An Irish Hungarian that got left behind

The Irish Hungarian (left) and associate, circa 1973

The following is a short bit from The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts that ended up on the cutting room floor. In it, I bemoan growing up Irish--but not Catholic--in a predominately Irish Catholic neighborhood on Cleveland's West Side in the 1970's

* * *

The most injurious and unfair insult I fielded on account of my nearly pagan blood came during the spring months of my sixth, seventh and eighth years when each of my Catholic girlfriends was treated to a mysterious rite. With it came a grand party (to which I was never invited) complete with gifts and cake and a special dress. "First Communion" dresses were always fluffy with lace. I'd peer out of the living room window on those gentle Saturday mornings over a soggy bowl of Count Chocula, watching the little Catholic girls twirling in cartwheels across the green green lawns in their perfect white dresses.

They had bevies of brothers who laughed loud and wore jerseys emblazoned with the words "Notre Dame" along with a cartoon Irishman posed in fisticuffs. They had swarms of sisters who wept over boyfriends and prayer cards. My one sibling brooded over Bob Dylan and was the object of bullies' sneers.

The Shaughnessys had a dewy-eyed Virgin statue in their backyard whose hands were forever upraised. I had a smoky-eyed nude woman called Playmate that lived in my father's nightstand and was replaced every month. Patty and Bridgette and Mary ate fish on Fridays while I sat cross-legged in front of the black-and-white television in my parent's bedroom watching reruns of Love American Style. The Gallagher's' living room featured an oil painting of an androgynous man named Jesus who would love them no matter what.

"Don't worry," Mrs. Gallagher assured me despite the note of condescension in her voice, "Jesus loves you too."

Every Catholic household had an odorless oppressive guilt about it that I never understood. Whenever I crossed one of their thresholds, it was as if I was awaiting some unseen judgment that would deem me bad or good. Hence, to hear that Jesus loved me evoked a private sigh of relief. The feeling lasted as long as it took for Mrs. Gallagher to stub out her Kool, tap a fresh one from the pack and say, "Jesus died for your sins." Confusion bloomed. Sins? Me?

Since the tender age of eleven, I did have one way to sin all by myself that was worth risking whatever this Jesus guy had to dish out. I told myself that he couldn't possibly know anything about what I did alone. And wasn't he already dead?

Nonetheless, I worried.

* * *

As the readership has probably surmised, I eventually stopped worrying.

Dear Mosque-opposition people,

Please gather your checkbooks, credit cards, piggy banks et al., and catch the next plane, train, or automobile to New York City. Once there, you can begin negotiations on your forthcoming purchase of 45-51 Park Place, Lower Manhattan, New York City, United States of America.

Then you can decide what the hell to do with it.

Good luck,

Erin

***

Doing unto others

Christian Faith Financial is a "payday loans & cash advance" site that helps you "the Christian way."

"Helping families with Christian financial assistance," says the site. They mean it too. "Elijah" is standing by in a very persistent pop-up box when you try to close the window. Call it a blessed cyberfoot in the door.

Maybe the money you get from these guys glows. Maybe "IN GOD WE TRUST" is in a bolder font on dollars that come from Christian Faith Financial than on regular non-God dollars. Who knows? The good thing about being endorsed by an entity such as God is that he doesn't make a lot of direct comment on said endorsement.

There's even a snappy biblical reference to assure you you're in hallowed territory, "Be not overcome with evil, but overcome evil with good--Romans 12:21"

This development has put a new spin on what was heretofore one of my favorite terms: Holy shit.

Driving with Jesus

While I was in the supermarket the other day, someone placed a religious flyer beneath my windshield wiper. I didn't notice it until I was buckled up and ready to go, so I took my chances and pulled out.

As I drove home, the flyer flapped away, but stayed affixed to the car as I suspected it would. It reminded me of this tongue-in-cheek documentary/reality show wherein the host hung out with "alternative" individuals. I don't remember much about it. But on one show, he traveled along with a Ministry that delivered the word by driving around in a van that had religious slogans painted on its side. There may have been a loudspeaker as well. I'm not sure.

"So by driving around like this we're actually ministering?" asked the TV host.

"That's right," his guest replied. "We're delivering the Word right now."

So I've decided to keep the Jesus flyer on the Mini Cooper for a while. Will it fly off one day? What does it mean if someone removes it? If I let it get all tattered and rain-soaked, is that some sort of desecration? Am I subtly ministering by traveling along with this message? Maybe I'd better read it and make sure I'm not spreading some evil code hidden between the lines.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

Amen.

christ awmighty

A fan's notes

Offered up by a faithful reader courtesy of this site.

Jesus Christ

Although I eschew formal religion, there are times when I am obliged to attend church. I listen to the sermon with great interest, although it is invariably an elaborate version or corollary of the Erin Commandment (Don't Be an Asshole), which serves as both a comfort and affirmation for me (I was right and the God Guy says so).

And although it is always a part of the proceedings, when the God Guy announces that he will be doling out portions of JC's body and sips of his blood in order to absolve everyone's sins, two surprising thoughts bloom:

1. Cannibal/vampire.

But that image is quickly erased by the next exciting notion:

2. Man-o-man! It's my lucky day! All I have to do is eat a JC cracker and drink some grape juice blood and all the bad shit I did is cleared out!

Then of course, the God Guy explains that unless I'm a member of the church (I never am) or have been Confirmed (nope) or chinned some other God bar that I do not understand, I can't receive the Holy Communion.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I deflate back into the pew and hope that my Karma that was so close to being swept clean isn't all that dirty to begin with.

That I do not have to enter a church in order to experience church became evident during our trip home from Disney.

We passed the following sign and my hopes rose much like they do at the prospect of the anti-sin Christ cracker. Why ... JC loves me! That means he'll think I'm okay no matter what. He might clean out my sticky Karma as a housewarming gift of sorts. I'll tell him about how I proselytized the Erin Commandment over the Internet and bag a few more points. Christ awmighty, I thought, this is some good news!


A moment later, however, the facade came crumbling down. There is always a catch.


I wonder if Jesus drinks Stroh's beer.

Sinful

These people contend that the soldiers dying in Iraq are paying the price of homosexual acceptance in America.

It's hard to fathom undiluted hate, monolithic and inarguable. Imagine growing up with a massive stone hate tablet chained to your ankle. When you are exposed to hate such as that, you end up hating. Resist and the hateful people around you probably have an idea or two about how to deal with that.

I'm unsure what to do about such people. Throwing more hate at them only makes their hate bigger. But I do feel bad. I feel bad for the soldiers who have died and their families. I feel bad about our warmongering president. All of this is wrong and I feel helpless before it.

To the mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and aunts and uncles and grandparents and friends and sweethearts and old middle school teachers and everyone else at those funerals that the"godhatesfags" people are targeting (and you will find a listing of them if you poke around their link), I am sorry. I am sorry you have to deal with hate. I am sorry that people would hurt you when you are most vulnerable.

I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.

I wish I was giving you guys my totally excellent garlic bread recipe instead of writing something that includes the words soldier and hate and funeral, but this is all I can do about the helpless feeling I mentioned before.

Later this week, an essay I've written about pornography will run in my "Rainy Day Woman" column. It was a difficult column to write. I watched a great deal of pornography in its making, much of which might be called filthy or obscene or indecent.

Or sinful.

But if I took the ocean of pornography that washes over the Internet every day, it is a droplet next to the offense shown in the picture above. It is invisible next to George W. Bush's war.

Last notes on Craig

Much has been written about the Craig debacle over the past days and I was glad to add my essay on closeted gay conservatives to the fray. If you haven't read it, I welcome you to do so. It's a bit different than some of the angry political barbs flying back and forth. And the comment section is wonderful. The whole thing has given me pause, so here's a few notes in closing.

All Craig allegedly did was solicit consensual adult sex. No kids, no blood, no guns, no drugs. Didn't all us liberals hate the lynching Clinton withstood over a consensual blow job?

It is homophobia that forces gays into the closet (or bathroom).

Imagine being a 12-year-old boy with burgeoning feelings of homosexuality. Imagine being surrounded by homophobic adult males. In the worst case, they're talking about how that little queer got what he deserved. Or maybe their talking about how all the homos are going to burn in hell.

The fear and shame that would instill are unspeakable--something a heterosexual person cannot fully understand. And the fear is real. Homophobia cost Matthew Sheppard his life. Back in the 80s, a gay friend of mine was beat to an inch of his life by Cleveland mafioso street thugs. They did it just for kicks.

Is it any surprise that a young gay boy would do ANYTHING to convince those around him that he is not gay? That he would tell himself I've got to act like I hate gays too. And I better be convincing. I better cry out against it and politic against it and maybe if I shout loud enough, I'll even start to convince myself.

That sort of overcompensation makes perfect sense to me. And that's why I'm hesitant to use the word hypocrite.

Sure, one can say that, as an adult, Craig or others like him should come clean. But once you are ensconced in the lie, it gets harder and harder and harder to break out of it--there is more at stake, more people involved.

One note to those who are quick to say Craig or others like him are putting their wives' health at risk. I don't think its fair to assume he did not practice safe sex. Or that his wife did not know of his practices. We have no idea about these things. Would it be fair to make the same claim of any bisexual man? That his female partners are at risk and that he should be vilified for it?

Despite our perceived sophistication, homophobia still riddles our society. It seems worse for the men. In my experience, straight women happily embrace gay women as friends and feel no threat. But seeing gay and straight guys hanging out together isn't so common. Even the most liberal guys I know feel a need to occasionally announce that they are on the straight side of the fence. They have a way of conferring that they are secure in their manhood. They often wrap it around a joke or weave it casually into conversation.

Homosexuality is an elemental part of the human experience.

It should be considered by everyone as a personal and inalienable right. Craig's demise (or Foley's or Haggert's ) is really the liberal's opportunity to draw attention to this in an intelligent way.

Peace out--

Erin

Senator Craig redux

So you're born.

You're a kid. You're attracted to toys. You like crayons and dolls, but you're given trucks and soldiers. And downcast glances from the surrounding adults when you protest. You are told what is appropriate and what is not.

So you do what is appropriate because you want to be a good boy. You want the validation good boys get.

With every passing season, you have urges to do more and more inappropriate things. Sure, girls are pretty. But as you twirl around with them at the Freshman Snowball, it is the angular boys who make your eyes smoky.

You look away, you force yourself, telling yourself it is wrong and unnatural. You just have to try harder, be more conservative. Behave yourself and it will go away. It is silly and stupid. You will grow out of it.

(something deep inside of you says this is horribly wrong. But you have no choice, so you ignore this instinct)

You go to the conservative church with your parents. You embrace all things conservative. If you practice, practice, practice, the thing inside you will go away. You pray to God. If you are an enthusiastic member of His team, He will surely erase the wrong thing.

(shhhh. don't worry. no one will ever find out what you do with those other boys in secret places that feels so good)

Conservatives all around you all the time. Your family, telling you what is right and what to be. You find the more you act like them, the more approval they give you. Approval feels good. You go to a conservative college and keep talking loud and conservatively.

(you are very quiet during the stolen moments with the beautiful boys)

You marry a conservative woman, one who will match your burgeoning political career. You mount and impregnate her. These are simple motions. The children come.

The older you get, the more you realize that the urges inside of you are not going to go away. They are elemental. And The Other people would accept them. But they wear blue and ride donkeys. You wear red and are high on a lumbering elephant, which means money and power and adoration from all the conservatives. You speak their language and wish, wish, wish with all your heart that you could believe it. So you speak it louder in order to imbue the words with power. You denounce and denounce. Sometimes you even think it is working.

(all of this is very big, so you must keep the lovers very anonymous and secret. you may not even exchange names)

Years pass. You instill your children with the conservative values you want so desperately to believe because nothing could be worse than the hell you have lived. And every week you pray at church, searching for an answer, praying it could be different, hoping this thing is not genetic and that it is in one of your children.

(your desire does not wane. you want and want and want, something sexual and brilliant and dynamic, but this you may not have for such a thing would surely be discovered. life is not fair.)

The covert tricks and behaviors are easy enough to learn. Sometimes money changes hands, sometimes not. The acts are played out in filthy places. They are not the honest sex acts you crave

(the most dishonest sex acts are those with your wife you are sorry you are sorry sorry sorry sorr)

the simple human connection with another man,

(it hurts no one but you can't have it)

but they are all you may have, so you settle for the sordid couplings and all their banal satisfaction.

(sorry can't have it and help. who would ever know it's just the taptaptap of my foot just like Dorothy trying to get the hell out of Oz and I've got something that will put you over the rainbow big guy)

And in one instant inside a vile public bathroom stall, your entire life crumbles.