whites verses Blacks, heterosexuals verses gays, Christians verses Muslims. Even though the 1964 Civil Rights Act was supposed to establish equality for every person in the United States, it didn’t.

People aren’t equal here, and diversity still seems to threaten our various cultures. Women have not achieved equal pay for equal work, and, even when they work, they experience inequality at home when they are expected to bear most of the responsibility for raising children and doing housework.

African American men are viewed as dangerous and irresponsible and too often become the targets of police officers or white vigilantes. Furthermore, African Americans are dehumanized for their dark skin and course and curly hair.

Muslims are labeled as terrorists just because they share the same religion with terrorists on the other side of the world.

When gay couples want to have children, they are criticized and ostracized. Transgender individuals are the victims of rape and ridicule.

American society is still a white supremist society, and most white people don’t understand how pervasive this damaging attitude is to the non-white cultures of our country. So when two people from different cultures fall in love, their ability to sustain that love is fraught with hatred from their respective communities.

In Steven Spielberg’s version of West Side Story, Rita Moreno sings the song that begins with “There’s a place for us, some where a place for us.” She sings about a place with peace, quiet, and open air. She sings about a time for togetherness, time for recreation, time for learning and caring.

The poor and discriminated in the United States don’t live in places of peace and quiet. They live in places filled with pollution, noise, and stress. They don’t enjoy togetherness when families break down due to financial hardship and lack of opportunity. They don’t have time to play. Stress takes up their opportunities to learn, and they don’t feel like anyone cares.

I cried in the dark theater as Rita Moreno sang this song.

When will women ever feel as equal as men in American society? When will their assertiveness and leadership be valued as much? When will African Americans overcome the cavernous damages that slavery imposed upon them? When will religions ever learn to respect every individual no matter their gender, sexual orientation, or creed?

Rita Moreno sang about how, if we hold hands, we can be “halfway there.” Holding hands requires empathy for one another. We’re not practicing empathy too well these days.

Let’s really get into each other shoes. Choose the people who are the most unlike you, and ask yourself, “How would I like to be treated?” Maybe then, we can start holding hands and finding a place for all of us.

Corona Virus Integrity

Pope Francis claims that the Corona Virus Pandemic is presenting humans with an opportunity.

A few weeks ago, right after the San Francisco Bay Area was ordered to shelter-in-place, I signed up to receive his daily email messages as a way to continue my journey toward cultural humility.

I’ve always respected this pope and believed that his spirituality reflected a mature connection with God. He never judges. He never criticizes. He accepts responsibility for his mistakes and, since he is the Pope, he recognizes the mistakes of the Catholic Church and works to heal the pain caused by the Church in the past.

He also understands the power of joy in life and the profound goodness it can achieve in helping someone develop a stronger spiritual life. I watched the movie The Two Popes; at one point, Francis tries to teach Pope Benedict how to tango. Pope Benedict never learns to dance well, but, while dancing, his face lights up with pleasure, a delight that he didn’t often feel before Francis arrived.

I’m impressed. I really am. Pope Francis brings joy into the lives of many people; he behaves as a human being of integrity.

Today, the day of Easter, his message is thoughtful and profound. He advises his readers to become inventive, creative. This makes sense. Creativity is the origin of life, the basis of growth, and the source of expanded understanding.

The Pope suggests that Christians use their creativity “in opening up new horizons, opening windows, opening transcendence toward God and people.” In simple words, for humans to love one another.

Before the sheltering-in-place order, many people attended Mass, and then, after leaving the church, they thought nothing of discriminating against other people. Some disparaged the LBGTQ+ community by criticizing pictures of gay marriages on television. Others labeled Muslim women as terrorists simply because they wore Hijab scarves while shopping at Safeway. Others accused people of sinning just because they didn’t follow the same “rules.” Some angrily rebuked people who had different political values. This is hypocrisy, not love.

Pope Francis asserts that today’s crisis puts “a spotlight on hypocrisy … It’s a time for integrity.”

To live a life of integrity is to love all human beings, and no one can fully love someone else unless they try to treat that person as they, themselves, would like to be treated.

This is cultural humility. A person cannot assume that they fully understand anyone. They, instead, must open to learning more and more each day about people and their lives.

Here’s an example. A heterosexual cannot fully love a member of the LBGTQ+ community unless he or she treats that person with respect and kindness. This does not include judging the behavior of that person; instead, the heterosexual can attempt to better understand the other person’s life without any prejudice at all.

People who claim that they don’t condemn the person, just their behavior, are not loving. They are living lives of hypocrisy since integrity does not include any type of judgment.

Pope Francis explains that the Corona Virus Pandemic does not discriminate against the rich or the poor; all humans are vulnerable to its deadly seed, and humanity can learn how to develop better spiritual lives if they strive to practice integrity—wholesomeness, oneness in action, unity.

Pope Francis also shares an idea that he gleaned from reading the Aeneid; don’t “give up, but save yourself for better times.” He asserts that humans should use this shelter-in-place time to become better, more trustworthy companions to their fellow sisters and brothers. He says that we should be “coherent with our beliefs”—make sure that our actions imitate what we claim to believe.

Amen to that!

If people are honest with themselves, they know when they are loving vs. prejudiced.

I realize that I am in the midst of my own journey toward cultural humility, and I’m sure I’ll be on this path for the rest of my life. Yet, I’ve learned how to achieve more cultural humility, another word for integrity, by practicing the following.

When I meet believers of Islam, I engage in a conversation with them. I learn about their histories, their daily lives, how living in America might clash with some of their rituals, what their goals are, or how they have experienced prejudice from other Americans. If they offer to share their foods with me, I accept them with eagerness and gratitude.

When members of the LBGQT+ community share their gender status with me, I welcome them into my life with open arms. I accept their lifestyle as a natural condition, and never question why they have chosen that persuasion. I also read about their lives and listen to their stories to reduce my ignorance. Finally, I show them respect by including them in my life; for example, I listen to the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus to hear incredible singing.

I befriend people of all races and treat them as valuable contributors to my life. During this crisis, I have financially assisted some people so that they can maintain their small businesses. I know that my concern for them strengthens our bond and friendship. If I didn’t have the money for helping them, I would have helped establish a Go Fund Me page or found another way to provide some help.

I actively seek the beauty in members of races different from me. For example, I love the braided hairstyles of African Americans that demonstrate their creativity and African culture. Whenever I can, I compliment a man or woman on his or her hairstyle.

Another attractive trait I’ve discovered are the traditional costumes of Indian citizens with yards and yards of glittering fabrics swirled around the female body. When I meet a woman of Indian heritage on the street, I tell her she is lovely.

The Corona Virus has brought danger, but also opportunity—the chance to become a human of integrity. I am not beautiful if I don’t see the inherent, non-judged loveliness in my sisters and brothers. Only if I accept them completely will I ever achieve integrity—the pinnacle of spiritual life.

My Search for Cultural Humility

Maya Angelou wrote, “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” This is the quote that will guide me through my search for cultural humility.

I was born white. Nobody asked me what color I wanted to be. I was just born this way: pale skin, toe-head blonde, pink fingers and toes. I was also born female. No one asked me what gender I preferred. Then, about a month after I was born, my parents even chose my religion; they had me baptized as a Catholic. These three conditions created my destiny, my opportunities, my struggles, my pains, and, for a long time, my opinions about people who were different than me.

I was raised in a white community: white neighbors, white church members, white school, white grocery stores. Both of my parents were white. All my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins were white. As far as I knew, everyone in the whole world had bleached skin.

When I was nine years old, my father—an Air Force sergeant—was transferred to England to serve there for four years. So, in the middle of my third grade, my large family of nine white children flew to England to live for four years. While there, we lived off-base in the English countryside and attended English Catholic schools. I can only remember white classmates, kids who looked even paler than I did.

In California, state history is taught in fourth grade, so I missed learning about the California missions, the Spanish colonialists, and the Gold Rush. I didn’t study about how the Franciscan priests converted the native Indians to Catholicism, made them work in the missions making wine and bread, watched them contract the white man’s diseases, and buried them in the mission cemeteries.

In seventh grade, California students study United States history, so I missed that too. While kids back home were studying about the Colonial times, I was learning about Anglos and Saxons settling the British Isles, William the Conqueror’s successful takeover of England in 1066, and the tumultuous and factious rule of several royal families like the Houses of Lancaster, Tudors, and Stuarts. I became fascinated with Elizabeth I, whose reign produced William Shakespeare. To me, she was a powerful, ingenious woman who used savvy strategies to maintain her hold on power and her queenship in a male-dominated world.

If my old friends in the U.S. studied anything about slavery, I didn’t at all. I leaned that the men from aristocratic families often sailed out of England due to business, but nobody ever talked about where they went, what decisions they made, what they saw, what they were responsible for, or how their wealth was produced.

My family lived in England from early 1966 to late 1969—important years in America: civil rights. I missed hearing about all of Martin Luther King Jr.’s marches, his speeches, what he was speaking for. On the day that Robert Kennedy was killed, Sister Genevieve asked me to stand up in front on the class and tell everyone else how I felt about his assassination. I didn’t know.

I never even heard about Martin Luther King’s assassination, and no one asked for my opinion when he died. An ignorant mind doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about right and wrong or concepts of equality and freedom.

I knew little about Black people except what I learned from the mouths of my parents. My father thought they were lazy. He told stories about the Black men in his unit who were supposed to work on the plane engines. He described how they sat around smoking cigarettes while the white men brought in the parts, organized the work spaces, and fixed the broken planes. The Black men smiled as they smoked, knowing they could get away with doing nothing.

My mother used the “N” word. Whenever she talked about Black people, she called them “N****s.” I knew that it was a derogatory term by the sneer that formed on her face when she said it. The tone of her voice emphasized the first syllable in a low guttural sound, and then let up on the second syllable like the backlash of a whip. One side of her lip curled up like she had just found a cockroach in the garbage can.

While we lived in base housing—a pastoral oasis with grazing cows and forested valleys—a Black family moved in next door to us. My parents reacted with quiet, stunned faces. One day when I was outside in the front yard, one of the boys from this family walked out onto their patch of front lawn. His skin was black, as dark of my father’s shoe polish. We looked at each other silently for several long minutes.

After noting his skin, I searched for his eyes—not black. In the English sun, they shone like deep, brown pearls floating in seas of white cream, friendly, wistful, inviting, tender. I softened in response, like a morning glory opening in the early light, and a wad of shame built up in the center of my chest for all of my preconceived notions.

Yet, this was only a first impression and short-lived. Soon, our family was on our way back to the United States and away from our next-door Black neighbors.

And so, I came back, enthralled with a love of English aristocracy and royal lineage and the literature that upheld their good and righteous glory. I believed in the goodness of Henry V as he protected the English throne on the edge of France. I believed in the moral purity of Elizabeth and Darcy in Pride and Prejudice.

I never studied American history until I got to college. In high school, I studied World History in freshman year. No Black peoples or slavery interrupted my understanding of Egypt, Rome, Constantinople, or Napoleon. As a senior, I studied Civics, never learning about the constitutional amendments that finally allowed women and Blacks the right to vote freely, without literacy or taxation barriers.

In college, finally, I took American History from Colonial Days to 1877. 1877 was the end of the Reconstruction Period in the South. Did I understand the significance of ending Reconstruction? Absolutely not. Looking back, I wonder why the academic planners chose to end my history class right before Jim Crow took over the South.

So, I entered the world of adults, ready to work, vote, contribute, change, and mold my society with an incomplete understanding of the history and make-up of my country or the world. Little did I know that I would learn what discrimination meant, but from a female point of view. But, even with good intentions, I was ignorant of who my fellow Black brothers and sisters were and how they felt about themselves and me. My perspective was too white, too female, and too Catholic. My journey toward cultural humility was going to be a long one.

Dark Confession

Audrey’s second grade class had been practicing their confession ritual for three months, and, finally, the day came for their first confession. Audrey smoothed the pleats of her green and white plaid, wool skirt over her knees. The fabric scratched her bare thighs.

Sister Magdalene was listening to Tommy.

“I don’t know,” Tommy said.

“You must know. How many sins do you have to confess? You’ll be going to confession today and you have to be ready.”

“I can’t think of any,” Tommy whined, cupping his already large hands at the sides of his dipped head.

Sister Magdalene picked up the math book from her desk, raised it like a whip over a slave’s back, and banged it down on Tommy’s crew cut.

Tommy cowered over his desk, protecting his head with his hands laced over his skull and his elbows tucked in across his face. A moan escaped from the cave of his elbows, a sound like a deer shot in the forest, trapped in the eye piece of a hunter’s gun. Audrey winced when the book hit Tommy’s interlaced fingers again.

“You’re lazy, Tommy! Tell that to the priest when you go to confession.”

Tommy’s desk was the first in Audrey’s row. He had to sit in front because Sister Magdalene wanted to watch him. He got hit over the head with lots of books: math, history, hardbacks, large paperbacks with big words on their covers, but he never got hit with the little paperback books from the top shelf behind Sister Magdalene’s desk. Never. And Audrey was glad that she sat close to the back row.

Jane’s turn. “I hit my sister yesterday.”

Darlene tells Sister Magdalene that she stole two marshmallows from the cupboard when her mother wasn’t looking. Colleen used Darlene’s bicycle without asking her.

Soon would be Audrey’s turn. What was she going to say? When mommy asked her to set the table, she did it. When she told Audrey to fold the clothes, she folded them. She didn’t talk back. She knew better than to say no. Instead, she knew that if she folded the clothes, she’d be alone in the laundry room where it was quiet. The dryer warmed the room, and its tumbling sounded like distant drumming.

Sometimes, Audrey sang songs, pretending that the dryer was background music. When the washer was on, she sang livelier songs. She sang, yes, but she didn’t sin while she was folding the clothes. The laundry room wasn’t a place for sinning; it was a place for peace.

What was she going to do? If she didn’t come up with a sin, Sister Magdalene would hit her over the head with one of those books. Colleen was only two seats ahead of her.

As Sister Magdalene asked each student, she stepped down the row, closer and closer to Audrey, like a huge bat in her black gown. A white band on her forehead held in place a black veil that flowed down her back. Her folded arms were pleated bat wings. Closer and closer she inched until her shadow crossed over Audrey’s desk and engulfed her in gloom. Audrey couldn’t see the sunlight shining through the windows anymore.

“Tell me your sins.”

Audrey squeezed her hands tightly in the crotch of her skirt. She could feel her heart beating up a batter of a lie that was thick and sticky. Maybe Sister would sense the lie. Then, Sister would hold a book over her head, and when it clunked down on Audrey’s headband, she would groan like Tommy. Die like a beetle under a shoe.

“I lied, Sister.”

“Good. You’re ready then.” Sister Magdalene took a step behind Audrey and the sunlight from the window splashed over her face and shoulders like warm bathwater, the heat from toast, the breath from the dryer in the laundry room. She was safe. She had survived the inquisition and had something to tell the priest in confession.

After lunch, the class marched in two lines from the classroom to the church on the hill. Audrey held hands with Maureen, who sat right behind her. Sister Magdalene held Tommy’s hand, pulling him behind her like a walking doll whose battery was running down; his legs dragged on the sidewalk and he tripped on the stairs.

Inside the church, the class filed in twos down the center aisle and filled the two front pews, girls to the left, boys to the right.

“Hands in your laps!” Sister Magdalene whispered harshly with disdain and disapproval. Audrey tucked her chin into her blouse and looked at Sister through furtive eyes, folding her hands over her plaid skirt and stretching her toes to reach the floor. The tips of her shoes could barely reach the linoleum.

One by one, her classmates disappeared into dark hallways on either side of the altar. She waited on her square of the pew, tapping at the floor, trying to remember the words to the Act of Contrition prayer that she was supposed to say in the confessional: “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee, and I . . . “ What’s next? Her head was filled with white, fluffy nothing, like those cotton balls mommy had in her bathroom. No words to the prayer came to mind, only filling that blackened and furled into fear. What will the priest say if I can’t remember? Will he tell Sister Magdalene? Audrey thought of the math book lying on the corner of Sister’s desk with its big, black letters.

Her turn.

She walked from the pew with her arms at her sides, and hastily clasped her hands together as she reached the dark hallway. She couldn’t see the confessional. The hall was so black and deep, she couldn’t see even the walls of the tunnel stretched before her. Only a hollow shaft of light illuminated the floor for several feet ahead of her.

Beyond the shaft was blackness. A black as deep as the space above her bed at night. Dense, complete darkness. Somewhere in that cave of blindness was the confessional, controlled by a priest in black clothes with a cross around his neck. A priest who would judge her for her sins, even if they were fabricated at the last minute to avoid corporal punishment.

She stepped gingerly into the obscurity, holding her breath so tightly that pins jabbed at the cells in her chest like tiny swords. Walking on her tiptoes, her arms lagging at her sides. She clenched her jaw, ready to defend herself against the demons of the dimness, but not sure where or what they were.

Step by step, the walls appeared like the slabs of a tomb as her eyes adjusted. The lines of the linoleum transported her gaze down the chamber to a kneeler set under a dark window. Beside the window was a notice, stuck to the wood with a silver tack, pierced like the heart of Jesus.

She couldn’t read it. Maybe it was a notice that the confessional was out of order. For a flicker of a second, she breathed easier, absolved of the responsibility to implicate herself in a sacrificial crime. Liberated from the punishment of a priest’s sentencing, free of the humiliation of having to lie to follow the rules.

No. It wasn’t that. She heard a shuffling behind the dark window. Saw a silhouette wobbling behind the screen—the shadow of a fat head on the pedestal of rounded shoulders. The priest was there, waiting for her, grinning at her guilt, anticipating the litany of her sins, prescribing her sentence.

Audrey knelt on the wool cushion, one knee and then the other. Her knees itched. She pressed her hands to each other, fingers pointing to the dark ceiling, and one thumb crossed over the other.

In this cavity of shame, she read the words on the sign—The Act of Contrition. Sucked the dank air into her lungs like filling a vacuum, and its clamminess wallowed around the tight walls of her organs like the squall of a storm.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. This is my first confession . . . I lied, Father.”