Before I can tell you what happened next at church that further alienated me from my faith, we'll have to agree upon some language. My family is fairly immigrant. We did not learn traditional or especially politically correct terms for special groups of people. I have several cousins that have cerebral palsy and as an adult I know that is the appropriate medical term. But as a child, my grandmother referred to them a The Spastics. For example, " Your Great Aunt is coming in for the party but I think she's only bringing one of The Spastics," or "Your cousin Teddy The Spastic says he's going to Poland to see the relatives but I can't imagine how the hell he'll get there." Actually, I was in high school before I realized that they weren't even my cousins. They were my second or third cousins. We never differentiated. My Aunt Mitzi? Found out she was my grandma's twin sister. Everyone was a cousin, aunt or uncle.
My grandma was a sweet woman. Kind, generous, warm and funny. My best friend ever. A tiny little woman with an accent and a twinkle in her eye. I loved her more than anything in the world. But she learned racial terms in the 30's and hung onto them until she died. When my grandfather had emergency surgery at the Cleveland Clinic...
Me: How's grandpa? I miss him. Give him a hug for me.
Grandma: Dr. Chink says he's doing good and he'll be home soon! And for a Chink, he's a good doctor! Except I think he's a little sneaky. But he's so small. Who can say?
Me: Oh my God, Grandma, don't call him that! He saved Grandpa's life! He's Asian! Say "Asian!"
Grandma: Listen, I can't tell those people apart. And I can't say his name, either. Anyway, he doesn't seem to mind.
or...
as Winston and I drove her to a rehearsal dinner...
Grandma: Are we there yet? Why is it taking so long? Why are you driving so fast?
Me: Look, Grandma, we're here! This is the restaurant!
Grandma: Oh, it's a dego place. I hate dego food.
Me: Grandma! Shame on you! You have a daughter-in-law who's Italian! Don't say "dego!" That's terrible! You can't say things like that!
Grandma: Eye-talian, Dego, whatever. I hate their food.
Black people. African Americans. People of color. Nope. She called them "The Negra" until the day she died. It didn't matter if it was one person or 50. The Negra.
Native Americans?
Me: Winston and I are getting married! I want you to be my matron of honor. I love you so much, Grandma.
Grandma: What nationality is he? (hopefully) Polish?
Me: Actually, he's Cherokee Indian. Like, he's almost 3/4 Cherokee. His grandpa grew up on a reservation in Missouri. That's why he's so tan.
Grandma: Listen. Don't tell anyone he's a dirty Injun. Tell them he's Polish. No one needs to know.
Me: Grandma! Shame on you! That's my future husband you're talking about!
Grandma: I'll tell the family he's Polish. He looks Polish.
So back to the Spastics. The kids and I slunk in the side door at mass. This was our new technique: it got us up front so the kids would pay attention, and it put me in an excellent position to slink back out after NOT receiving Communion because I am saturated with sin. The kids could go up, receive Communion and then I would casually slink to the side, grab them and scoot out the door early. (Protestants: this is a perk of Catholicism: as long as you arrive in time for the Gospel reading, you are not strictly late and you can bolt after Communion. )
Now, remember, even though we had already made asses of ourselves on a regular basis, we were still new to the parish. We tended to blindly grab seats and try to act oblivious when people showed up and looked pissed that we were sitting in the pews they had probably sat in for 10 years. So, on this morning, we slid in the side door, and grabbed a pew on the left that, in retrospect, I should have realized was empty for a reason. But I was running late and the kids were fighting and Winston was out of town and it did not register that this pew was slightly offset and a wee bit larger than the other turn of the century pews. Actually, I remember thinking, "Finally! Some leg room!"
We slid into the over sized pew; first Anne, then Henry, then me. I was closest to side aisle and Anne was closest to the center aisle. The children began shoving, kicking and jabbing each other. I moved my lips in silent prayer that today would not be the day I went to jail for beating a child with a hymnal. I was also trying to focus on the after mass donuts. Mmmm, donuts. Church donuts are awesome.
Mass started and we began doing the whole up and down business that is at the heart of the Mass. When we finally parked it for the second reading (2 readings and a Gospel, for the unbelievers out there) I heard a sudden commotion in the rear of the church. Doors opening. Squeaking. Banging. I remember thinking smugly to myself, " Humph. At least my kids are quiet for once. Maybe it doesn't always have to be me! Things are looking up!" But the noise continued. It made me think of a elementary school janitor moving his giant cart through the hallway. I turned to look a what the ruckus was and saw...
Two men. With giant walkers. Picking them up and punching them down again. Tennis balls on the wheels. Various dangling accessory bags. Lots of random arm movements and twitching. Coming straight up the side aisle. Straight towards our strange little askew pew. Looking at me. I felt a cold wave pass over me. I whipped my head around and began scanning our seats frantically.
After running my hands over all available surfaces of pew, I found an indentation on the top back of the pew. Recessed inside, the size of a postage stamp, was a tiny symbol.
"Holy Fuck! We're sitting in the Spastics pew!"
Yes, in an attempt to be subtle and in keeping with a "holy aesthetic," my church had labeled a pew so vaguely that I had sat in it. And was now being born down upon by two slowly advancing Spastics. And all of my education and adult onset sensitivities about the handicapped flew out the window as I clung to my childhood and I head my grandmothers voice say,
"What do you want me to call your cousins? Their own mother calls them the Spastics! That's what doctors used to call it! I'm not calling it something new every time people change their minds!"
I had a sudden memory of dancing with my cousin Teddy at my wedding. He was clutching me rather inappropriately and as we danced I was trying to decide if he was a pervert or if the clutching was simply part of his spasms. If I had to describe it, I would say our dance looked like a bride trying to whirl around and escape a giant squid. After being unable to detach him from my person after 2 songs, my mother marched up, grabbed him and hissed, "For Gods sake, Teddy, leave her alone! Get off of her!" I stood there wondering if I had, in fact, just been molested by my Spastic cousin.
That question was answered several years later, during one of the last conversations I had with my grandma before she died. We were eating cinnamon rolls and drinking tea at her kitchen table...
Grandma: I guess now your cousin Teddy the Spastic is telling everyone he's A Gay.
Me: Come on, Grandma. Who cares? You can't be upset about it; how many other gay family members do we have now? It's old news.
Grandma: I don't care that he says he's A Gay. What's bothering me is how he knows. He's been living with his mother for the last 40 some years. He can't drive! Who is he planning on being A Gay with? And who'd have him?
Back to the church. I found myself wondering: our church is the very definition of "not handicapped accessible." It was built in the 20's. How the hell did they even get in the building? There are literally dozens of steps at every door! The Spastics slowly charged at me with their walkers. All eyes in the church followed their slow progression. I frantically considered my options: I had none. All the surrounding pews were full. Getting up and moving was equally unthinkable because I knew my kids would not just move silently because I nudged them: they would LOUDLY demand a full explanation. I began to sweat.
Have you ever used the handicapped stall in the bathroom because it tends to be 80% cleaner than the other ones and always has a place to put your purse? And then opened the door and came out to a shockingly handicapped woman leaning angrily on the wall, waiting for the handicapped stall? Yeah. I felt like that. There is no high ground.
I did a quick calculation. If we all scoonched over, there would be room for both Spastics and their walkers. The Spastics were now 4 pews away and beginning to make groaning noises about hauling their asses all the way down the aisle to find THEIR seats were taken by a tattooed harlot and her children. I could feel the hot weight of every eye in the church on me. So...
I elbowed Henry.
Me: Henry! Scoot over! Please just scoot and ask your sister to scoot! Quietly!
Henry: WHAT, MOM?
Me: Shhhhh!!! Just scoot!
Henry: ANNE WON"T MOVE! WHY DO WE HAVE TO SIT WITH HER? SHE SHOULD GO IN THE BABY CRYING ROOM.
Anne: I'M GONNA KILL YOU, HENRY!
Me: For the love of God, please shut up and move down! We are in their seat!
Henry: WHOSE SEATS?
Me: The Spastics!
Henry: FINE! I'LL MAKE ANNE MOVE.
My son leaned forward and dramatically shoved his sister to the right. She shoved back. He responded with a combination shove and kick. She squealed. Then I heard a loud metallic scraping noise.
I had placed my purse on the floor. And set my car keys next to it. On the cold stone church floor. His foot had connected with my huge ring of keys and sent it skittering 15 feet across the floor, under several pews and finally coming to a rest in front of the altar. Slightly off center.
Father glared at me and my keys from the lofty height of the altar. The Spastics, arriving at the pew, began groaning at me. My children, now aware of their imminent death at the hands of their mother, had scooted clean out of the pew into another zip code and were sitting angelically.
Me: OH MY GOD I AM SO SORRY!
The Spastics groaned some more and slowly moved off to the side door, clanging all the way, the door slamming behind them. They left. I wanted to stand up and scream, "How handicapped can they be??? There are 9 stairs and two doors out that way and you all know it! I am not an animal!!! Stop looking at me!!!"
Instead, I sat in silent shame. Mass, which had halted so everyone could enjoy my discomfort, restarted. I waited until the priest turned his back to mess with the tiny golden castle the Host lives in and then I crab walked up to the altar, grabbed my car keys and then turned and crawled on my hands and knees back to the pew of shame. I thought if I stayed low to the ground no one would notice, but as I climbed back into the pew, I looked up to find the eyes of the Father upon me and wondered how long he had been watching a grown woman crawl across the church.
And I remembered the shortest verse of the Bible and, for me, the most eloquent:
"Jesus wept."
~dana
