Swimming in the Catholic Pool

When I went into the military during the Vietnam War, I found out that for most of the country, if someone asked you what school you went to, they meant what college. In San Francisco, it meant what high school.

That was especially true for those of us who went to Catholic schools. There were three all-boys schools and thirteen all girl schools, each with a slightly different demographic. Some catered to the wealthier kids (SI for the boys, and of the girls' schools, the most elite was tiny Convent of the Sacred Heart). The other boys' schools tended to be less endowed, with Sacred Heart being the premier working-class choice.

Catholic in San Francisco in the '60's was a different world. On one hand, at school, we were taught to be conservative and biblical in our sexuality. But outside of school, we were in a whirlpool of progressive liberalism and taught to be accepting of everyone, regardless of their sexual bent or, according to our schools, perversions. At the same time, we were the first generation to have access to really effective birth control. To say we were fucked up by teenage hormones and religious education would be an understatement.

Something had to give, and for most of us, it was religion.

The nice thing is, as mentioned above, there were numerous Catholic girls' schools in the city, (and there were, down the Peninsula, Mercy Burlingame and Notre Dame down in Belmont), so an enterprising young man could have several relationships without fear of one tripping over the other, if he was careful.

Socializing with and meeting girls was easy, with open dances at the boys' schools and CYO teen club dances at most of the parishes in the city. There were also activities that would require students of the opposite sex at the unisex schools. My favorite were the plays that were put on by most schools. In addition to being in the drama club at my school and meeting girls there, I would audition, and usually get a role, in the plays put on by various girls' schools. Rehearsals would provide plenty of time to put my moves on any girl who attracted my fancy, and I would often take them for a hot chocolate or coffee following rehearsal.

For a healthy young man, the Catholic girl pool was like the Amazon for a piranha. But there were killer whales in that pool, with the traditional black and white coloring: Nuns.

Nuns always puzzled me. Seemingly healthy women who give up the pleasures in life for a life of deprivations and instead, for the ones I knew, having to teach a bunch of brats all day long. Yes, I know, it's a calling, a vocation, but just shoot me now. It would be hell on earth. At least for priests, they have access to alcohol to drown their natural desires.

[*]

In 1969, Steve had gotten a role in "The Glass Menagerie" at St. Agnes of the Seven Wonderful Agonies. (Not the real school's name. I'd rather avoid any backlash from those who might remember me). Anyway, Steve was the Gentleman Caller, and the beautiful Barbara Litton was Laura. And the current girl of his dreams.

They were two weeks into rehearsals, and Steve was already a regular visitor to second base with Barbara, when it all went to crap, thanks to the director, Sister Mary Desdemona. (Actually, it was Sister Mary Desmond, but since Desdemona means misery, it just seems more fitting a name for a nun).

On that fateful day, Steve arrived early for rehearsal and found Sister Desdemona lecturing the girls on marriage and sexuality.( Another thing I always found strange in the Catholic world was that these presumptive virgins, priest and nuns, put themselves forward as experts in love and marriage. That's like a dried-up old raisin claiming to be an expert at wine making).

When Steve arrived, she was lecturing on the sanctity of marriage and the permanence of martial vows. She seemed to focus on Barbara, whose parents had recently divorced. Barbara was sitting at her desk, with her head down, her hair veiling around her face. But Steve could see a wet spot on her hands, where her tears were falling.

It was probably good that he went to Catholic schools, because it prepared him for some of the cruelty he would see later in the military. It was the nuns, mainly, that had him prepared for the evil of the POW camps. The Vietnamese captors could have taken lessons from Catholic nuns, especially dear Sister Desdemona.

Without thinking it through, Steve interrupted. "Excuse me, sister. But if a marriage turns out to be a mistake and the couple is miserable, shouldn't they be allowed to separate and look for happiness? Isn't that what the good Lord would want?"

She was obviously irritated by his interjecting himself into her lecture. "No, young man. The vows are sacred, and unbreakable."

"But," he suggested, "the Church can grant an annulment."

"No, not without a compelling reason." She turned and picked up a book off her desk and flipped through it. "Ah, here. 'The only acceptable reasons are fraud, mental incapacity, failure to consummate the marriage, or the concealment of vital information from either party before the wedding took place. Other than this, an annulment may also be sought when one of the parties is not following the teachings of the Catholic Church.'

"If the couple's child is at this high school, it's obvious that most of those are not options, and knowing the couple in question, I don't believe the others are as well." Desdemona concluded.

"Well, if they've abandoned their wedding vows, isn't that not following the teaching of the Church? And grounds for annulment?" Steve offered.

"Don't be impertinent!" It was a retort he often got from nuns.

He mumbled a little too loudly, "Well, then, mental incapacity. They did send their daughter here." Some of the girls laughed at that then looked guiltily solemn, to avoid the nun's wrath.

Sister Desdemona drew herself up and glared at Steve. "Mr. Swansen, I think you should go home. You will not be needed here today."

He stood there, surprised despite knowing that any argument with a nun was viewed as somehow sacrilegious. He felt better, though, when Barbara pulled back her hair and turned her tearstained face to him and mouthed, "Thank you."

When Steve got to the door, he stopped and called back to Sister Desdemona. "Sister, why is it that for most religions, it's 'Cleanliness is next to Godliness', but for Catholics it has to be, 'Misery is next to Godliness.'"

She was sputtering at me as he left.

The next day at school, Steve was summoned to the principal's office. "Mr. Swansen, I received a call from the principal at St. Agnes." The priest looked at him like he would a pile of dog-doo. "First, your part in their play has been recast. Your services are no longer required. Secondly, you are banned from their campus, permanently. If you are found on the premises, it will affect your welcome here, which is already tenuous. Understood?"

When he admitted to understanding, the principal concluded, "Learn proper respect for the religious, Swansen, or find another school. Now, get back to class."

That night, when Steve tried to call Barbara, her mother answered the phone and at first refused to let him speak to her daughter. Sister Desdemona had given her version of events to Mrs. Litton, and Steve was persona non grata. But he could hear Barbara begging her mother to at least let her say goodbye, and her mother finally relented.

"Goodbye?" he asked.

"My mother is taking us back to Wilmington, Delaware, to live with my grandparents." Barbara's voice broke a little. "The only good news is I won't be returning to St. Agnes, ever. Sister Misery, that's what the girls started calling her behind her back after you left," she chuckled at that, "now she will have to recast the Gentleman Caller and Laura, a week before the performance. My mother was pissed when I told her about Sister Desdemona's little tirade. She's not really angry with you, but with the Sister." She paused. "I won't ever forget what you did, Steve. It means a lot."

They promised to write, and did for the first month or so, but life goes on, and as was mentioned earlier, thirteen all girls' schools on the Peninsula. Busy, busy.

Steve found out later that it seemed not all vows were sacrosanct. Sister Desdemona and Sister Mary Fachnan (another great nun name, an Irish one meaning Malicious) left the order together a few years later. They stayed in San Francisco, with plaid shirts and baggy blue jeans replacing their former habits.

[*]

Steve didn't graduate from his Catholic high school. He never did learn the 'proper' respect for the clergy and spent his last semester at Balboa, one of the public high schools. It damaged his chances for college, and he soon found himself in the rice paddies of Southeast Asian. Steve thought he was miserable until he was captured and sent to Son Tay Prison Camp, and learned what misery really is. Later he got a reservation at Hoa Lo Prison, in Hanoi, better known as the Hanoi Hilton.

One thing he learned to appreciate about Sister Desdemona: at least most of her torments were mental.

Steve wouldn't revisit those years, not here or anywhere. He gets to relive them enough in his dreams. Let's just say he still hadn't learned proper respect and had the scars to prove it.

[*]

When Steve returned to the States in April of '73, he was half the man he was when he had left. At least in his weight. He was a shoo-in to play a role in any movie about WWII concentration camps. His body ached and he was missing several teeth. But he was home. God, he was home.

[*]

With the GI Bill, a new focus on life, and not a little sympathy for being a returning POW, Steve entered college at Santa Clara University, a Jesuit college down in the southern end of the Peninsula. Yes, he knew, another Catholic school, and he had long ago given up being a Catholic. But he just kept his head down and concentrated on his studies and made it out with a degree in engineering.

He didn't have much social life in college. It was kind of beaten out of him in the camps. He joined a fraternity, Theta Tau, but didn't attend any social events that weren't required. His wasted body hadn't recovered, and he wasn't plagued with any sexual desire. What the nuns, priests, and brothers had failed to teach him, the North Vietnamese had. He tended to keep his mouth shut now.

[*]

Steve wanted to stay in California, but Ransom Engineering hired him out of college and their engineering program started all the new engineers in their Maryland offices. So, he was off to the East Coast.

He'd been back Stateside for five years when he arrived in Baltimore, and he was finally approaching his old, pre-Vietnam, weight. He had little to do at night, other than work out, go for runs, or watch TV. He liked WKRP and Taxi, but the stupidity of Mork and Mindy, Facts of Life and Different Strokes, depressed him, which encouraged him to work out more. So, although he had filled out more, he was still thinner, but stronger, than he had been before Son Tay.

After three months, he'd learned his way around the job and the town. He was starting to settle in, although he was a little leery about the upcoming winter. People at work would tell him not to worry that Maryland had fairly mild weather, but these people were mostly from New York and New England. Their idea of mild weather would kill most of the Californians that Steve knew.

And he hated the cold. Steve especially hate it now, when a chill made his knitted bones ache. So, determined to be bundled up when it got cold, he set out for the clothing stores downtown.

He found an understanding salesman at Hutzler's, a department store that a co-worker had recommended. Steve was sure that the salesman was on commission, because he was very helpful, equipping Steve with more clothes than he was ever going to wear in the future. Two pairs of gloves, for different temperature ranges, three coats, also for different thermal conditions and various social occasions, and the first pair of long johns he'd ever owned outside the pair he had gotten in basic training but never used. Sweaters, thick wool socks, and a recommendation for shoes and boots were all forthcoming. Steve had money, since he really had nothing (read that as no one) to spend money on, so he let the salesman pile it all on.

When Steve got up to the counter, the salesman had piled everything there and handed him over to the cashier, wishing him well before heading off looking for more commissions. The young lady behind the register was focused on the clothing, finding the price tags and ringing up the charges. It wasn't until Steve handed her his new Bankamericard Credit Card that she looked up at him.

"Steve? Steve Swansen? Is that you?" The woman was looking at him intently. He swallowed hard and looked around, wondering what was going on. "Steve," she continued, "It's me, Barbara Griffin... Well, Barbara Litton, from St. Agnes."

Steve stared at her for a moment before recognizing her. Her hair was no longer long, but was now pixyish, like Sandy Duncan's in those old United California Bank commercials. Her face was more mature and her eyes, her eyes had a stressful look that she hadn't had before. But now, he recognized her.

"Barbara? Barbara!" Steve exclaimed. She came around the counter and they hugged. "It's been what, 7, 8 years?"

"Almost 9, I think." He was surprised when she wiped some tears from her eyes as she moved back around the counter to complete his transaction.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked.

She smiled and shook her head. "I'm fine. It's just so good to see you. I'd heard you had gone to Vietnam, but hadn't didn't hear anything after that. I was worried, for so long."

"I'm fine." He assured her. "I was in 'Nam a little longer than planned, and lost touch with a lot of my old friends." Luckily, she didn't follow up on that. He didn't like talking about his time there, not even before the camps. Before she could question him, though he continued, "Hey, this is a lot more than I can carry. The salesman said that I could arrange to have it all delivered."

"Well, yes. We can do that." She handed back the credit card, and he filled out the delivery form with his name and address.

"Gee, I'd like to catch up. Could I maybe take you to dinner, sometime?" It was good to see a friendly face and Steve didn't want to miss the opportunity to refresh their acquaintance.

She frowned and looked down for a moment. "My husband wouldn't like that. He believes the family should eat together, every night."

"Oh, you're married?" He was disappointed, but at least they could be friends. "Well, I'd be happy to take you and your family to dinner. I'd like to meet your husband. Do you have kids?"

The look she gave him spoke of heavy sadness. "No, no children. But I don't think dinner would be a good idea." She looked up suddenly and gave a shy smile. "But we might be able to do lunch. I get an hour in about 20 minutes, if you want to catch up?"

Steve was happy to wait and when she came out of the store, she led him to a diner down the street. "They've got great fish and chips. I remember you used to like that."

He was surprised and flattered that she would remember that. He'd only taken her to dinner once, almost a decade ago. Steve had been planning to have a burger, but how could he not now order the fish?

Her mother had died two years before, and she hadn't heard from her father in years. She'd gotten married 3 years before, mostly at her mother's urging. She was suffering from ovarian cancer at the time and wasting away. They'd moved to Baltimore for treatment at John Hopkins. Nothing helped.

Her mother spent hours at the local church, getting herself right with Jesus, she had explained to her daughter. Paul Griffin was a deacon at the church, one who was willing to dedicate hours to pray with Mrs. Litton.

Deacons had been part of the early church, that had disappeared over the centuries. Pope Paul VI brought them back in June of 1967 with his Sacrum Diaconatus Ordinem, reestablishing the permanent diaconate. It was still a new and unfamiliar position for most of the Latin Church ten years later. In his experience with them in the military and the few he'd interacted with at his parents' parish, most of the people who rushed into the diaconate were want-to-be priests who were puffed up by their positions as deacons. He found them more insufferable and sanctimonious than real priests, almost on par with the nuns for smug self-righteousness.

However, Mrs. Litton was worried about leaving her daughter without a family, and although Paul was ten years Barbara's senior, her mother pushed her girl into a relationship with the deacon. Barbara, watching her mother dying slowly, acquiesced to her mother's desire to see her settled in marriage.

Paul was a stiff, formal man who took pride in his deaconate and was firm in his belief in Catholic dogma. Barbara was to find his lovemaking cold and perfunctory, necessary solely for procreation. But when a year went by and, although they engaged in sex at least twice each week, she failed to become pregnant, Paul insisted that they see a doctor. It had to be a problem with her plumbing, he insisted.

When it turned out that the mobility of his sperm was substandard, Paul stated that it was God's determination that they shouldn't have children. Thereafter, he saw little reason to continue their sexual congress.

Barbara desperately wanted children. She'd hoped to give her mother a grandchild, but her mother had died, denied that pleasure. Now married to a cold and increasing distant man, she long for a child to hold and to love. She consulted the doctor and learned that even with her husband's low mobility, pregnancy was possible with IVF. It wasn't inexpensive, but she had an inheritance from her mother which would more than cover the cost.

Excited, she presented what she'd learned to Paul. They could have children, as many as they wanted, through the wonders of science.

Paul shut her down with brutal swiftness. The Catholic Church opposed in vitro fertilization (IVF) because their belief that human life should only be created through the natural act of conjugal intercourse between spouses. In other words, Paul stated, they would not contravene God's will with sacrilegious science.

Something in her desire to have a child triggered jealousy in her husband. With her mother's death, Paul began controlling Barbara's free time. Dinner at home with Paul was required. She couldn't work evenings or weekends, as those were family times. When Paul was required to be at Saints Philip and James, evenings or weekends, Barbara had to accompany him. There were things she could do for the church and our Lord with the free time the Lord allowed her.

Work became her sanctuary, the one place she could escape her marriage for any length of time. Lunch hours were her only free time and she guarded that time jealously, refusing to eat with co-workers. It costs her possible friendships, but that was her time to just be herself.

But she was willing to share it with Steve Swansen. In fact, she felt more herself in their brief exchange at her register than she had for the last five years. Now, sitting with him in the diner, even knowing how angry her husband would be with her if he found out, she felt wonderful, almost as good as she had before her mother's illness.

The hour flew by, way too fast. Steve had told her about getting tossed out of Catholic school and finishing at Balboa, and about being drafted. When he jumped to talking about college, she assumed he meant after his two years of military service, but when Steve spoke of graduating recently and his new position with Ransom Engineering, she couldn't make the timeline work. But before she could raise a question, she realized her hour lunch had already passed, and she was now late for work.