I Was Suspended For Calling Someone a Butthole, and I Pissed My Pants

Catholic School Strikes Again

Catholic school = shame, fear, control, indoctrination.

My parents were trying to give me a good education and a moral compass, but shame and fear were not the way. And those are the things Catholic schools specialize in.

I was a “bad” kid because I fought the system and because I didn’t care about what some repressed old man in a fancy robe said.

I remember thinking that priests must have been pals with God. I would picture them sitting around a card table laughing about all the things we told them in the creepy little confessional booth. Cardinals, Bishops, and so on, were even more god-like in my imagination. Except that God is an abstract concept. Adults don’t know what it is, so how can you expect a child?

This past Christmas we were at my in-law's house and my mother-in-law said something to the kids about singing happy birthday.

They asked, “Why would we sing happy birthday?”

She answered, “Because it’s Jesus’s birthday.”

“Who’s Jesus?”

She had no idea how to answer that. She fumbled around trying to find a succinct way to describe an entire religious system to a six-year-old, but there isn’t one.

My wife and I admit it was funny. My mother-in-law is mortified that we didn’t have the kids baptized, but they’re our kids, not hers.

To be fair, outside of indoctrination, I never had any idea how to talk to my kids about religion or Catholicism because I don’t believe in it. It’s not that I’m not spiritual, but I have no desire to participate in any organized religion. I won’t stop my kids from doing so someday if they want, but I want them to make their own decisions.

Faith may be a tool they need someday, and I don’t begrudge anyone and their decisions with organized religion and how they teach their kids, but it’s not right for me and mine.

Besides, I don’t need them to be suspended for calling someone a butthole. That’s my job.

In 3rd or 4th grade, I was a loose cannon. I lied, I schemed, I finagled. I was always trying to get away with something. I forged my mom’s signature, smuggled contraband candy into school, and changed my report card on more than one occasion. I see now that I was doing more work to get out of things than I would have done had I just done them.

But that’s silly. Why would I simply get in line and do what everyone else wants me to do?

I had gotten into an argument with someone and was sent to the principal’s office. I remember storming around the classroom, pushing desks out of my way, making a wonderful scene. The principal and I were on good terms. (I hope you’re well, Mr. Mahoney.)

On my way out the door, I said to the girl, “You’re a BUTTHOLE!”

The next thing I knew, I was being suspended from class. I was already going to be in trouble, but apparently calling a little schoolgirl the name of a sodomistic orifice was too much. This was an in-school suspension, but it still meant solitary confinement and my parents would get a call. That also meant I’d probably get my ass beaten at home, but it was too late to worry about that.

I spent 3 days in a small room doing schoolwork by myself, so maybe it wasn’t all bad. Around the same time, I figured I might as well start using other offensive terminology since I was already going to hell.

My earliest school memory was one that should have been sweet, but it still makes me queasy.

I grew up a musician, and my family loved shuffling me out in front of some kind of audience to perform. Sometimes I was okay with it, other times the anxiety of performance was too much. I spent a large amount of time scheming and planning ways to get out of lessons or performing.

One such performance was when my dad and grandfather played for a school event of some kind, and had me sing one of my grandfather’s favorite songs.

It was called Why Me.

Written by Kris Kristofferson in the early 1970s, it is a depressing, brooding song that didn’t make me feel gratitude, it made me feel guilty. Elvis Presley recorded arguably the best performance of it.

My grandfather LOVED it. It was perfect for a Catholic school.

Why me Lord, What have I ever done To deserve even one Of the pleasures I’ve known

Tell me Lord, What did I ever do That was worth loving you Or the kindness you’ve shown

Lord help me Jesus, I’ve wasted it So help me Jesus, I know what I am Now that I know that I’ve needed you So Help me Jesus, my soul’s in Your hands

We performed this in front of the school.

It still grosses me out. The song and its message were too heavy for kids, but the nuns and the school staff loved it to pieces. To each their own, but damn that song makes me miserable.

No wonder Catholics all spend years in therapy processing all their trauma.

I have many memories from my time at the school that I’ve had to deal with. Some are funnier than others.

Mass three times a week wasn’t enough, we also had to study this stuff in class. In religion class one day, my teacher, Mrs. Brecht, was in the middle of a diatribe of some kind when I needed to use the bathroom.

I raised my hand like a good little minion, waited for her, told her I needed to go, and she said no. A few minutes later I went through the charade again, and she said no.

A few minutes after that, on my third try, she again said no, but I was in pain. Not knowing how the anatomy works, I decided I needed to ease the pressure on the ol’ bladder. I figured if I let a little bit out, I could make it until after class.

I was wrong.

Once I started peeing, I could not stop. It ran down my leg and all over the floor. They had to call my mom to pick me up and get the janitor to clean it up. There was a lot of shame involved, but no one would listen when I told them what I needed.

God first, everything else later. Or so they say.

Looking back on my past through the lens of recovery has brought a lot to light. As I write and reflect, I process and heal.