petard.us

Today again I celebrated the Hispanic Misa. Little did I think I would be doing this when I took a course in Liberation theology at Harvard with Harvey Cox. I thought then that the religion popular was the more interesting and engaging side of that theology. I liked what those theologians had to say. the heavily theological philosophical side was interesting but less vital. Little did I think that I would celebrate in Spanish, and that today I would bless the statue of la Guadelupana and give it to a family to live with for a month in its rotation through the parish, or rather bless the family and home it was going to. Harvey would be proud of me.  🙂

I went for a walk today, just at the time the local High School was letting out. I smiled and/or nodded to all the other people on the sidewalk, and even a few people in cars. I even spoke to two people. And people nodded or smiled back. So it begins. Join the revolution with me.

I didn’t blog that last week I had something said to me as a comment on my behavior that dug out my depeest childhood hurt and over two day brought me the fits of crying and deep sadness. I am slowly emerging from that sad ness. Today is a hard day. I want to jsut bury myself in a book that will take me away from how I am feeling. I need, badly need, to find a cheaper place to live. Sharing with someone. this both attracts and scares me. The loss of my freedom to be a slob, to live like a wild man in a cave. And my sense of vocation to being a hermit. my old attraction to religious life. I have been happy feeling like a hermit for a while. there are moments of real joy and deep content resting in the lap og God. But my practical life has gone to hell. I am searching for another place to live in two ways. Someone to come here and take a larger apartment with me. Ot to find a room with someone elsewhere. I had someone that was to call me this morning and arrange to come by and check things out. He hasn’t called. I also have an older man wanting to share. We haven’t me. I had to cancel because I don’t think I have enough gasoline to get there and back. I will also need gas to do some grocery shopping soon. I have food stamps for that. I feel so stuck here. I need to look for new ads on craigslist but I am dragging my feet. I feel sad and tired and headachey. The weather is overcast and very humid and that does affect me. So I will be going forward looking at ads fairly soon I hope. First I needed to pour this out, hoping to get it out of my way. And I need to apologize and expain to those offenbded by my using the F work in a previous post, in an email list.

Onward and hopefully upward.

That’s what they would say behind her back, “Poor Marie.” I thought I was the reason she was poor. That much was true.

But the truth was worse. My father died when I was 15 days old, after a long illness, large bowel cancer. It was particularly awful I guess; I overheard them saying he had his Hell on earth. My mother was left with a baby, she had to move back in with her family, he didn’t leave enough to bury him, and she had no income. So “Poor Marie.” It happened in the middle of World War Two, so there were rationing and food shortages, I guess. Oh and I was born Caesarian, to add injury to insult.

Luckily there was some relative or other connected to Pet Milk, so she had the means to feed me. Just as luckily , a job was found for her doing war factory work and after the end an office job as a file clerk. She never learned to type. She had dropped out of school at age sixteen to go to work to help support her family. It was 1929. She collected Social Security as a widow. She refused to apply for welfare. She wouldn’t take charity. So all my childhood years we lived with her family. There were her parents, a brother, his wife and their child.

And I was not the most ‘normal’ kid, I wasn’t who was expected, I wasn’t who was wanted. For one thing I was a boy, She wanted a girl. She told me once she wanted to name me Judy.

She also had as little contact with my father’s family. In later years, when she was angry with me, she would tell me I was like my father. She told me he punched her in the stomach when she was pregnant with me. And she avoided his family. I was taken a few time to see my grandparents but very seldom. I last saw them when I was twelve, just before we moved a thousand miles away.

Much later she got in touch with his sister Pauline and her husband Bill and put me in touch with them. I visited and Aunt Pauline had pictures of me when she was keeping me. That was news to me. She also called a neighbor lady who knew me when I was a baby to come see me all grown up.