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
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