Hey there, Lucille,
How are things going with you, ex-neighbor? Did everything go as planned with the move? Damian and I walked by your building the other night when it was about to start snowing and peeked through the glass double doors. Gosh, it's so beautiful Lucille and oh my god, the doorman's so sexy. I actually waited in front of the entryway for about 5 minutes, pretending to discuss Sudanese politics with Sherine Levinsky on the phone, and totally checked him out, ha ha. You're living the dream, my little pumpkin. So many people fantasize, for years, of having a Fifth Avenue address and I'm so happy for you that your hard work is paying off. Perhaps five years down the line, you'll be a Society lady, tip-toeing across Manhattan in your Weitzman heels, decorating your home with Tiffany crystals and polishing your face in unreal charades. Or maybe you'll be the small-town Lucille, the Lucille I know -happy and satisfied with small things in life, appreciative of simplicity and quintessentially poise.
You know, my grandma, Jocelyn Horowitz, used to live in the penthouse of your building and was there for 32 years. After Lenny died of cardiac arrest, and her affair with the massuer, Eli Margolin, ended, she moved across the country and resettled in San Diego, in a lovely beach home in La Jolla Village. Maybe you, Eric, Aaron, Melanie and I can plan a little vacation there this summer.
I ran into Tom and Patricia this morning at the Peacefood Cafe on 82nd Street and Amsterdam Avenue. Remember Tom and Patricia Abberton from Perry Hall? We chatted for a bit about his material engineering courses at Columbia, Patricia's new job at Morgan Stanley and the Dave Eggers title I was reading called What Is The What. I was slightly taken aback when I first spotted them at the opposite edge of the counter top because I never would've thought they were religious or the church-going type. There they were, standing by the scone rack, chattering away and smiling occasionally, with 2 ashen thumb strokes chalked across their foreheads; one vertical, one horizontal, intersecting as a cross. It looked freshly done, but the tail ends were already narrowing with the sweat and their unusual hair-fixation tic. I presume they stopped by St Gregory's for the morning service, but then again I don't particularly keep track of their day-to-day whereabouts.
Just before they were about to head out Tom asked, "So, you giving up anything for Lent?" I laughed a little and said, "No, ha ha. I'm not Christian or religious for that matter. What about you guys?" Patricia said she was giving up desserts and Tom said cigarettes -both of which sounded reasonable. In the middle of the conversation, I glanced at the wall clock by the espresso counter and it was already 9:30 am. I needed to hurry up to be able to reach work on time. The M66 crosstown bus ride takes about 32 minutes and then there's a 14 minute walk. I paid for my coffee and bag of muffins, shook their hands and said, "Happy Ash Wednesday guys and also Happy Easter if I don't see you before that." They wished me Happy Easter as well. I slung the messenger bag over my shoulder, draped my scarf around my neck in a Parisian knot and stumbled my way out to the 79th Street subway.
One of the things I never told you about when we were at Goldman together was that I went to a Catholic school, kindergarten through 12th grade. It was of the Jesuit order, a burnt down theater space converted to a school building in 1863, educating boys, only, for years on end. St. Ignatius Collegiate School had a reputation for upholding strict traditions, churning out dedicated and respectable Catholics and helping students become 'mature, spiritually-oriented men of character.' They believed that 'the Catholic school is a learning community animated by
the Divine Spirit of Love and Freedom, and living the Gospel
values. It shares Christ's concern for the liberation and
fullness of life of all peoples, especially of those in
greatest need.' They admitted, however, a fair number of non-Catholics every year, true to their Educational Policy which stated "young people of any religious family
find scope within their own cultural milieu to reflect on
their lives in the light of their faith and to develop not
only in knowledge and skills but also in wisdom which is the
fruit of reflection on life and its lessons." I was one of them.
I didn't really care much about Jesuit values, attending weekly catechism or knowing anything about Catholicism till about 9th grade. I was raised Hindu till a certain age, then asked to choose what I wanted to believe. My beliefs collapsed shortly after, and I became an agnostic, and continued to be one for a very long time. During my phase of agnosticism, I had made a lot of really close friends, many of them Catholics. We kept religion out of our day to day conversations, our day to day lives. Whenever they needed to go for Mass, or confessions or other religious commitments, they would politely excuse themselves and slip away. I would stand in the hallway, the one close to the playground, and gaze at my reflection on the green polished tiles and look up to see them walk towards the stained glass corridors, smiling and laughing, chirping and beaming, and dissolve into the distance. They all looked very happy, like genuinely happy, apparently sincere, and soon embraced a culture that helped them feel worthy and re-congeal as a united entity. I, on the other hand, felt really left out; unwelcome to the brotherhood of Catholic boys, which had come to be such a defining part of their lives. I knew very well that I wasn't one of them, blaming it on my unfortunate fate, but shortly after, I knew that I wanted to be, really badly.
I could've bonded more with my non-Catholic friends, or attempted to anyway, and do random activities perhaps, like talk about agnosticism or cute college boys, discuss soccer, cricket or neighborhood chess clubs, but I didn't and I don't know why. I guess the reason was that I felt really root-less as a non-Catholic in a Catholic school, a lot of the time. I felt like a misfit, constantly, and started to become dissatisfied with my surroundings. I felt unusually cornered in an otherwise welcoming environment that scrunched me into a darkening tunnel space. This fear, or stance, or whatever else you want to call it, was probably something I constructed entirely in my own head, cared about too much and dramatized without any concrete bases. But the desire that I had to become part of the "Catholic boys club" was overbearing and strong, compressed like a metal spring ready to stretch, roll out its arms and pounce and leap in a quizzical release, crashing to an end in the midst of a calm whorl of silence.
On the morning of Ash Wednesday, back when I was 15, I walked up to Malcolm George after Biology class and said, "Hey man, what's going on after school today? Aaron, Josephine, Kartik and I are going to The Dandelions to hang out. Do you think you, Crystal and Sebastian can make it?" Apology clouded the rim of his eyes. His pupils narrowed and became shamefully dark. He shook my hand, patted my back and said, "I'm sorry man, we have to attend evening Mass today at St Paul's and then have a registry meeting for Easter services. You guys should go ahead and have fun." My jaws made a violent twitch, and hatred pierced me unflaggingly. I was pissed, I was angry and I took it really personally. Why were my plans, my invitations, pushed around, always, behind stupid and meaningless religious commitments? When I think about that time now, I realize how silly and immature and irrational I used to be, but when you're a heady 15 year old agnostic, who has completely unfounded personal theories about agnosticism and religion, there's very little that you can justify without having your hormones do the talking. You don't understand why they choose Jesus over your dinner invite, and even if you did, you choose not to understand it. But that incident came to serve as my ultimate tipping point, and I knew exactly what the solution was going to be. I was going to be Catholic.
I showed up to mass next day in school, much to everyone's surprise, wearing a crisp white poplin shirt, tailored white pants, a dark blue and white striped tie, and my Buddy Holly-style brown plastic frames. I gelled my hair to a side part, sprayed cologne and wore deodorant and carried with me a mini-Bible that I found in the library 2 hours prior. I sat in the last row of the entire chapel and heard murmurs of "What's he doing here?" spread across the pews; first like ripples of water waves, then like a Mexican wave and finally fleeting like wildfire. I had done some homework the night before: looked up 'How to be a Catholic' on catholic.org, drank wine from a plastic goblet, read about the Eucharist and memorized the Apostle's creed. When the choir started singing and the priest walked down the aisle, I will admit, however, that I felt very nervous. What if I got caught? What if they punished me? And then I thought, the priest has never met me, he doesn't know who I am, I could very well be the new kid in school, or even a new Catholic; no one would want to see a baptism certificate in the middle of Mass. I must have looked really confused or nervous, however, because someone to my right nudged me a few times and asked me if I was doing okay. I said I was, and that I was just taking it all in.
The hymns were easy to follow. I didn't know the words by heart but I had the book open in front of me. One of the things you probably don't know or care about is that Christmas carols and hymns, in general, have a very simple, predictable melodic structure. They all follow the very basic principles of music theory, without altering any of cadences, and the verses just keep repeating the same tune over and over. I couldn't sing them well, I shall admit, but I could easily hum them and predict how the songs would end. An astonishing number of people around me had them memorized, and had a very forgiving and sincere look on their faces when they sang. Their eyes were squeezed to a rolling crease, lips gently parted, head slightly tilted, and breaths like riots spiraled the sanctuary. When it was time for the Eucharist, I did not hesitate one bit to get up and stand in line. I looked around, saw what others were doing, and when my turn came, I said Amen, the priest slid a wafer on to my tongue, we both bowed and then I left to go back to my spot. For the first time, in a while, I felt good and happy, sprinkled with this sense of inexplicable accomplishment. A sense of belonging had overtaken me that morning, and I left the chapel, content and satisfied, with a wide smile on my face.
I told Malcolm, in the following few weeks, that I was gradually starting to see why he was so forthright about his religious commitments. Sometimes he would say, "You want to attend Mass tonight with Carrie and Christina and then hang out for a bit at Flurys?" I would smile and say yes. And this went on for a while -for almost 2 years. I was the new Catholic in the parish, who regularly confessed, learned all the hymns and dedicatedly prayed. I prayed every single day, can you imagine Lucille? Sometimes even multiple times a day. For courage, power and strength like Loretta Bradner had asked me to do. Daddy would drop me off at the church on Sunday mornings with the notion that I was playing the piano for the services. Of course I had lied to him. He was thrilled that I was getting more musical exposure and I was overjoyed with my new clout, my Catholic brothers and sisters, and the novelty of it all. I was not a minority anymore -can you picture this, Lucille? I had a straight face, was apparently devout and restlessly religious.
Things finally went downhill after 2 things happened. Malcolm left St Ignatius because his family was relocating to a different continent, a different country, a different city. They ended up in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. New opportunities, both fiscal and social, lured the George's to the Southern Belt. We lost touch after a few weeks of his leaving; I'm sure he found new friends, some real Catholics and a vast new space to adventure and explore. Tracy Swanson, from the Regent's Society, mentioned last Thursday that he's an administrative assistant, now, in the department of Geophysics at Remington, and has been for the past 3 years. His leaving, however, had really pinched my intentions. Why am I doing this? I often asked myself. Was it because I was in love with someone who would never know or never care? Because I wanted to do things to be around all the time, and enjoy the company? That was probably a large part of it, but then there was another thing. My prayers had turned extremely material-driven. It was like I was testing God every day -if you exist somewhere out there and are listening to my prayers, then you will make me get an A in the quiz tomorrow. Or it would be about winning a prize, getting money or a new sweater as a gift. The longer this didn't happen the angrier I became, and the angrier I became the more I prayed for immediate gratification of things. Where my logic ran away, or my rational edge, I do not know. But I felt annoyed, all the time Lucille; I felt completely betrayed and defeated by a God that I tried to believe in. So when Ash Wednesday came around, in 11th grade, and Anthony Mendonca asked me if I wanted to attend service, I peered into his face, completely crestfallen, and said, "I'm done."
You know, Lucille, I realize that the entire phase was an outcome of infatuation, of wanting attention and being completely irrational. And I realize, very well, that religion is not about rewards, prayers are not about gifts, and confessions are not about being the trendy thing to do. I mishandled religion to gain personal favors, and I do not know what the retribution is. Isn't it interesting that I believe in retribution without being religious or spiritual? But what I do know is that because of the 2 years, I cannot look at religion, think about it or believe in it, the way others can. There's a stain, a serpentine trail of squalor and filth that rains in my brain, every time I think about it. And I cannot get over it, just as yet. Maybe someday, in the distant future, the metal cast of atrocious lies, will wince away from my inner self, and then I will come out a better person.
This has become a lot longer than I had intended to be and I'm sorry about that. Stay in touch, my little pumpkin and tell Edna Weinglass I said hello.
Yours,
T.
I could've bonded more with my non-Catholic friends, or attempted to anyway, and do random activities perhaps, like talk about agnosticism or cute college boys, discuss soccer, cricket or neighborhood chess clubs, but I didn't and I don't know why. I guess the reason was that I felt really root-less as a non-Catholic in a Catholic school, a lot of the time. I felt like a misfit, constantly, and started to become dissatisfied with my surroundings. I felt unusually cornered in an otherwise welcoming environment that scrunched me into a darkening tunnel space. This fear, or stance, or whatever else you want to call it, was probably something I constructed entirely in my own head, cared about too much and dramatized without any concrete bases. But the desire that I had to become part of the "Catholic boys club" was overbearing and strong, compressed like a metal spring ready to stretch, roll out its arms and pounce and leap in a quizzical release, crashing to an end in the midst of a calm whorl of silence.
On the morning of Ash Wednesday, back when I was 15, I walked up to Malcolm George after Biology class and said, "Hey man, what's going on after school today? Aaron, Josephine, Kartik and I are going to The Dandelions to hang out. Do you think you, Crystal and Sebastian can make it?" Apology clouded the rim of his eyes. His pupils narrowed and became shamefully dark. He shook my hand, patted my back and said, "I'm sorry man, we have to attend evening Mass today at St Paul's and then have a registry meeting for Easter services. You guys should go ahead and have fun." My jaws made a violent twitch, and hatred pierced me unflaggingly. I was pissed, I was angry and I took it really personally. Why were my plans, my invitations, pushed around, always, behind stupid and meaningless religious commitments? When I think about that time now, I realize how silly and immature and irrational I used to be, but when you're a heady 15 year old agnostic, who has completely unfounded personal theories about agnosticism and religion, there's very little that you can justify without having your hormones do the talking. You don't understand why they choose Jesus over your dinner invite, and even if you did, you choose not to understand it. But that incident came to serve as my ultimate tipping point, and I knew exactly what the solution was going to be. I was going to be Catholic.
I showed up to mass next day in school, much to everyone's surprise, wearing a crisp white poplin shirt, tailored white pants, a dark blue and white striped tie, and my Buddy Holly-style brown plastic frames. I gelled my hair to a side part, sprayed cologne and wore deodorant and carried with me a mini-Bible that I found in the library 2 hours prior. I sat in the last row of the entire chapel and heard murmurs of "What's he doing here?" spread across the pews; first like ripples of water waves, then like a Mexican wave and finally fleeting like wildfire. I had done some homework the night before: looked up 'How to be a Catholic' on catholic.org, drank wine from a plastic goblet, read about the Eucharist and memorized the Apostle's creed. When the choir started singing and the priest walked down the aisle, I will admit, however, that I felt very nervous. What if I got caught? What if they punished me? And then I thought, the priest has never met me, he doesn't know who I am, I could very well be the new kid in school, or even a new Catholic; no one would want to see a baptism certificate in the middle of Mass. I must have looked really confused or nervous, however, because someone to my right nudged me a few times and asked me if I was doing okay. I said I was, and that I was just taking it all in.
The hymns were easy to follow. I didn't know the words by heart but I had the book open in front of me. One of the things you probably don't know or care about is that Christmas carols and hymns, in general, have a very simple, predictable melodic structure. They all follow the very basic principles of music theory, without altering any of cadences, and the verses just keep repeating the same tune over and over. I couldn't sing them well, I shall admit, but I could easily hum them and predict how the songs would end. An astonishing number of people around me had them memorized, and had a very forgiving and sincere look on their faces when they sang. Their eyes were squeezed to a rolling crease, lips gently parted, head slightly tilted, and breaths like riots spiraled the sanctuary. When it was time for the Eucharist, I did not hesitate one bit to get up and stand in line. I looked around, saw what others were doing, and when my turn came, I said Amen, the priest slid a wafer on to my tongue, we both bowed and then I left to go back to my spot. For the first time, in a while, I felt good and happy, sprinkled with this sense of inexplicable accomplishment. A sense of belonging had overtaken me that morning, and I left the chapel, content and satisfied, with a wide smile on my face.
I told Malcolm, in the following few weeks, that I was gradually starting to see why he was so forthright about his religious commitments. Sometimes he would say, "You want to attend Mass tonight with Carrie and Christina and then hang out for a bit at Flurys?" I would smile and say yes. And this went on for a while -for almost 2 years. I was the new Catholic in the parish, who regularly confessed, learned all the hymns and dedicatedly prayed. I prayed every single day, can you imagine Lucille? Sometimes even multiple times a day. For courage, power and strength like Loretta Bradner had asked me to do. Daddy would drop me off at the church on Sunday mornings with the notion that I was playing the piano for the services. Of course I had lied to him. He was thrilled that I was getting more musical exposure and I was overjoyed with my new clout, my Catholic brothers and sisters, and the novelty of it all. I was not a minority anymore -can you picture this, Lucille? I had a straight face, was apparently devout and restlessly religious.
Things finally went downhill after 2 things happened. Malcolm left St Ignatius because his family was relocating to a different continent, a different country, a different city. They ended up in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. New opportunities, both fiscal and social, lured the George's to the Southern Belt. We lost touch after a few weeks of his leaving; I'm sure he found new friends, some real Catholics and a vast new space to adventure and explore. Tracy Swanson, from the Regent's Society, mentioned last Thursday that he's an administrative assistant, now, in the department of Geophysics at Remington, and has been for the past 3 years. His leaving, however, had really pinched my intentions. Why am I doing this? I often asked myself. Was it because I was in love with someone who would never know or never care? Because I wanted to do things to be around all the time, and enjoy the company? That was probably a large part of it, but then there was another thing. My prayers had turned extremely material-driven. It was like I was testing God every day -if you exist somewhere out there and are listening to my prayers, then you will make me get an A in the quiz tomorrow. Or it would be about winning a prize, getting money or a new sweater as a gift. The longer this didn't happen the angrier I became, and the angrier I became the more I prayed for immediate gratification of things. Where my logic ran away, or my rational edge, I do not know. But I felt annoyed, all the time Lucille; I felt completely betrayed and defeated by a God that I tried to believe in. So when Ash Wednesday came around, in 11th grade, and Anthony Mendonca asked me if I wanted to attend service, I peered into his face, completely crestfallen, and said, "I'm done."
You know, Lucille, I realize that the entire phase was an outcome of infatuation, of wanting attention and being completely irrational. And I realize, very well, that religion is not about rewards, prayers are not about gifts, and confessions are not about being the trendy thing to do. I mishandled religion to gain personal favors, and I do not know what the retribution is. Isn't it interesting that I believe in retribution without being religious or spiritual? But what I do know is that because of the 2 years, I cannot look at religion, think about it or believe in it, the way others can. There's a stain, a serpentine trail of squalor and filth that rains in my brain, every time I think about it. And I cannot get over it, just as yet. Maybe someday, in the distant future, the metal cast of atrocious lies, will wince away from my inner self, and then I will come out a better person.
This has become a lot longer than I had intended to be and I'm sorry about that. Stay in touch, my little pumpkin and tell Edna Weinglass I said hello.
Yours,
T.
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