An exiled Catholic woman

Since reading Colm Tóibín’s “Among the Flutterers” in the August 19 LRB I have felt a measure of comfort in my usually anguished meditations on being exiled from the Catholic Church. Here it is: the Catholic hierarchy is composed of gay men, probably celibate, but gay. Let’s turn the proposition around and imagine an institution owned by lesbian women, celibate, but self-identified lesbians. Would men feel that they had a place in that institution? Of course not. No wonder, then, that I feel exiled; it is always comforting to me to realize that my feelings are justified.

In fact, this is not really what Tóibín is writing about. But in bringing to our attention how much of the being part of the Catholic Church’s hierarchy, is, for men, wrapped up with their sexuality, we have to acknowledge that gayness, dealing with it, accepting it, is the central life issue for most of the Church hierarchy, its mission. I have never NOT accepted gayness, I recognize it as central to the identity of a sizable proportion of the population. But I want to belong to a Catholic Church whose hierarchy represents a diversity of identity issues, including mine.

It ‘s fine if as Tóibín writes that
"Some of the reasons why gay men became priests are obvious and simple; others are not. Becoming a priest, first of all, seemed to solve the problem of not wanting others to know that you were queer. As a priest, you could be celibate, or unmarried, and everyone would understand the reasons. It was because you had a vocation; you had been called by God, had been specially chosen by him. For other boys, the idea of never having sex with a woman was something they could not even entertain. For you, such sex was problematic; thus you had no blueprint for an easy future. The prospect, on the other hand, of making a vow in holiness never to have sex with a woman offered you relief. The idea that you might want to have sex with men, that you might be ‘that way inclined’, as they used to say, was not even mentioned, not once, during that workshop in which everything under the sun was discussed."

I want all young men to have the opportunity to find a place where they can work out who they are.

But when I stop by to pick up gay friends, I find them in front of the computer chatting with potential dates, the most fleeting random message more important than anything I could possibly have to say, when I go out with them I know that they are looking over my head for guys, I know that for them I represent a sounding board against which to try their ideas, I don’t really exist for them except as, sometimes, a front, or a sympathetic ear. The minute a man in whom they are interested comes along, I am OUT. I exist only to buoy them up.

Of course I have no objection to gay men being priests. But I do have the strongest objection possible to the hierarchy of the Catholic Church being entirely gay. For too long Catholics have gotten away with pretending that celibate is celibate, that gayness is not inherent. But since the late nineteenth century at least, this has not been the case. Gay men live together in sufficient intellectual (and sometimes sexual) relationships. Being gay is not really about sex, although it is about that. But sex is not the important part. What is important it that “they” do not need “us.” That’s fine in the context of my many relationships. I take what each has to offer. It’s just that I don’t want to belong to a Church that views me in the way that gay men view me, as an ear, as a confidence booster, as a spectator to their show. As a nun.

Terrific for the Pope if he likes to dress up in red taffeta:
"When I listed the reasons homosexuals might be attracted to the Church and might want to become priests, I did not mention the most obvious one: you get to wear funny bright clothes; you get to dress up all the time in what are essentially women’s clothes. As part of the training to be an altar boy I had to learn, and still remember, what a priest puts on to say Mass: the amice, the alb, the girdle, the stole, the maniple and the chasuble. Watching them robing themselves was like watching Mary Queen of Scots getting ready for her execution.

Priests prance around in elaborately fashioned costumes. Bishops and cardinals have even more colourful vestments. This ‘overt behaviour’ on their part has to be examined carefully. Since it is part of the rule of the Church, part of the norm, it has to be emphasised that many of them do not dress up as a matter of choice. Indeed, the vestments in all their glory might make some of them wince. But others seem to enjoy it. Among those who seem to enjoy it is Ratzinger. Quattrocchi draws our attention to the amount of care, since his election, Ratzinger has taken with his accessories, wearing designer sunglasses, for example, or gold cufflinks, and different sorts of funny hats and a pair of red shoes from Prada that would take the eyes out of you. He has also been having fun with his robes. On Ash Wednesday 2006, for example, he wore a robe of ‘Valentino red’ – called after the fashion designer – with ‘showy gold embroidery’ and soon afterwards changed into a blue associated with another fashion designer, Renato Balestra. In March 2007, for a visit to the juvenile prison at Casal del Marno, he wore an extraordinary tea-rose-coloured costume."

I have watched the gay-pride parades in Provincetown, cheering and urging them on. But the men who march in those are my friends, they are external to me, they have no interest in me, because their issues are so much more significant than mine. I love them, but I do not want them to have the sort of intimate power over me that the Catholic hierarchy does. They have no time for the likes of me. The Church, on the other hand, should have time for all of us. It should not be a boys’ club, forever excluding the girls.

Rejoice Twenty-Somethings!

The New York Times article on the new stage of adolescence – the period that covers the twenties, approximately – is still making the rounds. Twenty-somethings graduate, but they do not go immediately into the work force. They remain in a sort of twilight adolescence, seem dependent, try on different sorts of lives. Life is longer; this is a luxury we can now afford. Strange how people are reacting as it the piece were somehow a criticism. But not at all – an observation. Things have changed. Different theories might explain it, but they don’t matter. All social change comes about through a strange nexus of events – change is very rarely good or bad or even intentional. It just is. People have protested that twenty-somethings don’t want to hang out for several years in what is essentially a state of animated suspension. They have been forced into the status by the economic climate, by the dismal job outlook. They have complained that it simply isn’t true, that young people are more pressured than ever to accomplish great things, build up their CV.

I say that none of this matters; the essential thing is that we now have yet another model for plotting out a life. The more numerous and the more flexible the options for creating a life happen to be, the greater the number of potentially satisfied people. Whatever the reason twenty-somethings happen to find themselves in an in-between place, they can now profit from the position. You take the hand life deals you and you play it. Now we have been handed one more way of making sense out of the play, another option for winning.

I rejoice. I have a lost decade, a period that I have always looked back upon with shame. Now I have the means to reclaim that time. So many horrors – too many and too deep to speak of. And then I grew. It took me a long time to break away from home, to realize that I was just reproducing my own miserable situation. Little by little I clawed my way out, started to make decisions. It took a lot of time to get educated, to see through the fog. But I did. And I want to take back those years as a victory rather than a loss. It was a time of voyage and sorrow. There were many adventures.

I have a distressing image from that time – a young woman on her knees praying in a house that was not hers. Begging God to deliver her from the prison of her life. God of course did not listen – and, indeed, there were many Gods colliding in that house. Big blown up deities making all the decisions, creating reality, brewing the very air that she breathed. Did God deliver her from that place? Of course not. It was in God’s interest that she stay there. But as round-faced, helpless, and earnest as she was, she finally developed a tiny bit of any edge. It got sharper. She began to carve her way out, cut the God stuff away, excise a life that was still animate from a clump of fat. Then she got on a plane and it was off to find a new day.

Yes, twenty-somethings! Rejoice in this new possibility! Take your time and think. Experience. Remember that it is only in the past thirty years of so that we have even been able to conceive of self-fulfillment as a serious life’s goal.