My mom pressured me into declaring myself to be dedicated to
becoming a nun. My luck turned, to my
happy surprise, when my aunt the nun saved me. My mom moved on to my Irish
Twin, my brother Joe, ten months younger than me.
Mom did more than pressure Joe. She enrolled him in a
seminary boarding school for seventh grade, age 12, without consulting him
Training to become a priest at age 12, just imagine. Although ballsier than me, Joe also felt her pressure
and agreed to spend half of his seventh grade – age 12 – at a residential seminary
for future priests.
A priest brought Joe home, unannounced one Sunday afternoon, after several weeks before the end of the semester and solemnly asked to speak to our parents.
Joe and I eavesdropped.
“You son does not have a vocation. He cannot return to our seminary.”
At that seminary, all the boys, twelve years olds and up, had to get up, knee and pray on their knees at 5 a.m. Knee and pray for an hour before breakfast. Joe would not do it. And when the priests yelled at him, my ballsy awesome brother joe would say “There is no fucking way I am going to get up at 5 a.m., hungry, and pray on my knees for an hour before breakfast. NO fucking way.”
The priests had tried many things to break Joe. They made him knee before the whole school all day, with a piece of wood running across his arms and shoulders, made him hold up that wood, like a piece of the cross. Sometimes he had to kneel while holding up that board. And he always endured his punishment in front of the school as everyone else ate breakfast. They actually would withhold breakfast from Joe. They made him do it every day for weeks and occasionally they would ask Joe is he was ready to knee and pray at 5 a.m.
A priest brought Joe home, unannounced one Sunday afternoon, after several weeks before the end of the semester and solemnly asked to speak to our parents.
Joe and I eavesdropped.
“You son does not have a vocation. He cannot return to our seminary.”
At that seminary, all the boys, twelve years olds and up, had to get up, knee and pray on their knees at 5 a.m. Knee and pray for an hour before breakfast. Joe would not do it. And when the priests yelled at him, my ballsy awesome brother joe would say “There is no fucking way I am going to get up at 5 a.m., hungry, and pray on my knees for an hour before breakfast. NO fucking way.”
The priests had tried many things to break Joe. They made him knee before the whole school all day, with a piece of wood running across his arms and shoulders, made him hold up that wood, like a piece of the cross. Sometimes he had to kneel while holding up that board. And he always endured his punishment in front of the school as everyone else ate breakfast. They actually would withhold breakfast from Joe. They made him do it every day for weeks and occasionally they would ask Joe is he was ready to knee and pray at 5 a.m.
His answer was always the same: no fucking way. Once, that
priest, told our parents, Joe had said “I’ll fucking starve to death before I
get up at five fucking o’clock in the morning and pray while hungry. No fucking
way.”
Mom gave up on giving any of her children to god. I still wish I had had joe’s balls when I was
12.
And Joe proudly bragged about how he had stood up to those seminary priests, who were expert at breaking boys. My mom forbid him to tell anyone why he had left the seminary but, geez, if a bunch of tough priests had failed to break Joe, our mom was clueless if she thought she could order him to do anything. He was proud to be unbroken, unbowed. I was proud too.
Actually, the only way my mom could ever get Joe to do anything was to pay him. Joe loved money. He would painstakingly weed every single weed of our front lawn, which had more weeds than grass, if mom paid him a penny per weed. He knelt for those pennies.
I love recalling his refusal to bend to those priests, who are all a bunch of cunts of one kind of another.
And Joe proudly bragged about how he had stood up to those seminary priests, who were expert at breaking boys. My mom forbid him to tell anyone why he had left the seminary but, geez, if a bunch of tough priests had failed to break Joe, our mom was clueless if she thought she could order him to do anything. He was proud to be unbroken, unbowed. I was proud too.
Actually, the only way my mom could ever get Joe to do anything was to pay him. Joe loved money. He would painstakingly weed every single weed of our front lawn, which had more weeds than grass, if mom paid him a penny per weed. He knelt for those pennies.
I love recalling his refusal to bend to those priests, who are all a bunch of cunts of one kind of another.
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