Catholic School in the 1950s was like Torquemada’s Inquisition with flush toilets and a cafeteria. It would spawn a generation of atheists, agnostics and Unitarians whose hatred for the Catholic Church verged on madness. I am one such.
Today’s brand of Catholicism is positively cheery in comparison. Except for the pedophilia.
I entered Catholic school in second grade, after a pretty happy two years in public school. In short order, I was introduced to nuns, priests, sin, confession, crucifixes, holy water and my teacher, Sister Ludmilla. She could whirl from the blackboard, and with astonishing speed, nail a nefarious seven-year-old at the back of the room in the head with an eraser. And so began the saga of my disbelief.
Our schooldays included Mass, morning prayers, catechism, bible history, corporal punishment, the instilling of fear, pagan babies,and the belief in transubstantiation (Google it. You won’t be able to swallow it, either.)
I tried to believe. I really, really tried. For a long time, too.
But I already had a predisposition to the notion of sin and guilt. Me and Catholicism merged to produce an OCD, very sick young woman.
In the end, it was a shootout between me and the Vatican. True, it’s still standing. But I’m mentally sound, and it’s still sick. Talk about “jesus wept.”