Okay, so I was reading the paper today about the Catholic church’s new campaign to get it’s followers back into confession. It’s called “The Light is On For You.” Yeah, I bet it is. The church is going all out on this one…running radio spots and putting up a special web site. It is Lent, after all. For those who are non-Catholic, Lent is that magic time of year when you give up something you really like so that you can do penance before The Big Guy comes back from the dead. You know, one of my sisters gives up M & Ms; the other gives up black jelly beans. Me? Well, you know, I give up the same thing every year. I give up Church. I’ve been doing that now for at least, oh, thirty-six years or so. My whole life is basically Lent.

You know, it’s not that I’m not spiritual. I actually am. I now tell people that I survived my Catholic upbringing. I’m Catholic by birth, but I’m Buddhist by choice. The fact is that I went to Catholic school most of my life…right up through two years of college. In spite of that, I’ve always had issues with organized religion (even Buddhism, but I don’t want to digress here). Frankly, the nuns scared the shit out of me, not when I got older but certainly throughout grammar school.

The Penguins (as we affectionately called them) painted God the Father as someone to be feared. It brought new meaning to the words “God-fearing children.” We were. They also made us feel like chanting “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!” They gave us no quarter. The God I learned about was not a kind and forgiving God. He was a God of retribution. Hell, I was terrified of the crucifix that hung on the wall in our house. I was afraid Jesus would open His eyes and say, “Hey, you, over there! You little heathen! Do you know I died for YOUR sins?”

So, here we were getting brainwashed and scared shitless in school every single day. We had Religion every day. And we were forced to sing in the choir, but I managed to get myself thrown out more than once. First, it was for telling jokes and getting all the kids to laugh. Then, a couple of us got tossed because we were spitting down on top of peoples’ heads from the balcony. I admit that was a bit extreme. The religious barrage continued at home — at least it did at my house. At one point after my dad died, we lived with my grandmother. She had a little shrine with votive candles buring on her bureau in her bedroom. At Easter, we had to sit around and watch those religious movies, like “The Robe” with Victor Mature, or  “The Ten Commandments” with Charlton Heston. There was no shortage of this stuff. No rest for the weary, as my mother would say.

There was a picture of The Sacred Heart hanging in her room too. I think my sister has that one now.  It seemed to me that Jesus’ eyes followed me no matter where I went. It was even scary in my grandmother’s basement. She’d hung a picture of St. Theresa down there. Didn’t matter where you walked, her eyes followed you all over the place. I found that very disquieting. You know, like I was being watched all the time. You can bet your life that I didn’t take any little girls down there. Wasn’t going to happen.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned…”

Okay, so this confession thing. I remember when I was a kid, we’d have to go to confession. We’d tell this guy behind this foolish divider everything we did wrong. Now, I knew what priest I was confessing to. So, you can bet he knew who he was listening to. The sinners did not remain nameless. I’d go in there and say, “I lied five times.” Or I’d say, “I swore under my breath at my mother.” Then, I’d get my penance. “Say five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys.” And if you sighed like it was too much penance, the priest would tack some more prayers on there. Hell, I decided that I was never going to confess about having dirty thoughts about my girl friends. I’d be in the pew doing penance all freakin’ day if I did that. I kept those sins to myself.

As I got older, though, I got more and more pissed off about having to do this. My issues with organized religion started at a pretty early age. I just had a difficult time with telling my sins to just another guy. I mean, it wasn’t like I was telling them directly to Jesus or anything. When I announced to my mother that I was no longer going to confession because these were “just guys” I was talking to, I thought she would just keel over and die right on the spot.

So, when I got into a discussion this morning with one of my Starbucks customers about the Catholic church trying to bring its flock back to the confessional, I’m pretty sure my mother was rolling over in her grave.  Now I’m downright angry at this whole prospect. Seems to me the Catholic church as some of it’s own confessions to take care of.  I’m not saying everyone associated with the Catholic church is bad, but I don’t think it should go down this path until it takes clear of cleaning up its own house.

The church can start by confessing that it spent years covering up for pedophiles when it should have been turning them over to the authorities. The main part of the Catholic church’s penance can be actually turning these files over to the authorities. I think that’s fair. Then, they can say four thousand Our Fathers and ten thousand Hail Marys and we’ll call it even. NOT.

People always ask how Beth and I met. To be honest, there weren’t many avenues open back then except the bars and being introduced to potential dates/mates by friends. I had gone that route a couple of times with disasterous consequences. And by the time Beth and I met in 1992, the bar scene had seen its best days in Boston (unfortunately). The only place around was Club Cafe (still there) which is a combination restaurant and video dance bar. (To this day, Beth calls it Club Khaki.)

That was also before the days of Craigslist (where there are more certifiable whack jobs per byte than anything else) and Internet date sites that want you to pay a monthly fee to be tortured. So, the main avenue for meeting was a newspaper called Bay Windows, which is still New England’s largest GLBT newspaper. As it turns out, both Beth and I placed ads in the personals that week and, as fate would have it, we responded to each other’s ad. But it isn’t that simple, you see.

I had also met Miss Headcase through Bay Windows, so I was a bit gun shy, especially after having been single for a few years. I also had plans with a couple of friends to go to an Annie Liebowitz exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art the night Beth responded, so I told her I had plans and would contact her the next day. I had also been set up to go on a date through a gay dating service (which has now gone out of business). As it turns out, I was being set up with a woman at Staples who had the Millipore office supplies account. But there was something intriguing about Beth, and when I finally realized that we had responded to each other’s ad, I cancelled the fix up and decided to go for it with Beth. I remember calling her Bay Windows box and saying, “Listen, we just have to meet. It’s as simple as that.” I admit that I was trying to keep it casual. I was determined to not get immediately involved, especially after what I went through with Miss Headcase. Well, we see how that played out: We’re coming up on a seventeenth anniversary. We met on July 22, 1992. As you will see, however, we have a few anniversary celebrations in our relationship.

Before I go any further, however, there’s one other thing I should mention about Beth’s ad. Her ad was the “personal of the week” when I responded to it. At the time, however, I didn’t know it was because the newspaper had fucked up the type. Instead of it reading “Grown up lesbian,” it read “Ground up lesbian.” Now, I was feeling pretty ground up myself after Miss Headcase, and misery loves company. Why wouldn’t I want to meet the person who ran that ad?

Of course, we met at Club Cafe for dinner. I stopped at Winston’s Flowers on the way to the restaurant and bought her a single yellow rose. I knew immediately that it was Beth when she turned the corner and walked up the restaurant stairs. I can’t remember exactly how the night went from start to finish. I do know that we drank a bottle of Moet in the lounge before we even got to dinner. I also know that we laughed like hell over her ad. I knew right from that night that we’d be together, but that didn’t mean I was going to be easy about it. Beth didn’t stay that evening. Then, the first night she did stay, I wouldn’t allow her to take a shower there in the morning. That was really fucked up. I admit that. You know, that was like my last gasp before succumbing totally.

Not long after that, Beth and I were on the common in Wakefield. It started pouring rain, thunder and lightening, hail — the whole bit. As we were trying to make a run for the car and head back to Melrose, Beth said, “You’re just going to have to get used to the fact that I want to be with you.” Okay. Game. Set. Match. Sayonara, people. It was a done deal. She stayed with me that night…and she took a shower. It was that night that we started splitting time between Gloucester and Melrose. Eventually, we’d move to Gloucester together and live right near the Wingaersheek salt marsh. [To read more about this fun-filled, lively experience, go here and here.]

In spite of the fact that we were already talking about looking for a place to live, I continued to romance Beth. Once a week, I’d send her a huge bouquet of flowers at work. She loved it, and pretty soon all her friends were nagging their boyfriends to do the same.

Living proof that opposites attract

Beth and I are both Italian. That’s where the similarities end. Beth has spent most of her life in school learning. She has the degrees to prove it, including one in Music Composition from Berklee. There are only three instruments that Beth does not play. I’m not sure what they are, but I know she was playing piano in quite an accomplished manner at the age of three. The other degrees she has are more in the medical field, like Counseling Psychology and Biochemistry. She even did a stint studying at Cambridge University in the UK. When we met, however, she was working for Blue Cross, Blue Shield, helping to convert their computers over to a bigger, more shiny system.

I’m the exact opposite. I really did not like school, and that’s probably because the presenters of the material didn’t do much to make it interesting. I like to learn as well, but I do it other ways. By the time I met Beth I had been at Millipore for eighteen years and was the Manager of Marketing Services (advertising, public relations). I also spent a considerable amount of time writing. I had moved up consistently every two or three years and I was on a path. I was well-respected and was at my peak during this time. I was running two departments for the Analytical Division, Marketing Services and Technical Writing, and at one time had as many as a dozen direct reports. And yes, I was making excellent money.

When we met, Beth and I were both in very good spots in our lives. There’s no question about it. Time and circumstances would take care of that, however. The real test of our relationship’s strength and our commitment to one another was yet to come.

Making it legal

Beth and I did not make it legal until 2006, even though same-sex marriage was legalized in Massachusetts in 2004. Other events would come into play before that could happen, and that is for another post. However, we did take several other steps to honor our commitment to each other.

We moved into Gloucester together in September of 1992. On December 5, 1992, we had our commitment ceremony at the house. One one of our trips to P-town, we went to city hall and registered our domestic union. That was largely symbolic, but it did recognize our union in that town. That was more than most towns were doing back then. Then, the state of Vermont moved to have same-sex civil unions legalized in 2000.

Beth and I applied for a license in Vermont as soon as we could — August of 2000. We had to drive up to Vermont and apply, then go home and wait ten days give or take) for the license. We chose to have our civil union in Brattleboro.  Thalia was not yet four years old (Aaron was not born until 2001) , and we did all this via day trips while she was in daycare. We drove back up for the civil union ceremony. We decided to get married on the gazebo on Brattleboro common, rain or shine. We figured we had one opportunity to make this happen. It was the fall of 2000 when we returned, and it was pouring rain and cold on that day. We had an arrangement to meet the judge at the gazebo at a specific time. We waited for an hour before deciding she was a no-show. We even called her office, but got a machine. So, we pulled out the list of judges that was given to us at town hall the day we came up to apply for the license.

We had driven a long way to get this done. We didn’t want to go home empty handed and have to return a third time, but we accepted the possibility that this might be the way it turned out. We just plain lucked out. We got hold of a judge who was available and was only too happy to help us out. She was at the gazebo within about twenty minutes, and our civil union was official within twenty minutes of her arrival. She signed our paperwork, took it back and filed it right away. Before we knew it, we had our certificate in the mail. We blew it up giant size and put it on the door leading to our playroom/office in Winchester.

Beth and I have had our ups and downs over all these years. It’s for sure that you will be exposed to both the good and the bad. It was after a few particularly bad years that we made it legal in the state of Massachusetts (on May 4, 2006). It was simple and uncomplicated. We were married in the chambers of the Reverend Harold E. Babcock, pastor at the Unitarian Univeralist Church in Newburyport, Massachusetts. The only others present were Thalia (then about eight) and Aaron (then five). Aaron was running around (and “goofing off” as he puts it) through the whole thing. After the ceremony, we took the kids out to eat.

There was one particularly funny moment on the ride to the church. Aaron had been thinking about this for a while, I could tell. Finally, as we were parking the car, he said, “Ma, I don’t think this is such a good idea.” Beth and I just kind of looked at each other, but I had to ask why. I owed him that much. He replied, “Because you’re going to have to kiss a girl. Why do you think?” We all just started laughing like hell, and I told him not to worry about it. Someday he may come to appreciate kissing girls. Or maybe not. Who knows.

Both of these were pretty low key affairs, I’d have to say. The really big event was our commitment ceremony in Gloucester back in 1992.

A party (and a honeymoon night) to remember

Our commitment ceremony in Gloucester was a huge party. Yes, as you saw in my earlier posts, it was the winter of our discontent in Gloucester, but we had no such problems on this evening. The wood stoves had been going for two days straight and we had plenty of cooking going on at the house during the day which helped to keep it warm. About sixty bodies giving off heat helped throughout the night as well. My best friend at the time, Sally, came up early in the morning to help me and Beth’s mother (she arrived the night before) get the place ready. (Sally was very valiant to come so early. She was sick as a dog from undergoing fertility treatments.) I had to run into Cambridge to pick up our wedding cake at Rosie’s Bakery. Believe it or not, the morning of our wedding, Beth was missing in action. She was in Boston taking the LSAT for law school and would not be home until sometime mid-afternoon.

By the time Beth arrived home, we had about an hour and a half before guests would begin to arrive. We both still needed to shower and dress. Convinced that things were under control, Beth and I went upstairs to get ready. I was feeling fine. Beth was really nervous. We smoked a joint. Then, I was still feeling fine and Beth got really stupid. Stupid is better than nervous in Beth’s case. We were both feeling pretty good by the time guests began to arrive, and what a motly group it was. We had a lot of people from Millipore and Beth’s friends from Blue Cross, including Frank and Mark, two of the biggest flamers you’d ever want to meet. My sisters, nieces and nephews were there. My very gay Melrose landlords (you’ve yet to actually “meet” them, but you will),  and Beth’s rock climbing partners, Barb and Bill, were also there. I don’t need to keep on here. The place was packed…and jumping.

The ceremony was presided over by the Reverend Wendy Fitting, fellow lesbian, and the extension minister of the Independent Christian Church, Universalist, in Gloucester since 1989. We had been meeting with her for the two months leading up to the ceremony. While she performed the ceremony, Bill Evan’s piano was playing softly in the background. Then, it was time to party and someone — I’m not sure who it was at the time — switched the music to “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” by Stevie Wonder, our chosen wedding song.

The party went very late into the night, I’m told, but we started saying our goodbyes about 10 p.m. We were headed to the Copley Plaza Hotel in Boston, where we would spend our wedding night. Beth’s mom was going to spend the night and care for the cats. We’d be home the next day as we were still undecided about where to take a real honeymoon. (We actually never took one, although we were initially talking about Quebec City.)  We grabbed a bottle of champagne to bring to the hotel with us. By the time we got to the car, it was freezing out. But with the help of Beth’s mom and my sisters, the members of my Millipore staff managed to sneak away from the festivities to decorate the Camry with toothpaste and shaving cream. We have photos of their handiwork somewhere, but we have yet to find them. They had also tied clothes hangars to the back of the car, which we really didn’t know about until they started sparking as we drove down the highway.

We pulled up in front of the Copley Plaza about midnight in our well-decorated vehicle. The porter was gay. He walked up to the car as we rolled down the windows he said, “Good evening, ladies.” We smiled. “Good evening,” I said. He asked if we had reservations and I told him we were checking in under the Honeymoon Package. He looked at us and laughed. “They’re going to love this at the front desk!” Check-in was actually quite pleasant. We were up in our corner suite within fifteen minutes. There was a bottle of Moet and some mutant-sized, chocolate-dipped strawberries waiting for us, compliments of the hotel. Since it was at the time of original ownership, and before it became part of the Fairmont chain, the room was full of the most incredibly beautiful fresh flowers. (On a return trip a year later, the hotel had been purchased the flowers were tacky plastic.)

We had a hell of a private party. We ordered some food. We danced a little. We watched television. We made love. While we were doing this we killed off two bottles of champagne, and we did not even think about how bloody cold it probably was in Gloucester. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day, and a perfect beginning for our life together.

I’m a big fan of Mark Twain, and my favorite quotation from Mr. Twain also happens to be on my Facebook page right now. It reads:

“Religion was invented when the first con man met the first fool.”

I happen to feel that way about religion. Now, before all my Christian brethren get freaked on this statement, I’m not talking about spirituality here. I’m talking about religion. This is entirely different. To me, ‘religion’ is what man does with spirituality once he/she gets hold of it. It’s the part that mortal men (or women) play in delivering spirituality to the masses. I’ve always felt that way about religion, even when I was a kid. That is why it’s so weird that I spent nearly 14 years in Catholic school. I say “nearly 14 years” because I spent the first half of the first grade in public school. That’s because Immaculate Conception in Revere didn’t have space at the beginning of the year. So, in a nutshell, I’ve always had issues with authority and nuns and priests (mostly nuns) represented “authority.”

My sister Jo-Anne felt the brunt of my dislike of Catholic school, simply because she was already a student at Immaculate Conception once I arrived. Every time I did something wrong, she would get the call. I can’t remember every single incident, but I do remember one time when I absolutely refused to stay at the school for lunch. My house was just down the street, dammit, and I wanted to go home for lunch. It was, of course, a Friday and the absurd Catholic rule of “no meat on Fridays” was in force. See, that’s what I mean about mankind delivering religion. WTF does what you eat on what freakin’ day have to do with believing in God?

Anyway, things really began to go downhill when the homeroom nun (okay, I can’t remember specific nun names back that far). It could have been Sister Honorius. She was one of the nuns I had at Immaculate, but I can’t really remember what grade I had her in. She said, “Come on, Deborah, tell me a fish story.” I know I began my response saying, “I’ll tell you a fish story alright…”  But everything that came after that is a blank. However, since my sister was called down to the room, it could not have been very nice.

I know my sister (not ‘the’ sister) pulled me outside in the hall to talk to me and I know she was pissed. But I also know that I went home for lunch. My mother fed me (of course, it was Friday so I had a tuna fish sandwich), and then promptly delivered me back to school…with a warning. Needless to say, I ate lunch at school for the rest of the year. But I didn’t like it.

I didn’t have the opportunity to stay at Immaculate until the bitter end. My dad died and I stayed at Immaculate until we settled somewhere else. I remember that I’d get a ride from my evil Aunt Buddy back and forth to school until we settled in. As it turns out, we ended up living with my evil Aunt Buddy in Medford. That’s when I enrolled at Saint James Grammar School. (This is where I met my partner in crime, George.) I cannot remember in-classroom specifics here at all. I’m not sure what that means. I do remember one incident. I used to sing in the choir, and one Sunday my friend and I were tossed out because we were leaning over the railing and spitting on people’s heads as they walked in below us. The only other thing I remember is getting everyone to skip church and go to the park for an hour instead. See. Great disdain for authority of any type. And religion in general.

Fast times at Arlington Catholic High

I continued on in my catholic education by choosing Arlington Catholic High. My mother was thrilled. I chose that school simply because all of my friends were going there. George was behind me by a grade or two, but he also ended up going there. So did Linda. Remember her? She was my first lesbian relationship experience that I wrote about several posts ago. So, it was great. Getting there was another story. Winters were brutal because we had to take three buses to get there, one from home to Medford Square. Then, a bus to West Medford, followed by a third bus that would drop us off in Arlington Center. By the time we got there, we were freezing.

Then there was the catholic school uniforms. These were dead ugly. They always consisted of a pleated, plaid skirt. In the case of good old AC high, it was a gray, red and white combination with a white shirt and gray vest — all wool. We’d die in the summer. It was absurd. It wasn’t that I was into fashion. I hated fashion. Didn’t care much for it and still don’t. But I hated that they were trying to make us all the same. That’s what the uniform felt like.

The assumption is that Catholic school kids are good kids. They don’t do anything wrong. They don’t get in trouble. Forget that shit. We were no different than anyone else at this age. Kids were fooling around in the back seats of cars. Some were drinking and smoking. Hell, the Mayor of Medford went to Arlington Catholic and he was a party animal! At the end of every school year, we’d have to clean out the homeroom we were in for next year’s incoming class. One day we sent the mayor out the window with a rope to go get us pizza.

I remember little tidbits from Arlington Catholic, but nothing in great detail. I remember that I was put into room 101 my freshman year. Any room ending in “01″ meant it was the academically advanced class. Now, we considered the kids in that class dweebs who didn’t know how to have real fun. It also meant that everything was harder. Hard work was not on my agenda at that time. I was sure of one thing: I was determined to keep myself out of room 201 next year, and I succeeded by not doing so well in a couple of subjects…like Latin. Latin. WTF kind of life skill comes from taking Latin? None. Absolutely none. We were forced to take Latin because it was a Catholic school and the Sunday Mass was still being conducted in Latin.

Sister Ruth taught Latin. She was brutal. She had bucked teeth and the spit would really fly when she was in the process of reprimanding you. All I can remember from her (at least once a week) was, “Miss Della Piana, you’re getting under my skin and making a dent.” Yeah. I’m sure I was.

And then there was Sister Georgiana. She was big, loud and quite imposing, and she wasn’t going to take any shit from any of us. I believe she taught Physical Science??? Not really sure.  All I know is that I sat in between probably the only two black kids in the entire school — Donna Bell and Paula Mont. I can remember to  this day exactly what they looked like. They were absolutely hysterical and they would just get me going. It never failed that we got caught every time we had the class. One time our laughing really got to her, and Sister Georgiana slammed her fist down on the chalk board ledge and took the damned thing right off the wall.

Out of control at Aquinas

I ended up moving on to a two-year Catholic college. There were reasons for this that had nothing to do with the fact that it was Catholic. It also had it’s share of stupid rules that I thought were oppressive, and I was determined to change them (although I complied at the beginning). Here’s a stupid rule: We had to wear skirts or dresses as though we were secretaries already employed in jobs. Absurd. After putting up with the uniforms at AC, there was no way I was going to wear dresses and skirts.

I simply started wearing jeans and cords to school. I was suspended once for that. Then again. Finally, I remember approaching the student council and urging them to start a petition to get rid of that foolish rule. Listen, we were paying to go to this school, so why should they tell us how to dress? The fact is that we weren’t working. We were students. We eventually won that battle. I was determined to have a good time in spite of where I was, and it turned into a great two-year party.

First, it was an all-girls school and it was truly my coming of age in that respect. A group of us hung around together all the time, and I was involved at various times with three of them. Of course, none of them ever knew that about each other because they were too afraid to openly talk about it. It was not easy to be gay at that time and, frankly, it was also scary to come to terms with the fact that you might be gay. My partying went well beyond that, however.

The sleepover was one thing I remember. They had this Aquinas tradition where the students spent one night sleeping over at the school. The seniors generally got to abuse us at this little event. You know, like making us roll uncooked eggs the length of the entire main corridor with our noses. Or blindfolding us and making us brush each other’s teeth. By the time we got to this, it was really late at night and a couple of us climbed out the bathroom window and headed for my car. We had stopped at Blanchards, our favorite local liquor store (and our favorite lunch spot, by the way) and bought some rum and coke. It was the perfect time to take a break. While we were out there, someone also suggested we might want to smoke a fatty since were at the far end of the parking lot and hidden under trees. We weren’t sure how we were going to get back in, but we really didn’t care at the time.

Luckily, we did get back in without much trouble. Someone had left the bathroom window partially open, so we forced it open the rest of the way and climbed back in. Everyone was pretty much settled down in the lounge in sleeping bags. Some had already fallen asleep. But we had the munchies, so we decided to see if we could find something to eat. All we could scrape up in the kitchen was a jar of jam. Somehow, and I really do not know how we found our way up there, we ended up in the chapel where the only thing we found to eat was a bag of communion hosts. We decided that they were probably still unblessed, so it would be a minor sin. We sat down and ate damned near half a bag with the jam. They were disgusting, but we were desperate for food. The funny thing is that nobody caught on that it ever happened. We simply sealed up the bag and put it back when we were done.

We knew that some of these nuns were fully capable of having a good time. We could tell. (And I was absolutely sure that Sister Carroll was gay, even though we never confirmed it.) So, one night we had Karen’s house to ourselves because her parents were at their summer house in Kingston. We decided to invite a few of the nuns over to a spaghetti dinner. I’m not sure if we ever got to the food because we got them drunk on Cape Codders. I mean, drunk. We got them so drunk that they couldn’t even drive themselves home. We had to take them home later that night (not that we were in much better shape). One of my friends drove their car back and I drove them in my car. We literally had to open the door and take them to their rooms. Then, we were so drunk we had a hard time finding our way out. It was like some kind of ancient catacomb. We continued to be friendly with this pack of nuns, but nobody ever mentioned a word about that night. We just kind of let it slide.

Sleeping with women. Eating hosts because I had the munches from smoking dope. Getting the nuns drunk. You know, if there is a Supreme Being up there somewhere keeping notes, I could be in big trouble.

By the time I graduated Aquinas in 1973, I was involved in my first serious relationship with a woman (or a girl). I was 19 years old. Marie and I had actually met in high school, but had not acted on anything until Aquinas. By the time graduation came, we were talking about moving in together. While we were still at school, however, she was living in Woburn and I was living in Medford. I spent a considerable amount of time at Marie’s house. Her younger sister was hysterical and often hung out with us. Marie also had an uncle who was a Roman Catholic priest running a halfway house for troubled youth. Sometimes he’d be in Woburn with some of the boys from the house.

Oddly enough, my oldest sister worked for the center run by Marie’s uncle. We’ll just call him Reverend Slowhand for lack of a better name. If that isn’t enough, two of my cousins were enrolled in the program there. I tell you all this because it is relevant to this story. By the time my relationship with Marie ended, it marked the most unbelievably fucked up experience of my life.  In order to fully understand it, we have to pass through a flashback experience first.

Before Marie and I were even a couple, we were part of this larger group of female Aquinas friends who hung out together all the time. Prior to Marie, I had a minor involvement with one other girl in the group, whom we’ll call Kathy. Kathy’s parents had a place down on the south shore near the ocean and we used to go down there on the weekends in the summer. Likewise, Marie’s family had a place in New Hampshire on a lake. We also went there several times with her family. One weekend, however, just us girls went there alone.

At that time, Kathy and I were involved to some extent. We had been drinking all night, and the others were passed out on the sofa in the living area. That’s when Kathy and I decided to go find a bedroom, but we found more than we bargained for. We found a staircase that led downstairs to a bedroom. I opened the door and flipped on the lights, and stopped dead in my tracks. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There was a huge four-poster bed with red satin sheets, a red velvet bedspread and mirrors everywhere, including on the ceiling. I didn’t know whose room this was, since we were told that the bedrooms were upstairs, but I knew it wasn’t Marie’s parents’ room. I started checking things out and it became apparent pretty quickly that this was Reverend Slowhand’s room. I was pretty sure this wasn’t the norm for a priest, and I knew he was bringing kids from the center up here on weekends. I might have been young, but I was pretty savvy about some things. Uncomfortable about bringing it up to Marie, I just didn’t. In fact, Kathy and I pretty much agreed to forget we even found the downstairs. Before that weekend was over, I slipped back down there during the day for another look and snapped some pictures. I don’t even know why I did that.

Fast forward to post-Aquinas

I don’t remember exactly how long after graduation Marie and I moved in together, but it could not have been immediate because I spent a year at Bunker Hill Community College after that. When Marie and I finally did move in together, we moved into an apartment in Malden in a building owned by my brother-in-law and other members of his family. Marie was working in Boston as a medical secretary and I was probably at Millipore by that time, although I cannot remember specifically where I was. I can only surmise that I would have to have been working to pay the rent. We lived a pretty normal life. We went to work, came home and cooked dinner, and walked our dog, a Lab/Husky mix named Sundance. All in all, it was a pretty mundane life, but her family knew there was something more than a friendship going on and they were determined to stop it. That’s when the Reverend Slowhand got involved.

Marie came home one night from work and told me that she had to go out to dinner with her uncle later that week. She really didn’t want to go and I remember her saying, “I wish they’d just leave me alone.”  This was a sentiment that she would echo every night right up until the night she was to meet her uncle. I knew she was under incredible pressure. She had to be. She had been brought up in a devout Irish-Catholic home and her uncle was a priest. The reality was that she didn’t have to go out with her uncle. Marie was in her early twenties by the time we moved in together. She didn’t have to go anywhere. I remember telling her not to worry about it, just go and listen politely and it would be over before she knew it. I told her I’d wait up for her. Inside, I was not that optimistic and I knew we were saying goodbye for good when she left.

I may have been somewhat “in the closet” in some circles back in those days, but I knew I was gay and that I’d always been gay. I also knew where it was safe to be “out” and where it wasn’t. In the final analysis, I knew I could withstand the pressure if push came to shove (although I prefer that it didn’t). I also knew that Marie could not withstand that pressure. She was still questioning herself and adjusting to who she was.

It was a long night and I sat up all night on the sofa waiting. She never returned to our apartment and I never saw her again. Early the next morning, I called her house in Woburn asking for her. I remember her mother saying to me that, “Marie is here but she needs the company of boys now. She will not be speaking with you or seeing you again.”  Then I remember her asking if my mother knew what was going on with me. That was one complication I did not want, but I also knew that Marie’s mother knew how to contact my mother (she had already moved in with my sister and her family).  I had the trump card. I had found the bedroom in New Hampshire, and I’m sure everyone in that family knew it was there. I also knew that whatever was going on up there wasn’t appropriate behavior for a Catholic priest.

I remember telling her mother that if she called my mother and told her anything at all, I would let everyone know about the existence of Reverend Slowland’s bedroom in New Hampshire. I told her I even had pictures. (I never processed that roll of film and would probably never be able to find it, but she didn’t know that.) There was dead silence on the line. I mean, dead silence.  Then the phone clicked and I was back to the dial tone. I never heard from any of them again. Events would unfold later that would simply blow my mind. I had suspicions, but even I couldn’t imagine the depth of Reverend Slowhand’s depravity.

Welcome to Pedophilia

Marie’s uncle was a virulent pedophile priest. The Reverend Slowhand was right up there with Geoghan, Porter and Shanley. By the time the scandal had played itself out in the press nearly twenty years later, the Catholic Church would quietly settle 17 cases against the Reverend Slowhand. He was accused of raping and molesting boys both at his halfway house (which he ran under state contract) and at his vacation home in Barnstead, New Hampshire. He also stands accused of molesting a family friend in Woburn over a four-year period. This abuse started when the boy was thirteen. The church dealt with Reverend Slowhand like they dealt with all the others, they just kept moving him around and giving him fresh bodies to toy with in the name of God.

I have no idea where Marie is. I don’t know if her parents are alive or dead. My most recent Internet check tells me that the Reverend Slowhand retired from the priesthood in the late 90’s and is living in his little sex parlor in Barnstead, New Hampshire. I’ve not found any obits, so I’m assuming he’s still taking in air and taking up space.

There were several things over my lifetime that pushed me away from the Catholic church. This was one of the biggest. It also convinced me that organized religion run by ordinary men isn’t the answer.  Even though I am Buddhist today and very mindful of what it means to be Buddhist, I do not spend time attending services at a center. I stay away from that portion of the program because it’s often reduced to politics and power grabs.

I have had some unbelievable things happen to me over the years. That’s why I started writing this blog. But this one incident has to be the most twisted event in my life. As my mother would say if she were still here, “This one takes the cake.”