The Pluck of the Irish

I survived scarred but unscathed growing up Irish catholic.  Mind numbing Masses  sung in Latin  Ostentatious Corpus Christy processions through local streets Ornately dressed priests Eyes to the skies, garbage underfoot Fair game for taunting classmates armed with cutting quips  abstinence during Lent weekly confession that required creative thinking to minimize mortal sins further ingenuity required to pass off venial sins  to fill the quota on weeks when you were good,  But it was the redemption through suffering or straight to hell in a hand basket that crippled.  The collateral damage of inherited weaknesses?  An act of contrition, three Hail Mary's and an Our Father  To survive "I have had to deny knowledge in order to leave room for faith."   Fascinating for it's simplicity and heavy dose of reality.  It helped with my struggle to understand  what others appear to see so clearly.   And yet despite this cross connection the majority of my actions  are calibrated against my religious upbringing.  A voice, my own, my mother's, echoes from statues, holy wells and saints  that continue to haunt my past and dissect my actions   I am a reluctant Catholic.  It is part of my DNA.  Early on I  found out how hard it was not to conform  when I began to swim against the tide.  Lifelines were few  while responses took the form of it is just a phase,  Have him have a chat with the priest.  The alienation was akin to Irish tee totalers  welcome, yet removed from the nexus of Irish society, the pub