Four Guys at the Theater

“Let us wake to the goodness of the Lord”

 

Another Saturday night in New York City and another Saturday night in the theater district. Last time, it was four guys in a diner in Jersey. This time it was four guys going to see “Spring Awakening”.  Three our of the four that met in the diner in New Jersey were there again, and we added another who came all the way from Martha’s Vineyard to see us. The one from Jersey could not join us as he is on a day of recollection performing his exercise for a happy death.  It’s been damn near twenty years since I’ve seen these guys. What started twenty, sometimes thirty years ago for these four, or should I say us four was a journey that still has not reached its destination.

 

We were the junior seminarians, the aspirants for the Catholic priesthood, taken in at a young age in high school and molded to become shepherds to the lost sheep. The fact that at the age of 13 or 14 one cannot and should not be making decisions like this never dawned on us. We entered with high hopes and open hearts because we believed, and we saw what we liked, and admired the superiors [Cue Imperial March Music from the Star Wars movie]. We came to the school at different times and through different means. We come from different backgrounds, geographical areas, and ethnicity and as it turns out, different sexual orientations. Nobody at that age was defining themselves as gay or straight because after all, we were seminarians, and the whole idea was to make us asexual. Sex was for the other folks, the civilians, and only if they were married, which meant boy and girl, married by a priest. Period.

 

I wrote in a previous post here about the four guys in a diner, a gathering of the survivors of this lost institution. The common thread that seems to bind us together is the abuse, betrayal and complete mind-fucking we experienced at the hands of those who were supposed to be holy, those who were supposed to be showing us the path to righteousness. I know as a freshman, I was wide open and scared to death and looking for answers, even at the tender age of 14. I was not finding them at home, or in my parish. I still believed that the church had the answers to what was wrong with me.  I didn’t know I was sick; in this case, I had ADD and probably was already in the throes of Bipolar disorder. I figured nothing like a little structure and a lot of prayer would fix me. Make me a normal person. Stop all those racing thoughts in my head – story ideas, fantasies about movies I would make, girls I was in love with, a happy Hallmark family that had no problems and made the Waltons look like the Manson family. Reality in this mind of mine was a lot better than the real world that surrounded me.  As I entered the seminary, a community of men, it did not take me to long to realize how alone I was.  It did not matter that we slept together in the same dorm, had a rigid schedule that included work periods, classes, study hall, recreation, set dinner times, more chores, more study hall, lots of praying, I think I maybe had an hour a day, a half hour after lunch and half hour after dinner to be alone with my thoughts, where I could escape to the library and read. Magazines, books, anything. Just get me the fuck away from these people for an hour.

 

So last night once again we survivors of the seminary got together.  It’s not all doom and gloom. But we each have our own scars and stories which are frightening and sad, and while we can laugh about a lot of it, the fact is we have all been betrayed, abused, used, lied to and manipulated by men who are priests – people who preach honesty, tolerance, compassion, the real core of Jesus’ message which has been totally lost on this new generation of hard-ass Catholics who secretly long for the days of the Inquisition and are cheered on by a Prada-wearing pope who is turning back the clock to the dark ages. Yet they turn away from the sad legacy of physical, emotional, psychological, and sexual abuse that is turning out not to be an isolated bunch of cases, but a full blown epidemic in the church.  And yet holy mother church turns its head away, blind to the issue, and unrepentant to the damage that is done that still wreaks havoc in the psyche of its victims. Recovery from this type of abuse is possible, but it is long, and abuse from someone who is a spiritual leader, advisor, and confidant is particularly painful. You trust and then that trust is betrayed. You are told to be honest and address your issues and then you are cast aside for being controversial. You are measured for your cassock on the night before your investiture, and then told to leave the order, that you don’t cut the mustard.  You finally confront them about sexual abuse and told it was your fault.  

 

The four guys in the theater district last night have their scars, but their spirits are not broken, merely bruised. We got the last laugh and then some. After the theater, we retired to a piano bar. Two of the four are extremely talented in the music department. We kicked back and started to talk. The bartender loved us. We acted in ways unbefitting of seminarians which was cool by us. We could be ourselves, not what somebody, not what a superior wanted us to be.  We could be gay or straight, musician or writer, singer or teacher, unedited and honest. This is the second time in as many weeks that I have gotten together with these guys, this part of my past that many years ago I blocked out and did not want to engage in. I never told a soul when I was in college where I really went to high school. Attempts were made to get me to reunions but I avoided them like the plague.  I had my own path to walk down, and it was not always pretty. And sometimes it was fun as hell. Now that I am at a place of health, I am glad I am slowly reconnecting with these guys because they are truly the only ones who can understand the experience, the good and the bad, of being a high school seminarian, particularly where we went to. Much like the survivors of cancer can really only understand what it is like to get to the other side of the disease, or a recovering alcoholics relating their stories of their battle with the bottle, we the seminarians are the only ones that can relate, identify and empathize with the pain and confusion and utter despair at the betrayal we faced at the hands of the powers that be.

 

I’d be lying if I said that I am not angry that part of my childhood has been ripped away because of this experience.  But I have to be honest and say it was my choice.  It was a geographic for me.  My home life was chaotic, and I do not blame my parents here, I hated my hometown, I hated myself.  I figured throw a suit and blazon on, and I too can become a perfect person. One without confusion, or racing thoughts. One that could pay attention in class and not let his mind wander.  One that despite being 100 pounds soaking wet could do as much work and be as tough as the bigger guys. One that was not “lazy, a sneak, a slacker” one who would not run a “craphouse” when he was ordained a priest. It did not work out that way. I never became that perfect person. Nor do I want to. Perfect people bore me.  And I would be boring if I were perfect. I am glad I have this band of brothers back in my life again.  I’m the baby of the group.  I consider them my older brothers that I never had.  I looked up to them when I was in high school. I still do, although I also feel a little more equal now that the collars and class rankings have been removed. It’s been a gift having them around lately.  Stay tuned – we may just have a musical about the whole experience.  But right now we have this terrific bond of friendship and love. Today is gay pride day, and while it may be a day to celebrate pride in being gay, it is also a day to celebrate liberation and freedom in general. Last night was a pure example of that. The four guys at the theater, like the four guys in the diner, are happy, joyous and free, although they struggle. But we have each other.  That’s what I love.  So Jorge, Fred, and Dan, thanks for a great night and Hey, keep in touch, hey I said are you listening to me, hey, I want to keep in touch and hey stay in contact. Hey, that sounds like a great idea.