The Faith-Void Split
Our early punk canon eviscerated the church in black and white—and rightfully so. But for those of us who grew up in the church, revisiting our personal experience with nuance is a challenge.
I.
My earliest memory of going to school was in 1979. I was in kindergarten, at a small parochial school in Queens, nearing the end of another school day. My mother usually came to pick me up ten minutes earlier than the other students so that we could drive to my older brother’s school and make it in time for his classes to let out. On this day, though, my teacher pulled me aside to say she’d be escorting me to my mother. I packed my things and followed her.
As we approached the door, the faint sound of screaming grew louder. I heard two voices: one person screaming in English, the other in Spanish. As soon as we stepped outside, I recognized the Spanish voice as my mother’s. I stared out into the parking lot while my kindergarten teacher held me. I could feel that she was scared. The English-screaming woman was clearly in distress. She yelled only one thing: “I wish I were dead!”
My mom began praying over her …