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I must also acknowledge the contributions of the Catholic Church and its complicated path toward manhood.
Reconciliation, First Communion, and Confirmation are all a Holy Paper Trail tracking your journey to adulthood.
I chose Saint Lawrence the Martyr.
He was grilled alive on a spit.
You have to bechosen.
It is the time-honored and, in my mind, coveted tradition of becoming an altar boy.
Coincidentally, I reached altar boy age just as I was also becoming interested in local theater.
Catholic mass seemed to be sort of similar to theater.
I just had to deal with Sister Idalia to get there.
Sister Idalia had been my first grade teacher, and she was a tricky lady.
She had brought it for show-and-tell, which obviously had not gone as planned.
She started laughing and I felt like I had done something good for another human.
Then Sister Idalia came over to me and said, Andy, why are you playing like a girl?
Boys dont play hopscotch and they definitely DONT play with dolls!
Then she laughed like the Wicked Witch of the West.
God, I hated her for that.
Im just trying to makethis girl feel better, you old bat!
But I didnt say that to Sister Idalia.
She was still a nightmare.
But she was less of one, because I was trying very hard to nail this altar boy gig.
My aunt has a habit just like yours!
Id say, or One of my auntsWHOS A NUNtaught me all about virgin births!
And like I said, I was trying VERY hard to be good.
I was a total kiss-ass and it was working.
Once we learned all the choreography for the mass, we would rehearse it over and over again.
Sister Idalia would play the priest, and we would take turns practicing the different altar boy positions.
If you were on the right, your show was very different from the kids on the left.
Each side had its own important jobs, but in my mind, the right side was more important.
It did most of the vital chores when it came to the big magic trick at the end.
I would later be disappointed to see there was no physical change whatsoever.
Although, I dont know what I would have done if something had actually happened.
Sister Idalia was a stern taskmaster during rehearsals.
She was like the Jerome Robbins of Our Lady of Lourdes Church.
She would make us practice the mass until we were perfect.
She knew every word by heart, and she took her role of playing the priest very seriously.
She was good at it.
She was reverent and dramatic when she needed to be.
She was thoughtful and graceful.
Ill bet she would have given a good homily, too.
One of the final steps of altar boy practice was adding in the costumeI mean, the cassock.
It was probably what Iwas most excited about.
The cassocks were white and long, and they had a hood that hung dramatically off the back.
Sister Idalia told us we were never, NEVER to put the hoods on.
Red was my favorite; that was for feast days of martyrs.
I was dramatic and stylish even as a fourth grader.
I remember putting it all on for the first time and looking in the mirror.
I loved my Catholic mass costume.
I felt so official and so important.
This Catholic mass stage would have to do for now.
We had a week of previews first though.
They all had slightly different styles, and we had to adjust to each one accordingly.
We understood and observed each priest carefully, trying to figure out how we could be his perfect servant.
Thanks, Sister.)
I quickly learned that Father Russ was kind and patient.
Father Tom was rough and his hands shook.
Father Rodney was cold and wouldnt look you in the eye.
He was the most withholding, so naturally I needed him to like me and say it often.
(Im still unpacking that one with the help ofOprahs Master Class.)
Father Tom was also the most handsome.
He was tall and fit and he had silver hair.
He usually looked sunburned.
I now know that flush was from alcohol, but it still suited him.
He was probably in his early fifties and he seemed so manly to me.
My mother had a name for priests like Father Tom.
She called them Father What a Wastes.
They were too attractive to be priests, to be celibate.
I grew up with this phrase as a useful way to categorize priests at school.
If we got a new priest, my mother would ask, Is he a Father What a Waste?
I got very good at deciding which ones were.
I managed to make it through my first week as an altar boy without any incident.
I did everything almost perfectly.
SisterIdalia even said so.
So did Father Tom.
He patted me hard on the back.
I felt good about my first week in his service.
Annoyingly, Father Rodney was the one who always wanted to talk.
He always wanted to ask questions about school and teachers and what sports we played.
I never liked serving with him.
But after mass, it was all chitchat and awkward jokes.
I always felt trapped.
Father Rodney never touched me.
As weird as he was, he never physically abused anyone to my knowledge.
He just had the misfortune of seeming like a creep.
That only made my affection for the stern and stoic Father Tom grow even stronger.
From fourth through eighth grade I served those priests well.
I was a real Altar Star at Our Lady of Lourdes!
It was way more fun.
To think critically about the teachings of the Church.
They just seemed … cool.
And as my mother pointed out, there were several Father What a Wastes there.
Freshman year I met another Father Tom.
This one was much younger, probably in his early twenties, and very handsome.
He taught my Freshman Theology class with a contagious amount of enthusiasm for the Church.
He pushed us all to ask questions and wasnt afraid to tell us if he had the same questions.
He took note of me early on, and saw that while I might look confident, I wasnt.
Father Tom figured this out and asked me if I wanted to eat lunch with him in his office.
We eventually got to know one another and formed a little group of our own.
Father Tom suggested at some point that we all venture out into the lunchroom together.
We did and it worked.
He had fully assimilated us into the general population.
I was grateful to him for that.
I had developed a strong crush on him.
(At this age, I was fairly certain thats exactly what Id have called it.)
I would often hover in his office, my sexual frustrations spilling out all over the place.
I must have reeked of hormonal tension and vulnerability.
To his credit, Father Tom never acknowledged my desperation, but other priests did.
Father Don was mostly retired.
He used to find me in study hall.
Sometimes he would just appear behind me and rub my shoulders while talking to me.
This was around the time that I misplaced my virginity with the forty-year-old.
I think Father Don sensed that.
And then there was the most disappointing priest of all Ill call him Father Dominic.
He was probably in his sixties, but he worked out every day and remained lean and sinewy.
He also took an interest in me because I did well in his classes.
Thats what I thought anyway.
We were made to go to mass once a week, but mass was sort of a hippie affair.
We would all sit on the floor, and it all felt very earthy and Jesus-y.
Confessions were heard at the end.
Again, this was not your typical confession with private rooms and curtains drawn.
Sometimes he would close his eyes and grab the back of your neck firmly while you confessed.
It seemed very Roman Wrestler at the time, but looking back it was also very Abusive Pimp.
I waited in line to talk with Father Dominic, who was popular for confessions.
I told myself that he was going to be helpful, that this was my best option.
I sat across from him in a dark corner, our knees touching.
He grabbed my neck, as expected, and I started to talk.
Instead, I started to cry.
I was so embarrassed.
Father Dominic squeezed my neck harder, and he grabbed both my hands with his free hand.
His hands were like baseball mitts.
We just sat there while I cried.
He finally said, Its okay.
Youve done nothing wrong.
It wasnt exactly what I was looking for, but it still felt nice.
He stood up and pulled me up with him.
He hugged me tightly.
I felt safe and heard and understood.
Then, with unexpected force, he kissed me.
He muscled his tongue into my mouth and held the back of my head still.
Then he released me and made the sign of the cross on my forehead.
I walked away, stunned.
How could he do that?
Right in the open.
In a daze I walked through the quad.
No one had seen it.
How was that possible?
I had too many other problems at the time.
So instead I said, Great idea, Mom.
(I did successfully leave out Father Don.
Since he was mostly retired, my parents didnt really know him.
I was spared a back rub, so that was a minor win.)
The forty-year-old was also there.
(It was a real emotional minefield.)
At some point, Father Dominic needed to leave, and he asked if I could show him out.
I knew what was coming, but at this point, I didnt care.
So what did I care if one more creepy man wanted to kiss me?
What did it matter?
I just stood there and let him.
I didnt kiss back, but I also didnt move.
He smiled at me and walked to his car.
I went into our kitchen and slammed a glass of wine before going back out to the party.
Shortly after, the two Father Toms left, and each gave me a congratulatory handshake.
Firmly, fatherly, without an ounce of sexuality or menace.
In other words, AN APPROPRIATE GOOD-BYE FOR A GRADUATION PARTY.
I was able to get the forty-year-old to leave without incident by promising to see him later.
He still managed to steal a quick kiss and a grope on his way out.
Again, I just let it happen.
Cleaning up after the party, I felt a little numb.
I thought, How many teenage boys have to deal with this shit at their graduation parties?
Am I the only one?
If Ihadto kiss a priest at my graduation party, why couldnt it have been a priest Iwantedto kiss?
More important, why did Ihaveto kiss anyone?
It was time to leave.
I was eighteen years old, and I couldnt be anybodys altar boy anymore.
From the book TOO MUCH IS NOT ENOUGH by Andrew Rannells.
Copyright 2019 by Andrew Rannells.
Published by Crown Archetype, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC.
