And now, I said, let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened:–Behold! human beings living in an underground den, which has a mouth open towards the light and reaching all along the den; here they have been from their childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move, and can only see before them, being prevented by the chains from turning round their heads. — from Republic, Plato
* * *
In retrospect, my childhood was both unusual and perfectly ordinary. Unusual in the sense that in many ways, I was ignorant of many cultural attitudes that most children in the United States in this day and age seemingly take for granted. Ordinary for the speed in which I became assimilated into American society. Having emigrated to the States in 1974, within five years’ time, I could have been mistaken for an ABC — “American Born Chinese”. Yet, I lived a relatively sheltered existence. It’s as if my mother, faced with the ways and wiles of the world tried to protect me in her own fashion from being corrupted. Well, you know what they say….even if you try your damndest to prevent something from occurring, don’t be surprised when the results of your endeavors become undone in the process.
My family was raised in the Catholic tradition. Lent, Easter, Pentecost, Advent, Christmas. You went to Mass on Sunday, you observed rituals each week and at certain times of the year. Oh sure, my grandmother was (and is) a strange hybrid of Buddhist and Catholic but things more or less fell into a predictable pattern, day in and year out. Looking back, I often marvel at my experiences because it’s as if I were another person.
I’d say that in my years in Bayonne, that was when I first started to question why it was that I was supposed to believe in something that, for me, seemed to have less and less meaning. I noticed things around me that didn’t seem to fit. Why for instance, being in a parochial Catholic school – though we were supposed to be perfectly behaved angels – the kids seemed jarringly at odds with expectations. A math teacher in sixth grade who had the foulest manner and coarsest mouth I’d ever encountered at that time, yet became professional whenever a nun happened to walk by her classroom. Going to church on Sunday — faith in God notwithstanding — became a tedious exercise in boredom. It wasn’t just that I chafed at having to spend an hour in a place that I didn’t want to be. It was that I was mouthing words and parroting actions that I didn’t really put much stock in. I was well on my way to becoming the godless heathen that I am today.
I graduated from eighth grade in 1984. That year was particularly hellish because of a drive by my mother to get me into a Catholic high school in Jersey City whose name escapes me now. Math was never my strong point, so I spent numerous afternoons and weekends doing makework and perusing study guides, all in an attempt to ace the SRAs that were given in November of the previous year. I managed to get accepted but you can imagine my relief when I learned that we’d be moving from Bayonne to the wilderness of suburbia. I’d no longer have to endure attending Catholic school; instead, I was about to be introduced to adolescence, American style, as only public high schools can.
(to be continued)
