"When was the first time you felt excluded?" This question from the Wild Card podcast prompted the idea for this class project.

I appreciated the guidance with the exercises and readings to get this memory on the page. 

Thank you for taking the time to read my submission. I'm looking forward to reading other projects.  

 

 

                                                                       Awakening

My childhood church was an old red barn that sat at the top of a steep hill. A tall cross fixed to the silo branded the barn as a place of worship. It was here that I learned that girls don’t get to do everything boys do.

Walking into the church that day, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The musky smell of spent candles and incense welcomed me into the cavernous room. My neighbors were already there, warming up their guitars and voices before Mass. Their soulful, folksy vibe always moved me, more than any prayer or sermon did. I gave them a wave as I walked by, headed for the sacristy. 

I entered the small room, interrupting a discussion between Father and Monsignor. Father, the friendly one, greeted me with a warm smile. Monsignor, the grumpy one, kept his head down. I said hello and turned to the closet marked “Altar Servers.”

As I reached for my robe, my friend Carolyn bounced in. “Hello, Everyone!”  

Father smiled at her until he saw her sandals. “I see you're wearing sandals.” 

“Is that ok? I didn’t have time to go home for my Sunday shoes.” In those days, we wore shiny patent leather shoes with our church clothes. 

Father contemplated his answer aloud, “Well, I guess it’s ok. Jesus wore sandals, right? So, I guess we can, too,”

Carolyn and I helped each other pull and tug the robes over our heads. After fixing our hair, we tied the cords around our waists. 

Grabbing the wicker baskets, I heard Father talk about the Bishop’s upcoming visit, 

“We’ll have to remember to hide the altar server’s schedule before the Bishop arrives. We wouldn’t want him to see the girl’s names on the calendar.”

I know he wasn’t talking to me, but I couldn’t help but interrupt the conversation. “Why can’t he see girl’s names on the schedule?” I asked. Father hesitated before answering. “Because according to the Catholic Church, girls aren't supposed to be on the altar.” 

My eyebrows squinched in confusion. 

“But we’re girls, and we're getting ready to go on the altar.” 

“That’s ok. We ignore that rule.”

I looked at Carolyn who shrugged her shoulders and headed for the altar. I followed along, but my legs did not move as lightly as hers. I was unsure about stepping onto that altar. 

I started feeling queasy contemplating this no-girls-allowed rule. I was a rule follower. Especially when it came to God. Would God punish me for disobeying the Church? But if Father accepts my presence, then it must be ok, right? Is this like Carolyn’s sandals? We pick and choose the rules we want to follow? But why hide the list from the Bishop if it was ok? 

I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that I was committing a sin and that God would make me pay. But nothing bad happened. No natural disasters. No strikes of lightning. And once I realized that there would be no retribution, I questioned why the church excluded girls. 

After Mass, I hung up my robe, and headed home, grappling with the knowledge that men make rules that keep girls away.