At The Age Of...

Often when I was a young child, adults would correct me for asking too many questions, or asking complicated questions, or just asking. It's my God-given nature to analyze things, and certainly when I was even too young to read, my mind was filled with curious things, mostly things of God. 

Now what young child would rather sit on the bed contemplating "who made God?" than play hide-and-seek? 

That's who I was, at the age of... four.

We lived in an Italian neighborhood, where most of the parents were immigrants and we were the children of immigrants. At that time, back in the late 40's, there were many immigrant families from Italy, Ireland, Greece, and Poland.  The neighborhoods were separated by nationality, and they were separated by religion. 

My parents settled in a little town south of Boston, in an Italian-Catholic neighborhood. It's not that they themselves were orthodox Roman Catholics, but they wanted to give their children an opportunity to be raised like the other children.

Because I was the youngest, my parents let me get away with more than my older sisters. They had to attend Catholic school, at least elementary. As for me, well, my parents didn't want me to attend Catholic school. They had their reasons, and I certainly had mine, which I made very clear to them.

That's who I was, at the age of ... nine.

Although my parents didn't make me attend Catholic school, I was, however, expected to attend Sunday School and Mass at the Catholic church, just a short walk from our neighborhood. There were many times the nuns' notes would somehow get lost on my walk home Sunday mornings. I would ask God, whoever He was in my mind at that time, to please forgive me, and I would even kneel on the ground, hands folded, one eye closed, as I hid the notes under a rock. Some of them I actually read; this one, for instance:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Galeazzi,

Your daughter has become very disruptive in Sunday School with questions that a child should not be concerned about. The other children are beginning to ask similar questions of their parents, and they are confused. If her inquisitive behavior continues, I have no choice but to report this matter to Father Burgess.

Sincerely,
Sister Mary Catherine 

I had an enormous problem evolving as time went on.  Roland, our mail man, after delivering the mail one morning, returned in the afternoon and rang the bell. Roland was a tall heavy-set man with graying sideburns, who always rang our bell (twice), because we lived on three floors (which I will explain another time). The mail was delivered to our second floor, the front door.  He would step inside if Annie invited him. She and Roland were buddies and exchanged baseball cards.

This day was different. He asked to speak with my mother because he had a special letter.

Immediately these words tumbled out of my mouth, "Mr. Roland, uh, she's very sick today." Actually, she was cooking downstairs in the kitchen.

When he asked to speak with Annie, he became a bit suspicious when I told him she was in Italy.  

“Really, is that so, because I coulda sworn I just saw her not more than half hour ago, ya know, with Kenny, on the back of his Harley. Angelina, you have to give this letter to your mother right away. It's from Church.  And I need you to sign your name, right here. That's a good girl, just like a grown-up."

The next morning, we were headed to the market for groceries. As we walked down our street, she held onto my hand as though I wanted to run away. She was wearing her best dress, her nice shoes, and a hat. I had no idea why she made me wear my best dress, my nice shoes, and my hat. It was Saturday.

And that's when I felt her hand squeezing mine because I truly did want to run away. We passed the market. It became more clear to me as we approached the Square that she was heading for the church Rectory.

Before she stepped up to the threshold of the door, she bent down to me and straightened my hat. My mother always smiled at me when she was fixing my dress, or combing my hair, but not that day.

Father Burgess opened the wide wooden door, his wrinkled forehead framed by frowning brows, his plump cheeks blushed like they did at Communion.

"Come in, Mrs. Galeazzi. May I offer you some water, or perhaps some refreshing iced tea? Do have a seat."

We stood.

"My daughter has every right to ask questions; she is a very precocious young lady. Your nuns have an obligation to answer her questions. They refuse. Is this because they do not know the answers? She will not be coming back to your Sunday School."

We walked to the foyer, leaving Father Burgess stunned.  When we reached the wooden door, she swiftly turned around and addressed him in a tone reserved for such occasions.

"One last thing. Until we find an appropriate place of worship, she will continue to attend church, until the age of..." My mother glanced down at me and smiled. "That's between her and the Lord."

© Angelina Lenahan
Excerpt from Ch. 1, Perseverance
2017