Storytime with Uncle Pegritz
Feb. 25th, 2004 05:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oneirophreniaToday, through absolutely heroic effort, I managed to get completely caught up with all my work by ten minutes ago...and since I now have a good bit of time to kill before my next class convenes, I believe I will entertain myself--and you, Gentle Reader--with a story of the remote past. A story of a time when I was a little Catholic child in CCD (religious instruction) class....
As many of you know, I was raised Catholic, and a part of every Catholic child's upbringing are CCD classes to learn ya the basics of Catholic doctrine. These classes were held over the summer on Saturday mornings, and I certainly wouldn't've minded them--they were actually kind of fun, what with drawing pictures of Jesus bleeding to death on the Cross and singing songs about God's eternal love and vengeance--except that they were on Saturday mornings, and therefore ate into my cartoon-watching time. I believe I can actively trace my current dislike of Christianity directly to the fact that Jesus Christ Himself, via his not-on-Sunday-school minions, kept me from ever watching an entire episode of Thundarr the Barbarian. But I digress.
Most of the CCD teachers were ladies from St. Procopius' parish who volunteered to teach us little patch-hunky heathens about God, and for the most part they were very kind, often even lovable, Saturday-morning grandmas whom we kids all treated with respect not because we were required to but because they obviously reminded us of our bubbas...and what kid is going to act like the vicious, snarling animal he is around his saintly bubba, for gods' sake?! But the second grade class was taught by one Helen Gavron, a wizened old harridan with the temperament of a rabid nun from any Catholic-school horror story and an ability to instill terror in a child's heart just with a squint from her vulpine eyes. She was a very intelligent old bat, but she simply didn't have the constitution to deal with young children. Nonetheless, she was the only parish lady available to teach the y-year-olds, so we were stuck.
Needless to say, we kids were silent and attendant at all times in her class, lest her wrath come blazing forth like a wild beast from a spilled bowl in the Apokalypsis of John. She would stalk about inside the U of our tables in the St. Procopius Parish Center like a stork with glaring blue eyes, lecturing us on Jesus' infinite love in an acrid tone that could peel the varnish from our seats and made the Paschal Lamb seem as horrifying as The Thing. I was always a quiet little kid in class, so I never expected to feel the sudden guilt-laser of her ire. But then one day it happened, and my life was forever changed.
I was sitting in class of a Saturday morning, and old Helen Gavron was creaking about, railing to the heavens about the Baby Jesus or something. It was July, I believe, and I'd been out the night before playing until well after dark, which basically meant that I'd gotten eaten up by mosquitos, and as such my legs and arms were covered in itchy welts that I couldn't keep my nails from. Since I was terrified of Mrs. Gavron, I tried to be as surreptitious with my scratching as I could...but at one point I was scratching at my knee. Not vigorously, but I guess noticeably.
Suddenly, Mrs. Gavron came flying toward me like a harpy eagle after a fish! eyes alight! pointy chin quivering with righteous indignation! flying monkeys haloing her as she zeroed in on me! My heart froze as her hooklike hand reached over and snatched at my wrist! She jerked my hand from my knee and smacked it with her other hand--but the tap was so light, owing to her octogenarian frailty, that I barely felt it.
And then she screeched, "QUIT PLAYING WITH YOUR PEOPUS!"
All of the other kids were looking on with either smirks, or shocked O-mouths. Helen Gavron's wrath had claimed Pegritz as one of its victims! Dear god, if she could attack the quiet, untroublesome kid, then...WHO WAS NEXT? FATHER JIM HIMSELF?
I, meanwhile, was sitting there like a lump, staring up at the old vulture's trembling face...not terrified anymore...nor even intimidated...but confused. What the fuck is a "peopus?" I wondered. And: This is the legendary Wrath of Helen Gavron? A glare and a cryptic snarl from a poor old woman who looked like a sneeze could blow her over?
Mrs. Gavron subsided and continued the day's lesson, while I sat there in confusion for the remainder of the hour, trying to figure out just what a "peopus" was (maybe a Latin word for "knee?") but more importantly thinking: I was just reprimanded by the woman other kids regarded with more fear than they regarded God...and it was positively anticlimactic.
I learned a great deal from that experience. Mainly, I learned that even the worst things are never really all they're cracked up to be--unless we're taking about spiders, 'cause those fuckers are as terrifying as they appear. I did not learn what a "peopus" was, and in fact, to this day I still do not know what one is--nor do I know why I shouldn't play with it or scratch it, whatever it might be. A substantial amount of my complete irreverence toward authority figures stems from that day, though. In subsequent years, I never picked fights with my CCD teachers or anything like that, but I never again viewed them in the same light....
This story popped into mind today when one of the librarians was telling me about how the crotchey old nuns at the Catholic school her husband attended used to smack him on the hand because he was lefthanded. The left hand being the devil's hand, don't you know....I would've loved to have seen how I would've reacted in that situation, but based on my experience with Helen Gavron, I think I would've just shrugged it off or, possibly, just raised a certain finger of the left hand in salute of superstitious old shrews' fear of writing in reverse.
As many of you know, I was raised Catholic, and a part of every Catholic child's upbringing are CCD classes to learn ya the basics of Catholic doctrine. These classes were held over the summer on Saturday mornings, and I certainly wouldn't've minded them--they were actually kind of fun, what with drawing pictures of Jesus bleeding to death on the Cross and singing songs about God's eternal love and vengeance--except that they were on Saturday mornings, and therefore ate into my cartoon-watching time. I believe I can actively trace my current dislike of Christianity directly to the fact that Jesus Christ Himself, via his not-on-Sunday-school minions, kept me from ever watching an entire episode of Thundarr the Barbarian. But I digress.
Most of the CCD teachers were ladies from St. Procopius' parish who volunteered to teach us little patch-hunky heathens about God, and for the most part they were very kind, often even lovable, Saturday-morning grandmas whom we kids all treated with respect not because we were required to but because they obviously reminded us of our bubbas...and what kid is going to act like the vicious, snarling animal he is around his saintly bubba, for gods' sake?! But the second grade class was taught by one Helen Gavron, a wizened old harridan with the temperament of a rabid nun from any Catholic-school horror story and an ability to instill terror in a child's heart just with a squint from her vulpine eyes. She was a very intelligent old bat, but she simply didn't have the constitution to deal with young children. Nonetheless, she was the only parish lady available to teach the y-year-olds, so we were stuck.
Needless to say, we kids were silent and attendant at all times in her class, lest her wrath come blazing forth like a wild beast from a spilled bowl in the Apokalypsis of John. She would stalk about inside the U of our tables in the St. Procopius Parish Center like a stork with glaring blue eyes, lecturing us on Jesus' infinite love in an acrid tone that could peel the varnish from our seats and made the Paschal Lamb seem as horrifying as The Thing. I was always a quiet little kid in class, so I never expected to feel the sudden guilt-laser of her ire. But then one day it happened, and my life was forever changed.
I was sitting in class of a Saturday morning, and old Helen Gavron was creaking about, railing to the heavens about the Baby Jesus or something. It was July, I believe, and I'd been out the night before playing until well after dark, which basically meant that I'd gotten eaten up by mosquitos, and as such my legs and arms were covered in itchy welts that I couldn't keep my nails from. Since I was terrified of Mrs. Gavron, I tried to be as surreptitious with my scratching as I could...but at one point I was scratching at my knee. Not vigorously, but I guess noticeably.
Suddenly, Mrs. Gavron came flying toward me like a harpy eagle after a fish! eyes alight! pointy chin quivering with righteous indignation! flying monkeys haloing her as she zeroed in on me! My heart froze as her hooklike hand reached over and snatched at my wrist! She jerked my hand from my knee and smacked it with her other hand--but the tap was so light, owing to her octogenarian frailty, that I barely felt it.
And then she screeched, "QUIT PLAYING WITH YOUR PEOPUS!"
All of the other kids were looking on with either smirks, or shocked O-mouths. Helen Gavron's wrath had claimed Pegritz as one of its victims! Dear god, if she could attack the quiet, untroublesome kid, then...WHO WAS NEXT? FATHER JIM HIMSELF?
I, meanwhile, was sitting there like a lump, staring up at the old vulture's trembling face...not terrified anymore...nor even intimidated...but confused. What the fuck is a "peopus?" I wondered. And: This is the legendary Wrath of Helen Gavron? A glare and a cryptic snarl from a poor old woman who looked like a sneeze could blow her over?
Mrs. Gavron subsided and continued the day's lesson, while I sat there in confusion for the remainder of the hour, trying to figure out just what a "peopus" was (maybe a Latin word for "knee?") but more importantly thinking: I was just reprimanded by the woman other kids regarded with more fear than they regarded God...and it was positively anticlimactic.
I learned a great deal from that experience. Mainly, I learned that even the worst things are never really all they're cracked up to be--unless we're taking about spiders, 'cause those fuckers are as terrifying as they appear. I did not learn what a "peopus" was, and in fact, to this day I still do not know what one is--nor do I know why I shouldn't play with it or scratch it, whatever it might be. A substantial amount of my complete irreverence toward authority figures stems from that day, though. In subsequent years, I never picked fights with my CCD teachers or anything like that, but I never again viewed them in the same light....
This story popped into mind today when one of the librarians was telling me about how the crotchey old nuns at the Catholic school her husband attended used to smack him on the hand because he was lefthanded. The left hand being the devil's hand, don't you know....I would've loved to have seen how I would've reacted in that situation, but based on my experience with Helen Gavron, I think I would've just shrugged it off or, possibly, just raised a certain finger of the left hand in salute of superstitious old shrews' fear of writing in reverse.
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no subject
Date: 2004-02-25 11:23 pm (UTC)Both of my parents had to deal with the stupid Christian prejudice against left-handed people (my mom even became right-handed, but she was probably a faker all along). I am so proud of being left-handed (and I always have been) that I don't know what kind of hellish tantrum I would've thrown if anyone had tried to lecture me about my dominant hand.
I dealt with the Dungeons and Dragons/Ouiji boards are evil speech and even the People Who Like the Dark are evil speech, but damnit, thats my left hand!
(And spiders are not scary! They are CUTE and occasionally fuzzy.)
no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 07:09 am (UTC)Nonetheless, I, fortunately, was spared all that crap about being left-handed (though I'm right-handed), and about listening to the devil's music and so forth. I eventually left the church on fairly good terms: I was Confirmed at 14 and I just never went back, because I didn't really care anymore--the *ritual* of Catholicism still drew me (and still does, for that matter; I occasionally go to Midnight or Latin Masses just to soak in the atmosphere), but I had grown out of all faith.
It wasn't until I hit college that I realized what a mess Christianity in general was, and learned to greatly dislike it...To this day, though, I find the Catholic Church to be one of the *least* dislikable versions of Christianity: sure, I don't particularly like the Church's stance on a *lot* of issues, but at least they've shown *some* willingness to adapt to a changing world in order to keep themselves relevant. Fundamentalists of all races, creeds, and denominations literally make me spit fire, though.
no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 07:10 am (UTC)(Don't worry, though: you're safe because, as far as I know, you are merely a human who *likes* spiders, not the Spider Queen in disguise...right?)
no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 01:55 pm (UTC)And spiders are completely fell creatures. They're always watching with their eight eyes. Spinning their infinite webs. Crawling with their many legs. The largest spiders I ever saw were near Three Mile Island. Absolutely loathsomely bloated monsters, they covered everything in their webs, with their dessicated insect corpse wind chimes.
Anyway, not being raised catholic, I don't think I've ever said a word to a nun in my entire life.
All Hail Cthulhu's peopus!