Je mal a la coeur

Sitting last night watching CNN, a torrent of emotions hit me as I watched the pope's coverage from Rome. The essence of my reaction can be traced to a little school, Visitation Academy, and a little year, 1979. The pope took over that year, and my school was buzzing with energy over it. This year, and the pope's visage, fills me with memories.

That was my first year, having survived a harrowing experience in Adelphi Academy, just two blocks away. I was little, blond, shy, and scared. People towered over me. All the students attended first Friday mass in the chapel that was connected to the school (it was a converted convent.) There were pictures of John Paul in at least four offices. He was the first Polish Pope, and Sister Anne Marie and Sister Rita seemed overjoyed, since that was their nationality.

1979 was a strange year. I had to get used to this itchy navy blue uniform, keeping my stringy hair neat (lest I get yelled at in gym class), and conquering my fear of this school, with its incredibly strange girls and its incredible grounds. The willow tree was near a patch of lavendar-blue hydrangea. It would change from white to pink, to deep pink, to lavendar, to blue. It smelled wonderful in the spring. The tree had been planted sometime early in the century. I remember fondly sitting next to it and a spiral concrete stairway. It's a fragrance that will never leave me.

My yearbook that June was filled with an entire spread of photos of the pope. From his youth, to his seminary photo, to his full garb, replete with hat and staff. His life story was splashed across 4 pages. Quite odd for a yearbook, but the nuns insisted. I think that book ended up being discarded with the 6B move to 2E, which means it's in a landfill somewhere, but those photos are still seen to this day. I saw two of them last night. The first was when the pope was a boy, the next when he graduated from the seminary. He will always represent that year to me, framed in my tiny hands.

Back then, I lived in a tiny house in Bensonhurst. My cats were Butchy and Fluffy (yes, only two.) Dawn, Catherine, and Wendy hadn't moved in yet (they arrived at the end of April.) We were in the midst of the cold war, I had started rollerskating in the summers to offset my ice time in the winter, and I collected teddy bears, not Barbies. 1980 was the prospect of hope for NY state, since the winter Olympics were in Lake Placid the next February, and it would also begin a new decade. The 70's were over, disco was declining (although my Italian goombah neighbors didn't think so), and the only thing I worried about was how I could keep my ballet slippers from cracking at the toe, and maintaining my white ice skates. I also worried Butchy would swallow my marble collection and choke, so I stopped collecting them.

It did seem the pope was everywhere. Even my parents, who balked at some of Vatican II's changes, noticed how he seemed to be in the papers, on tv. I think Newsweek did a story on him, too. He did seem to reach out to people more than his predecessors. Until the day he was shot, he would drive by standing openly on top of that little car. Newsreels showed the attempt on his life repeatedly. Between that and Reagan in 1981, it was scary. He seemed approachable. So many of the clergy in my neighborhood and my school did not. They were tall, stoic, and cold. Not very welcoming for one as tiny as me.

I remember vividly when the pope passed through New York--or was it Colorado?--in 1987. I was going out with a guy named Chris, and his mother was annoying him by coming into his room every 15 minutes or so with a "pope" report. I thought it was hysterical. Chris rolled his eyes. It was really a big deal how much this man travelled. CNN stated it was something like 179 countries? WOW.

Yes, I disagree with the standings of women in the church, abortion, and gay marriage. Years of dance and skating upheld women and gay men in a way no other portion of society could, in my mind. Women were powerful, and most of the queens I knew, cashed in on this in a BIG way. Definitely not the church's teachings! But I respect John Paul, for reaching out. I have far too many memories of those dark, silent corridors in that little school with crosses staring down at me. Intimidation is not the word for it. It's more like terror. I still have dark dreams about the upper chapel. Yet, I think of the pope's smiling face, all the hands he shook, and the children he kissed, and I can't be angry. Yes, I walked away from Catholicism years ago, but that was my past. It's a part of me and my girlhood that can't be erased.

And now it's April. Easter has passed. John Paul will, too. Those hydrangeas will bloom in about a month.

I'll think of him when I see the colors change.