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Feb. 20, 2005 It is a wonder of the human mind that a childhood occurrence, not thought about in years, can be brought back in vivid detail by a chance word or meeting. I’m sure psychiatrists have medical terms for such resurgence of our childhood memories at the most unlikely of times and places, but I am not here to write dry medical terminology or to analyze the why of such memoria. Leave that to the pros. As for me, I observe and write columns and the memory sparked in the “adult me” was something I thought had been buried by the “child me.” I guess it wasn’t. We were out to dinner, my husband and I, in one of our favorite restaurants. It was a Friday night, it was crowded, and tables were pushed close together. When you walked to your table, you couldn’t help but bump into other people. There were lots of “excuse me, pardon me, sorry,” all the polite phrases of nice people. A heavy-set priest walking by our table bumped hard into my husband Alan, knocking the fork from his hand. Patting my husband’s shoulder he leaned over and said, “Sorry about that, lad” and suddenly, just like flashback in a movie, that simple phrase made a vision of Monsignor Bernard Moore from my childhood rise in front of me with astonishing clarity. It was not a happy memory of a jovial, kindly priest. In the childhood parlance of my friends the Monsignor was called “a dirty old man.” Today, law enforcement authorities would label him a pedophile. There in the restaurant, surrounded by laughing, happy people, and my husband asking me if I wanted an appetizer, I began to cry. Bewildered, my husband took me home where I told him the story of the hateful ugliness that Monsignor Moore had brought into my childhood. It was the first time I’d spoken about it in thirty years. Though he never touched me physically, he violated the innocence of my childhood. I later found out I was only one of many harmed by him, some in a physical way. He abused the sanctity of being a priest by what he did. Monsignor Moore was one of those priests kids never want to get in confession. Being in that closed little box with him, separated only by a screen, was a scary prospect. He was a heavy man, balding and graying, with eyes that seemed to be always looking at you. His look made my friends and me very uncomfortable, but, unlike today, back then, nobody told a child to trust their instinct. Today if someone makes you feel uncomfortable, you are told to tell another adult. But, back then, who could we dare to tell. The nuns? Never! Our parents? No, because they believed in the holiness of priests. So we told no one, just each other, and tried hard not to get him for Saturday confession. We never willingly got on his line. The unspoken rule was to get to confession as early as possible before the lines at the other priests’ got too long. I personally dreaded Monsignor Moore because of the way he looked at me jumping rope in the school yard. He looked at me with the haunting eyes of a predator. On a National Geographic show I had seen a hyena looking at lion cubs the same way. Waiting, waiting for something. I remembered that the hyena had waited patiently for one of the cubs to stray from the safety of the group and then had pounced, ripping its throat out. My friends and I agreed that it was best to stay together whenever the monsignor was around. At nine years old I counted myself pretty lucky not ever to have had to go to Monsignor Moore for confession. I had been going for a year already and not once had I gotten him. This was a planned venture on my part because I tried to make absolutely certain that I arrived early, exactly fifteen minutes before they started. Confessions were heard from one to three and I was always there one on the dot. My luck ran out one Saturday when I was late getting to church because I had dawdled around the house and forgotten the time. It was one-thirty when I got there. The lines were really long, but I headed towards young Father Hajduk. He was nice and gave short penances. Suddenly I saw Monsignor standing outside his cubicle eyeing the kids in church and then focusing on me. He motioned me over to him. I was terrified but what could I do? We were told by our parents to obey the priests and nuns. As I walked towards him, my child’s mind tried to rationalize my fears. Maybe he just wanted me to get him his cigarettes from the rectory. The altar boys were asked to do that all the time, go fetch things for the fathers. When I stood in front of him, nervously looking up, he bent down and whispered to me that I should go to his confessional since it was already so late and the other priests had such a lot of confessions to hear. I just looked down. His voice sounded so strange and he was sweating profusely. He was looking at me in a very odd way, too, as he lightly touched my elbow to steer me to the door of the confessional. There was no one on either side of the confessional and no one in the pews near us. Feeling trapped, I went in. He closed my door then went into his part of the cubicle to sit and hear the confession of an eight year old girl. “ Bless me Father, for I have sinned” I began to list things that were considered sins. In my eagerness to get out quickly I rattled them non-stop. I even threw in the one about talking back to a nun. When I was through he asked if I had done anything else. I thought about it then said no. “Nothing else?” “No, Monsignor.” “Are you telling me the truth? You know, lying is a sin.” “No, I told you everything, Monsignor.” The confessional was hot. There was a silence and then he spoke in a low voice. “Have you done any piggy stuff?” I didn’t know what he meant. I thought he had me mixed up with Alice Lomax. She and I looked like sisters almost. Even teachers got us confused. Alice had a guinea pig. Did he mean hurt the pig or something? I didn’t know. I was going to tell him I didn’t have a pig and, if I ever did, I would never hurt it, when he took my silence for reluctance to answer and said, “Well, answer me. Have you done any piggy stuff things? By yourself or with another little girl or boy or someone? You can tell Monsignor.” I didn’t answer because I still didn’t know what he meant by “piggy stuff.” He was breathing hard and he smelled scary too, all stale cigarettes and some type of too strong after-shave. “C’mon now, I know what little girls like to do when they’re alone. What did you do? Did you and your friends play “touchy feely?” What?! Touchy, feely? What did he mean? I started to cry silently. His words made me feel uncomfortable but I didn’t know why. “I know little girls can be bad girls. You had better tell me.” Even though his command was whispered I jumped. He was breathing harder and harder. His breath stank so badly, his face was too close to the screen and he was looking at me through the lattice-work. What should I do? “I, I, don’t know what you mean, Monsignor, I, I…” “Look, if you don’t tell me what you did, then it will be a sin that stays on your soul, do you understand? You will hurt Our Lord if you don’t tell me the truth. Do you want to hurt Jesus?” I did not want to hurt Jesus who looked so gentle and kind in my Catechism book. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I didn’t know what Monsignor wanted me to say. I didn’t even know what he was talking about, what stuff? I did know, through some raw animal instinct, that what he was saying wasn’t right. His breathing sounded shallow and harsh. The close quarters of the box was was becoming unbearable and I felt light-headed. I was afraid I would faint in there alone with him. But he was relentless, he just kept asking the same disgusting questions. When I didn’t answer, his voice changed, became confidential. He asked me something truly disgusting. I didn’t answer and I heard him draw a long, heavy breath. It scared me. Someone came into the other side of the confessional and Monsignor sighed with anger. He absolved me quickly and gave me twenty Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys, then told me, “next time tell the truth.” I said my contrition and raced out not even stopping at the altar to say my penance. I was so terrified of getting Monsignor Moore for confession again that, come the following Saturday, I told my father I was sick and he let me stay home. Now I had a lie on my soul besides a lot of angry, scared feelings towards the monsignor. I would have to go confess my “sins” eventually. Three weeks later I went back to confession, arriving at twelve thirty and sitting near Father Hajduk’s cubicle so I could be the first one on line. It was not to be. I saw Monsignor Moore come into the church and he saw me sitting in the pew. As soon as he saw me, he walked over. “I haven’t seen you lately. Are you afraid to go confession?” I stammered something, I don’t remember what. I do remember him putting his hand on my shoulder and leading me to his cubicle, telling me that, “ you’d better come to me, Father Hajduk doesn’t know how to handle naughty little girls like you.” Tears were welling in my eyes and I hiccupped. Monsignor laughed. The same torture of words was enacted again, I felt that I had died and gone to hell. He asked me if I liked touching myself when I took a bath, did I like washing “down there?” I didn’t answer. A sob was threatening to burst from my throat. I could feel his frustration and anger building, but, finally, he had to let me out of the confessional. This time he doubled my penance and said he’d see me next week when “we’ll deal with your sin of lying.” I didn’t go to confession for almost a month, making up one excuse after another. During the week at school, I asked the nun in charge of the cafeteria if I could help the lunch mothers clean up. I tried to avoid the schoolyard because several times I saw him watching me from a window in the rectory, just waiting. When I had to pass the rectory after school I walked in the safety of a group always remembering the fate of the lion cub. But, like the lion cub, I was no match for the patience of the predator. He knew that eventually there would come a time when he’d find me alone. He got his chance, unexpectedly for me, the following week. It was Tuesday in Holy Week, our last day of school before Easter break. We were being let out at twelve o’clock and, at ten, we were herded into the church for a brief prayer service and confession. I wasn’t worried because usually Monsignor was busy with preparations for Good Friday and Easter. I wasn’t on guard. My friends and I were in a silly, giggly mood, happy to know we would be out of school for two whole weeks. I didn’t see him right away until I turned to face the altar. His eyes met mine with a surprised look that turned to a smile of triumph. He walked over to my group and I heard him say to my teacher, “ I’ll take these children, Dina.” Mrs. Dina Crawley was surprised. There were 18 children. “Are you sure, Monsignor? I know you’re so busy this week.” “Never too busy for my little angels,” he smiled at her and gave me a look that sent chills of fear through me. How I waited on that line without crying is something I’ll never know. I tried to pray but I couldn’t form words. As I moved up in line I felt like I was a trapped animal with no where to run yet my mind was racing with escape tactics. I knew that, even though he would have me at his mercy in that closed confessional, eventually he had to let me go. There were too many people around, teachers, nuns, students, for him to try to keep me in there. The nuns especially would make sure we were all led outside right before twelve o’clock dismissal. They would look for me. All I had to do was get through a short period of time in that overheated cubicle with a smelly old man and I would be free. Though I was shocked at what my mind was thinking, those bold, unspoken words describing Monsignor Moore, gave me the courage I needed to survive the usual hell of his disgusting questions. He tried wheedling, then demanding, but though tears streamed down my face, I couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. He leaned his face close to the screen and told me not to say the act of contritionbecause he couldn’t absolve a girl like me who wouldn’t tell the truth in confession. He said God was very angry with me and told me to think really hard about my “sins.” I was told to come back on Saturday to “make a truthful confession.” After dismissal I ran home crying and scared that I was going to go to Hell. Over Easter break I thought about what Monsignor had said about God being angry at me. I felt trapped and alone. I was sick for two weeks knowing that I would have to see him again. The first week we were back in school Monsignor Moore caught me walking home. I jumped in fear at the sight of him. He came up to me, asked if I was still being a naughty girl, and went to grab my arm. I felt a desperate animal fear, and just like a desperate animal, I looked for an escape. He began asking me the same questions he asked in the confessional. His whispered words and the smell of something stronger than after shave, made me want to scream. I turned my head away from his and, as I did, I saw two of my teachers, both nuns, coming out of the church. I was afraid they would see me with Monsignor holding my arm and think I was a bad girl. I began shaking. “What are you looking at?” When he asked that question, turning his head in the direction I was looking, a strange thing happened. He immediately let go of my arm and backed up. In that brief moment I knew, as surely as I knew my name: he was afraid! Afraid of having someone see him, afraid of getting caught! A bravery borne of desperation made me bold and, as I stepped away from him I said: “Don’t you ever touch me again, you dirty, smelly old man!” My teeth were gritted. His face got so red I was half afraid he would slap, All he did however, was try to shush me. “Shush, shush, be quiet, Be quiet!” He was almost pleading and he kept glancing to see if the nuns had heard me. Then, he turned and walked quickly back to the rectory. Monsignor Moore died four years later and, in the time he was alive, he never bothered me again, he avoided me. I stopped going to confession, without my parents’ knowledge. Instead I joined a skating class. I left the house every Saturday promptly at twelve thirty so they assumed I was going to confession first before the rink. The fact that I was interested in a new sport was nothing new in our family. No one questioned me. I did not tell my parents about what had occurred. I never told anyone except my best friend and she told me that it had happened to her and others she knew. She also said her brother didn’t want to be an altar boy anymore, but he wouldn’t say why. He cried in his room when Monsignor called the house looking for him. Her parents, in all innocence, made him go back to being an altar boy. ( Her brother went into therapy later on, then committed suicide at the age of fifteen.) By not telling, we let Monsignor get away with what he had done. No punishment. He was never held accountable for his crime against children. When he died, peacefully in his own bed, my parents made me go along with everyone else to see him laid out in the rectory. He was dressed in the splendor of his holy office with his hands wrapped around rosary beads. In death he did not seem so scary, he seemed small and shriveled and the only smells coming from him were a mixture of preservatives and incense. I smirked when I heard an adult say he was a “wonderful, kind man, true to his office, someone who loved the children of the parish and would do anything for them.” Or to them I thought. I was on the brink of thirteen and had developed a cynical air. When he was buried, I too buried the awful incident and Monsignor Moore deep in my mind. What with eighth grade graduation and the prospect of high school, my life had a lot going on. This is not to say I never thought of the incident again, I did, but I always tried to push it to its burial place in my mind. When the the scandals rocking the Catholic Church hit the news I wasn’t shocked. By then I was no longer a Catholic having decided in high school that there were other religious and spiritual beliefs that suited me much better. I had found a lot of cruelty in my encounter with the “good” Monsignor. I tried, as an adult, to put the bad experiences away. So why did the simple phrase” Sorry about that, lad,” a phrase used by many good priests of Irish descent in the parish of my long ago childhood hit me with such unexpected force and loathing? I don’t know. A friend of mine who is a psychiatrist mentioned something about post traumatic shock. Maybe. The memory of those words, so often spoken by Monsignor Moore to his altar boys and accompanied by a pat on their bottoms, was thought of as innocent by the parishioners back then. But Monsignor was not innocent, he was a monster. I do believe in a Supreme Being, a Spirit who really loves all the creatures of the world, especially the innocents. I do not know if there is a Hell, but if there is, I think it is only for the very worst crimes of humanity. In Dante’s Divine Comedy there is a terrible version of the circles of Hell, with the most unbearable tortures imaginable in the lowest circle. This part of Hell is reserved for clergy who have committed grievous sins. I think Monsignor Moore is finally being held accountable in that place, that part of Hell, for destroying the innocence of childhood. He should be held accountable. That would be only fair. ------------ About the author: Kristen Houghton is the editor and writer of two columns at BellaOnline Magazine. http://schoolreform@bellaonline.com, http://marriage@Bellaonline.com and the author of ©2005 THE WRITER'S BLOCK Email: Krisnalan@aol.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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