Bubbles of confusion and disbelief spilled from my mouth, as my heart clamored in my chest, threatening to burst. The angel faces blared through the stained glass windows that surrounded me from above, glaring down in disapproval. I wanted to hide under a rock as the students around me began to giggle. The nun’s stinging words echoed in my ears, “You’re going to hell.” I wanted to cry. Within the span of an hour, I had gone from being a submissive, porcelain doll to a creature destined to go to hell.
In the Catholic faith, it was my “obligation” to go through the sacrament known as Confirmation. My mother enrolled me in all of the classes, but I had my doubts. On Sundays after a too-long mass in church I walked across the road to Sunday School where I listened to the nuns, whose faces looked like they could use another de-wrinkle cycle in the dryer, talk about what I should believe in. Without paying much attention to what the nuns were saying, I nodded my head when told. After a few weeks, I realized that the scary-looking nuns began to push their beliefs onto mine. I thought I was strong enough to sit and ignore the parts that I disagreed with. One day, though, I couldn’t nod my head in rhythm with everyone else.
One evening, I challenged the nun’s knowledge with what I thought was a decent question, and I immediately become different from every other student in the room. After I spoke, I slumped down in my chair from the embarrassment of being in the heated spotlight. Instead of answering me, one nun stomped over to my side, disgust etched into her face, and she repeatedly spat at me, “You are going to hell for that!” I swallowed hard as I stuttered out a defense. How could I be sent into the farthest pits of hell for something I believed? I tried to use science and reason to support my beliefs, but the nun shook her head at me, having heard enough of my pathetic excuses. My classmates didn’t want to be cursed as well, so they agreed with the nun, their faces like masks of puppets that wouldn’t stop grinning at my “mistake.” That night I begged my mother to let me drop this painful, religious obligation. My mother, however, said nothing. My words never heard. Looking upward I let the salty drops of anguish roll down my cheek, pleading for an answer, to be told the direction I should take. No answer ever came.
This battle hasn’t, unfortunately, ended yet. My mother never let me drop the class, and I hid in the Confession Booth while everyone else took their vow. Every day I have to remind myself to hold on to what I believe, despite the students who ask me to touch a Bible, thinking I’ll burst into flames. My mother still forces me with her scowl to say long prayers every meal she attends with me. I don’t think I can be rid of this until I am finally on my own, where I can finally say I am my own person. I may have said no to being Confirmed as a Catholic, but the battle has yet to come to a standstill.
In the Catholic faith, it was my “obligation” to go through the sacrament known as Confirmation. My mother enrolled me in all of the classes, but I had my doubts. On Sundays after a too-long mass in church I walked across the road to Sunday School where I listened to the nuns, whose faces looked like they could use another de-wrinkle cycle in the dryer, talk about what I should believe in. Without paying much attention to what the nuns were saying, I nodded my head when told. After a few weeks, I realized that the scary-looking nuns began to push their beliefs onto mine. I thought I was strong enough to sit and ignore the parts that I disagreed with. One day, though, I couldn’t nod my head in rhythm with everyone else.
One evening, I challenged the nun’s knowledge with what I thought was a decent question, and I immediately become different from every other student in the room. After I spoke, I slumped down in my chair from the embarrassment of being in the heated spotlight. Instead of answering me, one nun stomped over to my side, disgust etched into her face, and she repeatedly spat at me, “You are going to hell for that!” I swallowed hard as I stuttered out a defense. How could I be sent into the farthest pits of hell for something I believed? I tried to use science and reason to support my beliefs, but the nun shook her head at me, having heard enough of my pathetic excuses. My classmates didn’t want to be cursed as well, so they agreed with the nun, their faces like masks of puppets that wouldn’t stop grinning at my “mistake.” That night I begged my mother to let me drop this painful, religious obligation. My mother, however, said nothing. My words never heard. Looking upward I let the salty drops of anguish roll down my cheek, pleading for an answer, to be told the direction I should take. No answer ever came.
This battle hasn’t, unfortunately, ended yet. My mother never let me drop the class, and I hid in the Confession Booth while everyone else took their vow. Every day I have to remind myself to hold on to what I believe, despite the students who ask me to touch a Bible, thinking I’ll burst into flames. My mother still forces me with her scowl to say long prayers every meal she attends with me. I don’t think I can be rid of this until I am finally on my own, where I can finally say I am my own person. I may have said no to being Confirmed as a Catholic, but the battle has yet to come to a standstill.
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