Linda Ann Rentschler

       Being holy was a chore, but there was a good side.  Because God was in love with me, He gave me grace for memorizing catechism.  I never really understood what grace was, probably a decoration for my soul, I supposed.  I tried to get as much of it as I could so my soul could be the prettiest.  I gave my favorite toys to the orphans.  I attended Mass on regular days of the week.  I read about the lives of the saints.  One saint used to pick up pins from the floor as proof of her love for Jesus.  Because I wanted to be a neat saint I began to pick up specks of dirt off the floor.  Every time I noticed anything--dust, paper, crumbs, I picked it up for Jesus.  It used to take me an hour to walk from the kitchen to the living room because Mario and Marco were slobs.  Each corner took ten minutes to clean because every time I bent to pick up one speck, I'd notice fifty more.  Soon I began walking without looking down; passing mud on the sidewalk made me feel guilty.  I tripped so much I used to start my days with a prayer asking God not to let me do anything embarrassing in front of my classmates.

            I liked to pray because it was the only form of privacy available to me.  I could bow my head in God's name and talk to myself wherever and whenever I wanted to, without criticism.  If I needed to escape from the drudgery of washing dishes, I'd simply go to church.  No one ever stopped me from visiting God.   Usually, I could ask for money to put in the mission boxes and buy a candy bar along the way.  My parents never minded; they liked God.  My mother said nice things about God because she was terrified of lightning.  My father said nice things about God because he played the numbers.  When my parents did something wrong they'd try to bribe God into forgiving them. 

            God had the best reputation of any male I ever heard of.  When Mary Magdalene flirted with him, he let her wash his feet.  He reminded me of my Uncle Rollo who always looked for a female niece to fill his foot pan.  Every time he'd come visiting with a callous, Maria and I would hide under the bed.  When I got too fat to hide under the bed, I started saying my rosary every time Uncle Rollo came to visit.  Because he thought I was so holy, he gave me ten cents every time he came over.

            "Gina, light a candle for me tomorrow.  Tell God I have a sore back and need money to go to the doctor."

            "That's what I told him the last time."

            "He didn't believe you.  I lost fifty dollars to the bookie with the nose wart.  Show me how you ask Him."

            I hated this.  Every time I had to rehearse my prayers, I could never keep my eyes closed.  Uncle Rollo always noticed the slightest inadequacy.  He yelled at me when my hands dropped.  He pinched my cheeks if my posture was bad.  Once, I felt so pressured I fainted.  Uncle Rollo liked that.  He thought I had seen a dead saint.  From that time on, he always bought me presents so I could tell God he was a nice guy.

            Before long, every member of my family who wanted a favor called me to make up some lie to God.  It bothered me that I had to go to confession because my relatives were liars.  To get even, I kept spending the money they gave me for candles on food.   It was just a short walk from church to Chunky's where chocolate ice cream was a nickel a scoop.  A quarter could get me three scoops and syrup.  I'll admit it was a spiritual risk, but I figured God would rather I was a pig than a hypocrite.  And despite the descriptions offered by the nuns, I figured He had to be a pretty nice guy, nice enough to understand my chocolate habit. 

            God and I had our first falling out the year I had to pick a Confirmation sponsor.  My mother made a list of relatives, half the size of the Hudson County phone book.  I was told to pick the lucky aunt quickly in case we had to fly her in from Italy.  I received presents from almost every female in my family, though I was ordered not to open them until I announced my decision.

            I asked the nuns why I needed a sponsor.  They told me I needed someone to force me to study religion when I left Saint Michael's.  I hated that idea.  I hated memorizing.  Confirmation seemed worst than Confession.  I kept wondering when God was going to invent an enjoyable sacrament.

            Every afternoon the sixth grade was divided into alphabetized groups and made to study with the public school kids.  The nuns were only allowed to hit St. Michael's students, so whenever a public school kid did something wrong, Jimmy Pribo got in trouble.  All the nuns were after Jimmy because he smiled during Mass. 

            It was hard to do everything right.  First we had to line up according to height in front of the Bingo sign by the high school.  The nuns were posted on both sides of the line to make sure no one stuck his head out to peek at the kids in the front.  After our procession into the church, we had to make sure we walked with the same foot as the person in front of us; our bodies had to sway left to right.  Sister Maureen watched from the balcony, taking names of the kids who swayed right to left.  Sister Helen waited by the alter rail to poke anyone who was looking down.  Sister Renee stayed in the middle of the church, watching our mouths for mistakes during our entrance hymn.  Several public school kids couldn't take the pressure and had their mothers request a private ceremony.

            After we practiced walking and singing without looking down, we had to memorize.  Every day they'd asked us the same questions.  Who made us?  Why did God make us?  We had to raise our hands whether or not we knew the answers.  The nuns put the dumb kids in between two smart kids in case the Bishop called on them.  They told the smart kids to whisper the answers so the Bishop wouldn't get annoyed.  They warned us the Bishop had to slap each of us on the face to confirm us.  Knowing the power of a nun's slap, we were convinced the Bishop could kill us with one hit.  No one dared make a mistake.

            After Confirmation practice I'd go home and answer the phone.  Every aunt in New Jersey would call to find out who I picked as my sponsor.  Some promised me clothes.  Some promised me jewelry.  Some promised me a place at the top of their blacklists if they weren't chosen.  The family blacklist is the worst of all possible Italian horrors.  My cousin Mary was put on my Grandmother's blacklist for not kissing her hello before kissing my Uncle Tony.  Whenever Mary goes to my grandmother's house, my grandmother stares at her from the sides of her eyes.  Then she serves Mary's manicotti last, which means Mary has to eat whatever fell out of everybody else's.  On Mary's birthday, my grandmother invites all the little cousins to blow out the candles on Mary's cake.

            I asked my mother who to pick.  She wouldn't tell me because she didn't want to be on any body's blacklist.  I asked my father and he told me  to pick somebody from his side of the family or I'd be on his blacklist.  I asked Maria and she told me to pick her or stop asking her questions.  The twins rolled their cars up and down my back as I sat on the floor trying to make up my mind.  I kept thinking about how much I hated Confirmation practice.  I didn't even like the tune of the entrance hymn.

            I decided my Aunt Nina would be the best possible choice.  She was the toughest aunt in the family.  I knew she would scare anyone who thought about putting me on her blacklist.  I knew she wouldn't force me to learn catechism.  I knew she had already bought me a new bowling ball.

            I announced my decision to have Nina as my sponsor at my grandmother's house.  Every other aunt in the room was staring at me from the sides of her eyes.  Aunt Nina stood up very slowly and straightened every ones eyes without saying a word.  I knew I was safe.  After dinner my aunts took their unopened presents and kissed me good-bye.  I didn't mind.  Most of the gifts were missals and rosary beads.  Aunt Nina had given me the greatest gift of all--protection.

            I was happy with my decision until my mother told me about the Italian custom to take the name of the sponsor as a middle name.  I wanted the name Theresa.  My mother told me if I didn't pick Nina as my name, I'd be on everybody's black list.  I cried when I imagined the Bishop saying Gina Nina Pioricci.  I knew everyone would laugh.

            "But Mom, Gina Nina sounds stupid."

            "You should have thought of that before you asked Nina to be your sponsor."

            "How was I supposed to know I had to take my sponsor's name?"

            "You should have picked your sister.  Gina Maria sounds much prettier than Gina Nina.  God punished you."

            God's name was at the top of my blacklist.  I was tired of being nice to Him.  I did what any girl my age would do in a fit of anger.  I grabbed the nearest box of cookies, a quart of milk, and sat on the cellar stairs.  Then, I told His mother.

            "Mother Mary, I'm not usually a tattle-tale but this time your Son has gone too far.  Who does God think He is, giving me a name like Gina Nina?  I don't think having a stupid name will make me a better Catholic.  God must think He's really funny, picking on a defenseless eleven year old.  You can tell Him for me, He's nothing but a big bully!"

            As I dunked my cookies and sobbed I tried to imagine why God was picking on me.  God and I always had a close relationship.  I said nice things about Him three times a day.  I asked His forgiveness even when I didn't do anything wrong.  I invited Him into the bathroom with me no matter what I was doing.  God thanked me for all my goodness by giving me a funny name!  He really hurt my feelings.

            "Mother Mary, I believed the nuns when they told me that God was in love with me.  He can't love me too much to use His sense of humor to get me into trouble.  I think He's turning into a practical joker like Theodore Rosennelli who pulls my chair away when I sit in the cafeteria.  I always end up falling and rolling underneath a table.  The nuns yell because my underwear shows and all the boys point.  God should be setting an example for boys like Theodore instead of wasting His time thinking up ways to make a fool out of me."

            "Hey, come set the table."

            "I'm praying!"

            "Pray while your setting the table."

            "Mother Mary, do you see what I go through?  I asked God to put me in a different family where everyone talks quietly.  I'm still with the Pioricci's.  I asked Him to make me pretty like Maria.  He gave me acne.  On the day I received my First Communion, He gave me the hiccups.  I think He's cruel.  I know he's probably old and ugly by now but that's no reason to pick on me.  My grandmother's old and ugly and she picks on everybody.  Why can't God be fair?  If He needs a laugh every now and then, let Him trip my cousin Carmen.  Carmen's not used to falling in the mud so he'd probably look funnier dirty than I do.  Besides, I get tired of cleaning bathtub rings.

            "Gina, if you don't set the table, we're not eating," Maria yelled.

            "I'm not hungry," I yelled back.

            "Hey, stop sulking, Gina.  I made Pasta Fagioli." my mother yelled.

            "I'm not sulking, I'm praying."

            "Gina Nina!  Gina Nina!"  Marco and Mario chimed in.

            "Virgin Mother, isn't it bad enough that I have to put up with Maria everyday?  What does God want anyway?  I never complained about having only one box of cereal for breakfast.  I tried to live with my hunger.  Each day I'd watch Donna Reed who made her family bacon, eggs, and toast to eat.  No one ever ate; they moved their food around with a fork while they talked about a problem.  During a commercial, I'd pretend to eat the leftovers.  I didn't mind not eating meat on Friday's.  I prayed for help so we could afford pizza like the rich Catholic families.  A month later, God sent third cousins to our house with a full bucket of fish.

            Your Son has no imagination.  He always gives fish away.  He always tries to please my family.  My mother was so happy to get the fish, she called up my uncles who came over with knives.  Maria and I sat in the kitchen holding our noses while everyone had fun cutting the fishes' heads off.  One by one, each uncle would grab a fish by its tail and get ready to rip it apart.  Maria told my Uncle Anthony I was afraid of dead fish.  He chased me all around the house, waving a fish and laughing.  Somehow I managed to get away from him long enough to lock myself in the bathroom.  Then I remembered where my mother had dumped the bucket.

            I tried not to look in the tub.  I knew dozens of dead fish would be looking back.  I could hear my uncle at the door waiting to get me with the headless fish.  First, I prayed.  I had hoped God would perform a minor miracle and break my uncle's leg so he wouldn't be able to catch me.  God ignored my desperate pleas.  I sat on the floor with my hand on my nose until I fainted.

            God bribed the rest of my family so they would like him.  He gave my sister the biggest chest in the family.  He gave Mario and Marco the biggest eyes.  He gave my father the biggest hands in the family.  I got the biggest appetite."

            "Hey!  Come on out!   Aunt Helena's here and she's been to the bakery."

            "So what?"

            "She's got eclairs."

            "Well, Virgin Mother, I'm in a hurry.  See what you can do.  I know you must have tried hard to raise God the right way.  I know my parents are not responsible for all the good things I do, so I'm not blaming you for all the bad things God does.  I'm sure you've had your share of misfortune, almost having your reputation ruined, having to be fat and pregnant when you didn't do anything dirty.  We've both been put through a lot by God.  I'm glad you're safe now.  Maybe you could find God a girlfriend to distract him from picking on me.  You might ask the dead comedians to joke around with God more often; make the dead people do their jobs.  I've got enough trouble without having to entertain God."