First Feelings of Belonging - and Not Belonging - Surface
In which Teófilo sighs and keeps going on remembering things and people he loved and loves still.
The year 1979 was a transformational year for me. That year I had an encounter withe The Holy One. For something or someone to be made holy or sanctified means to be "set apart." When we say that God is holy we're saying that He is apart. He doesn't belong to the mundane. We speak of Him by analogies, yet always understanding He is wholly other. God is different in an infinite, radical manner from the things we compare Him with.
One's pursuit of holiness is the pursuit of God, and escape from what is not Him. This pursuit often separate us from others for who God isn't a priority. This separation is always painful, more so when God's pull separate us from one’s own family. In their view one has become a santurrón - a sanctimonious ass.
Despite my encounter with The Holy I was still a teenager, always willing to socialize and find a niche. I still pursued a worldly normality. What that meant is that I didn't hide my spiritual joy but strove not to alienate my peers. That's when I discovered the line between good and evil running right through my heart. Dostoevsky will loan me the words for this discovery much later. I began playing a game of Augustinian brinkmanship, as if I prayed:
Lord, make me holy, but not quite yet, at least not all at once.
The Baptism in the Holy Spirit, then, had not healed my fractures and brokenness all at once. He was just beginning a years-long, still ongoing process of reshaping and rebuilding me.
I started attending the Young Adult Prayer Meeting at Efraín and Helmi's place near my home, as well as other prayer meetings. I would play my guitar with them and also at the Charismatic Healing Mass once a month. The members of the music ministry gave me a benign pass, but never formal membership for I was too much of musical beginner.
Neither did anyone else saw me as potential leader or contributor in the youth ministry. In their retreats the leaders always treated me as a retreatant, never as a fellow coworker in the Lord’s vineyard. I remembered having shared with Efraín my feelings of not being part of the group. He listened to me and asked me questions I’m sure. I’m also sure I failed to describe my misgivings for fear of causing offense.
I began feeling out of place, not wholly in nor out of the group. My love for the Lord and the light from the recent experience still warmed me, but I felt odd. Nevertheless, I continued praying and praising the Lord with them.
In fact, despite my misgivings, I drew a lot of fruit from the Young Adult Prayer Meeting. I’m proud to report that from our ranks came out one priest, one deacon, and one vowed sister in religion. Later, and also from their ranks, a Catholic lay theologian would also burst forth. That's me, but my road would turn out to be convoluted.
Embarrassing Hospitalization
My hospital stay that summer illustrates another instance of my not-belonging. Fresh from 8th grade graduation - and after making an ass of myself during the graduation prom - I fell ill. I woke up one morning with intense abdominal pain and very high fever. I was by myself at the house and when Papi came to check on me, he gave me a couple of Tylenols. Or maybe it was the neighbors who gave it to me, I can't recall well.
I felt better after taking the Tylenols, but not for long. After a couple of hours I began to feel even worse. Mom found me on bed when she came in from work and I only had strength to tell her "I am not too good." She summoned a taxi right away and we set off to my pediatrist. No, they didn’t have adolescent medicine back then. Me being a pediatric patient led to further embarrassments. The doctor thought I had appendicitis but was dubious. He ordered me into the hospital right away.
They placed me into the pediatric ward at the new Damas Hospital. I felt like the 14-year-old held back in kindergarten, the only pubescent patient in the ward. Every morning the nurses would tour the ward and greet the kids. I tried to make myself unavailable during their little tours. I found all of it quite humiliating. It was also my first experience with poking, IVs, and X-rays and blood tests.
I shared the room with a younger boy who suffered from epilepsy. I was having a bad day on the second day of my stay and made a mocking remark about the frequency of his seizures. I regret it to this day. I wasn't an exemplary patient.
On the third day of my stay I discovered I had chickenpox. I may have gotten the chickenpox from my little brother, who had it some weeks prior. The chickenpox covered him head-to-toe and he wasn't too worse for the wear. I only developed 13 spots, and their onset were the cause of my hospital stay. The doctors wasted no time in sending me home.
Not long after the fact Mom got into one of her periodic, all-house cleaning binges. I decided to help because I wanted to show I was well. I wasn't, but I didn't show it out of self-pride. Thank God I didn't collapse from the effort. It would have been another humiliation plastered on top of the others.
Disco Music Dies
That summer was also the summer that disco music died. It happened on July 12, 1979 during a double-header ball game in Chicago. Disco-haters blew up with real explosives scores of disco records on the outfield. A crater proved their success, and the Chicago Cubs had to forfeit their second game to Detroit. They called the event The Disco Demolition Night.
I knew nothing about this event, but its effect was immediate and noticeable. My favorite radio stations, Radio Heavy 95 and Cosmos 94 wasted little time to change their programming. Disco music disappeared from the radio dial almost overnight.
Yes, I noticed but I am amazed at how little I cared. Bands like Boston, Kansas, America, and Queen were coming forward. I liked the new sound. In Spanish, I began liking ballads and romantic music: Camilo Sesto, José José, Jose Luís Rodríguez, Guillermo Dávila, Angela Carrasco, and so many others.
But I still kept my disco records...
Orthodontics!
The best thing that happened to me in 1979 was that Mom grew concerned about my appearance. She rearranged her budgets, and prevailed upon my father to help pay for my orthodontics. More injections and extractions followed. I became indifferent to most kinds of pain in the process.
Pain started when the orthodontist glued the plates on my teeth through which the wiring would pass. I remember I headed back to la Academia where I began practicing free throws on the basketball hoop. Someone, I don't remember who, decided to throw a ball straight to my face. Each front-facing plate dug itself into my inner lips. I bled, but laughed it all. No one would get to see me cry.
Mom had done the right thing, though. I was on the way to have my external self-image repaired.
New friends
The pursuit of holiness also and always pushes one to others who are likely-minded. In these new meetings one also finds joy and a new capacity to open up the other. New friendships were born. Two come right to mind.
Orlando Rivera is the one human being I've ever met who was born with a vocation to the priesthood. He was somewhat older than me, but I loved his idiosyncratic take on holiness and mysticism. He often wore denim overalls. He belonged to Santa Teresita's parish, the same parish staffed by the Capuchins which was also the home of Fr. Russo. I would often walk to visit Orlando at his home on Victoria Street, a long and hot walk that I never seemed to mind. I didn't share much of my soul with Orlando. I limited myself to observe and learn from him. His "aura" was nice. I liked being around him.
The other person who had a deep effect upon me, my faith development, and my ability to love will remain unnamed. But her contribution was inestimable. I'll call her "Z." Our story will occupy my next essay.