Coming of Age
Same Walk, Different Shoes
“Same Walk, Different Shoes” is a community writing project thatBen Wakeman organized as a practical exercise in empathy. The premise is simple. A group of writers anonymously contribute a personal story of an experience that changed their life. Each participating writer is randomly assigned one of these story prompts to turn into a short story. The story you are about to read is one from this collection. You can find all the stories from the participating writers at Catch & Release. Enjoy the walk with us.
As indicated above, I was given a ‘prompt’, an outline, from someone I do not know. I was given some basic information, and my assignment was to tell a story based on that prompt. Thank you, whoever you are, for giving me such a rich prompt.
The “article voiceover” above has my wife narrating the story, Coming of Age. Or, read it below.
Coming of Age
The first time I remember being in trouble is when I let the canary out of her cage. I was just a young girl, five I think, the youngest of six children. Six children means, of course, that we were Catholic. Most of us in the family still are. Our neighborhood had been Catholic since its inception by German immigrants, over a century ago. The neighborhood reeked of age, our house was an old two story Victorian, worn from over a century of Catholic families and their multitudes of children, but kept up well enough. The furniture was an eclectic mix, representing every era and style from early Victorian times to what we now call Mid Century Modern. Back then, we just called it new furniture.
It was the family canary; it didn’t have a name. It had been in its cage in the living room since before I was born. I never thought of it as belonging to anyone in particular; it was just there, like the furniture. It would often jump back and forth from one perch to the other. That was its life; sitting, jumping, eating, or drinking water from a funny tube. It never had the chance to fly. As I sat in the living room alone one morning, I decided that it should be free to fly. So, I opened the little door that had rarely been opened, and I set it free. I watched it fly around the room for a few minutes, and then it flew into the kitchen, where Mom was cooking.
“Jim! The canary's loose! Come do something! How did it ever get loose?!”
The multitudinous family assembled from all corners of the house, converging in the kitchen. I remained in the living room. They were chasing the panicked bird, which flew back into the living room and came to rest on the mantle. Mom slowly, carefully approached, and was able to gently envelop it with one hand and take it back to its cage. Crisis over. Then all eyes turned to me. “What did you do?” asked Mom, grand inquisitor by nature. “Well, we all know WHAT you did. But WHY did you do it?”
“It seemed to want to be free. All it ever gets to do is jump from one perch to another. I wanted it to be free.”
“Canaries aren’t made to be free,” she sternly observed. “And you, young lady, should know better.”
Once again, I was under the microscope. What was I supposed to say? Apologize? I still thought the bird should be free. I said so, not having learned the fine art of deflection. An apology would likely have sufficed, but it was not forthcoming, so Mom turned to Dad. “Jim, I think Sarah needs to pay for what she has done, so she will think better of it next time.”
“Oh, Mary, she’s just a child. She didn’t know better.”
“And she's never going to know better, if we don’t teach her.”
Dad sat in his favorite chair, and beckoned me over. His spankings never amounted to much. It was more for effect. He laid me across his lap and gave me two swift swats. He would have followed up with a hug, but my sullenness betrayed his intentions.
I didn’t know I was Catholic. What distinction is to be made, when everyone you know goes to the same school, and to the same church? My school was in the annex of the church, and, as in any good catholic school, my teachers were nuns. I liked school pretty much, then. I liked to color and to play games during recess. I dutifully learned my ABCs right along with my catechisms. I have a good memory and could easily recite ABCs and catechisms by rote, which made the nuns happy.
At seven, I received my first communion. Of course, at seven, no child can comprehend receiving the body and blood of Christ. It seemed more like some sort of game, just another ritual, and the Catholic church is big on rituals. Even if I didn’t comprehend what first communion was, I liked that it was about me. Being number six in the family doesn’t count for a whole lot. All the habits and traditions of the family, good or bad, are already set. Yet, my oldest sister resented me, saying that, being youngest, I always got away with murder. I never saw it that way. But anyway, I got a new dress and new Sunday shoes for communion, and I got to have it be about me. Not all about me; there were maybe twenty other children getting first communion. But for my family, this was my day.
I liked the church building. It was large, cavernous even. It echoed the sounds and filled me with wonder. Jesus and Mary looked down upon me tranquilly from the stained-glass windows. I preferred that to the Crucifix at the front, depicting Jesus’ nearly naked body, nailed to the cross. I liked the chants during service, echoing with significance in that stone edifice. I must admit, in spite of my issues, I still enjoy the atmosphere of such churches to this day. It’s funny, when I think about it. I like the church building; it’s the Church that stops me short.
I guess my childhood was normal. I had two parents, three sisters and two brothers, and a neighborhood full of other kids. I remember that some other family moved in, and it seemed to be a big deal. They didn’t go to our church. That was the big deal. As a child, you can’t grasp all that goes on around you. I just knew that there were conversations, even between my parents, about this family and their two kids, a boy and a girl. The girl, Connie, was my age, and I liked to play with her. She didn’t do hail Marys, know catechism, or pray the Rosary. But she knew her ABCs well enough. Sometimes we’d play at her house, sometimes at mine, and often times at the playground outside the school annex. I look back now, and better comprehend the situation. To their credit, I guess, none of the adults mistreated the family, really. They were mostly as welcoming as they knew how to be. But that family, they weren’t one of us. There was no getting past that.
Childhood has no plan, no goal. At least it shouldn’t. Parents make plans, and children abide by them. But left to their own devices, children go whatever direction suits them. Or perhaps I’m just making excuses. I was never much for mapping things out ahead of time. I’m still not. I excelled at mischievousness, tended to not hold back from doing and saying things simply for having been told not to. Especially if I was told not to. I tried my oldest sister’s makeup when I was nine. I did a rather poor job of it, but it was fun, and a learning experience of sorts. Then again, I never learned. That stunt got me grounded all weekend, so I stayed in and read Nancy Drew. A few weeks later, I ruined my good shoes splashing around in what had to be the biggest puddle I had ever seen. I did that with my new friend, Connie. We both got in trouble, so we had that in common, even if our religious practices differed.
Being the youngest has both advantages and disadvantages. I had five experienced siblings to give me their wise instruction concerning playground games, what TV shows to watch, and which Moms had the best snacks. In hindsight, I know that I got away with more. Dad said I marched to a different drummer. My parents were through with deep parenting by the time they’d had Bill, their fourth. By the time I arrived, it was largely up to my siblings to see to my needs, but they had other things to do. Still, Beth, the second oldest, liked seeing after me. After all the years of being second behind her oldest sister Bekah, Beth liked being the wise big sister to me.
So, my life is a bit of a blur, of seemingly unrelated events that, in total, added up to childhood. Along the way, I exasperated Mom continually, asserting my independence in multiple little ways that convinced Mom that I would be the death of her. Dad was less concerned. Even if they didn’t think about it, I think my sibs were glad that I was the way I was. It took the heat off of them. They got away with more. So, you’re welcome, sibs.
But childhood ends. It ends sometimes, not with a whimper but with a bang. I was thirteen and, as is usually the case, I was beginning to see a larger picture. My pending adulthood was more of a visceral thing now, and not the fairy tale stuff about meeting princes and such. Then, with little notice, Connie’s family moved away. Just like that. We never even got to say goodbye. I was crushed. Connie was my one direct link to an outside world, a world of which I was just now becoming aware.
Amid all this, I was preparing for Confirmation. I was being prepared to dedicate my life to Christ, to follow his path and, of course, to bear more Catholics. Confirmation doesn’t just happen. We have to study and receive instruction, which we did in the sanctuary. Every other time I’d been here, it was for Sunday service. Being there during lessons gave me a different perspective. Instead of a full congregation, there was only Father John and maybe twenty-five of us kids. It made the building seem even bigger. Without the congregation to absorb the echoes, they rang louder and richer.
Being trained to dedicate my life to Mary and Jesus, as they looked down at me from the stained glass, seemed a non sequitur of sorts. The building felt womb-like, holding me in protectively, keeping me secure from what lay outside. But there, at the front, was Jesus on the cross. I now better understood the adult responsibilities and sacrifices expected of us, going beyond hail Marys and offerings in the collection plate.
All this I was learning almost instinctively. It comes with age. But I was being taught by people who seemed to be the last ones who could know what the real world might bring. Priests and nuns. Sequestered from reality, as if robes and rings and sacraments were protection enough from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. And for them, they were. They were advising us about that which they did not know, a real world that was becoming more real to me by the day. They taught us to pray, and to put all faith in Jesus and Mary; they would guide us toward what is good and just. How wonderful it must have sounded to some young parishioners; from the guiding hands of their parents straight into the arms of God, they could be a child forever.
I knew that that was not to be my future. I couldn’t wait to get out from under, to not answer to parents or to God. I could handle things myself. Such wisdom at thirteen! Even now I look back at the officious characters attempting to shape our lives, and I want to scream at their hypocrisy. The priest, Father John: What: did he know of service? Even at thirteen I could see that, to him, the church was his refuge, a place where people had to listen to him and pay him heed. I challenged him, as young teenagers will do, at one of our confirmation sessions. I asked why the Catholic church presumed to be the only legitimate church. Could not Protestants follow Jesus just as well, in their own church? Could not Jews and Muslims, and Buddhists and so forth also know God just as well as he did? Even better?
I was not really asking, I was accusing. Father John went livid. I had hit the nerve I was aiming for. At the age of thirteen, I was a pretty good shot!
But to his credit, Father John did not throw me out or punish me. For once, there was no ruler slapped on my hand. I was too old for that, now. Father John took a calm breath, and then cautioned me: Satan prowls the earth continually, looking for easily acquired souls. I had best watch out and seek the sanctity and safety of the church before it was too late. And so forth.
When he was through working on me, he went back to the lesson he was teaching us. I listened absently and regarded my surroundings, my perspective continually improving with age. I had lived with these works of art my entire life. These, and the building itself, were beautiful. They were tranquil. They were serene. For the first time in my life, I did not merely observe them, I wondered about them. Who made those windows, those statues, those murals? The building itself? It was from such people that I preferred to seek counsel, not from Father John, who I was convinced never appreciated what it was that he was surrounded by.
I guess you could say that Father John and I had an unspoken truce, after that episode. We never reopened that previous ‘conversation’. Apparently, he never told my parents about it; at least they never brought it up to me. That had been the Sunday before Confirmation Sunday. This coming Sunday I would kneel at the alter and place my life forevermore in the hands of God. I would be his servant, his handmaiden. And, right on cue, I guess, I got my first period. I was not shocked, too much. I had three sisters who had filled me in on all the details, over a period of years. Still, it is truly a shock to the system. Now, at the age of thirteen, and mere days before confirmation, nature had decreed that I was fit to be a mother.
If you’ve been thirteen, I ask you to remember the confusion, the uncertainty, the efforts to comprehend things that you will not know for years. Nature has decreed that you are prepared to be an adult, but your mind is a mass of confusion, anxiously trying to make sense of it all. That is the context in which I went to church that Sunday. I knew the usual service by rote, and could do it like an automaton.
But then it was time for the confirmation of me and my fellow thirteen-year-olds. The homily was said, replete with proper officiousness. One by one, my fellow confirmands were called up, with a parent, to receive the sacrament of confirmation. I watched, one by one, as they each went up with the parent, and Father John pressed the sign of the cross onto their forehead, touched their cheek, and exchanged “Peace be with you” and “Also with you” to the thirteen-year-old. The thirteen-year-old then knelt and kissed his large amethyst laden ring. They arose, and walked back to their pew, now official servants of God.
I was dreading it. I was not ready for this, and perhaps never would be. There is a God, I’m pretty sure, but he doesn't wear large amethyst rings. He doesn’t wear massive silk robes and vestments. I looked up, and saw Jesus, dressed in only a thin white cloth, nailed to a cross for no good reason. I heard my name, and walked up, my mother following behind me. I received the seal of the cross and said my words, as taught. Father John looked at me then, indicating with a nod that it was time for me to go to my knees and kiss his ring. One last look at Jesus on the cross, one last glimpse of childhood as it slipped forever away from me; and then I turned and ran. Right down the aisle and out the doors. Yes, the big, massive doors that were hard for me to open, but I did. And I was gone, wandering down the streets of my stodgy old Catholic neighborhood. A stranger in my own land, now. The streets were deserted. Everyone but me was in church.
It was a nice day. Birds chirped in the spring air, oblivious to the travails of thirteen year-olds. I walked in whatever direction my Sunday shoes chose to take me. It was all the same, anyway. I noticed trees, with leaves just now filling out to maturity. Some flowers were just coming out, others were past their prime. I kicked the occasional rock as I came across it on the sidewalk. I was happy. No, content. Whatever came next, I felt I could take it on my own. And so I walked. Walked for the sake of walking. It was enough for now.
Then, I heard a car pull slowly up behind me. It was my family, in the station wagon. I felt I should stop, say my piece, take my licks. But I just kept walking, and Dad just followed me, for a while, in the car, with the family. But shortly, Mom called out to me. “Sarah, where will you walk to? Come, get in the car with us.” I kept walking. After a while the car stopped, and I heard doors open and close. Dad had gotten out, and Mom was doing the driving. She slowly drove away. Dad walked briskly until he was at my side. He walked silently beside me, letting me lead the way. Finally, I had walked enough. I turned to him and looked up at a man that I had not seen this way before. It was my call, my choice as to what I would do next. He did not direct me. I reached up and hugged him tightly, and he hugged me back, and then we walked slowly home.
It didn’t all go perfectly from there. My Mom and I never did get along. I’ve spent my life being the black sheep, but they all love me, and I love them, in our own ways. We just can’t spend too much time together. I have a daughter, and now she’s thirteen. That’s why I feel compelled to tell this story. She is a delight. She is free, yet wise: and at such a young age, too! I could claim that I taught her well, but I don’t know. I’ve never really known. I can live with that.
As mentioned in the header, I wrote this story based on an outline provided by another writer, who I do not know. Someone else will write a story based on my outline. Writers get inside themselves, sometimes too much. It’s an interesting challenge to climb inside someone else’s mind and attempt to do their thoughts justice.
There are approximately fifty such stories which can be linked to in the header. I will read them all. I hope that you will read at least some of them.
And thank you to Ben Wakeman of Catch & Release, who has made this all happen!
Lovely story. So many lines gave me a smile, like this one: "My parents were through with deep parenting by the time they’d had Bill, their fourth." *Deep parenting*! 😊 As the youngest in a Catholic family, I get it!
The metaphor of the canary is so perfect for this story. What a beautiful telling of what it is like to live in someone else's cage. The details of Sarah's experience in the Church are so meticulously and beautifully shared, and I too hung on her father's empathy - his willingness to allow her to walk her own path. It's never easy to be the black sheep, or the canary. Beautiful work.