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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Biography / Autobiography
- Published: 11/23/2012
WHAT YOU WISH FOR
M, from Baltimore, Maryland, United States.jpg)
WHAT YOU WISH FOR
"A godsend!" extolled one parent.
"Answer to our prayers!" proclaimed another.
"All we could wish for!" gushed a dad in relief.
"Thank you Jesus!" shouted a charismatic mother.
They were all enthralled when the new priest, Fr. Madmanna,
assigned to our parish in 1964, announced his mission
to reach out across the yawning generation gap
and counsel their sons transitioning from adolescence
through pubescence and into their early teens.
Who better to head off their impressionable boys
from the budding temptations of underage drinking,
premarital sex, drug abuse, juvenile delinquency,
and all forms of disrespect for church and parental authority.
Other than an illicit puff on a cigarette
not much of any of that evil was happening at that stage in my life.
But for the adults who grew up watching Spencer Tracy
playing saintly Father Flannigan "There's no such thing as a bad boy"
founder of Boys Town, and Bing Crosby acting in the role of the
chaste and compassionate priest in "The Bells of St. Marys,"
there was nothing more wholesome, no relationship they
could trust more than a priest with their kids.
Keep in mind, in those days I knew more about Pluto, I'm talking the planet, than pedophilia which was an unmentionable unimaginable.
Well anyway to look cool, fit in, and impress his subjects that is us,
Madmanna tooled around in a used Corvette convertible.
he also pumped iron so he could come across real manly tough.
He was a talented manipulator with first the parents and then the kids
many of whom readily agreed to participate in his private sessions.
In that year after my brother's death and
my continued endurance of high school bullying
I was initially receptive and emotionally vulnerable to his entreaties,
but something didn't seem right and I decided to decline
his offer of a tete a tete, a decline that proved easier said than done.
After every Catholic youth league basketball game,
he would saunter into the locker room
and watch us as we changed into our street clothes.
His stalking was meticulously polite,
but if you didn't give in, intimidating and persistent.
Awkwardly I'd make lame excuses
when he'd corner me and offer a ride home in his cool car.
One night I relented to the pressure as long as another boy
agreed to get in with me and when we shared the shotgun seat
I made sure he sat between me and Madmanna.
That night as we drove, the padre skillfully questioned and critiqued my stubborn demurrals.
He cleverly parried my evasive half baked replies
with "Ah ha! So what makes you think you are better than the other boys?"
I didn't know what to say, but the way he focused his attention on me
made me surmise that my fellow rider had already submitted.
I was confused even guilt ridden over not falling in line.
Because I never let him be alone with me...all I had were my suspicions.
Even if I dared spill what I knew...I didn't know what to tell my parents
who in those ways would have figured it was a ruse on my part
to get out of going to religion class.
My god my parents were so duped they invited him many times to our house for dinner.
When I knew he was coming, I'd vanish until the meal was served.
My lonely resistance was mentally exhausting.
The last time he was our guest for supper was a Sunday.
After we cleaned off the table, Mom started washing dishes and dad retreated upstairs.
My younger siblings and I headed down to the family room.
I sat on the rocker nearest the TV and my brothers and sisters sat behind me on the sofa.
I turned on the Ed Sullivan Show who that night was hosting The Rolling Stones.
We watched in such a trance that none of us noticed the priest padding across the room.
Before I could react he reached for my lap, tugged open my pajama fly
and whispered "what have you got in there?"
And then he quickly retreated and sat on the hearth.
My brothers and sisters could only see my back and were too mesmerized by the tube
to notice what had just happened.
A week or two later he was caught fondling a boy.
To protect the church from negative publicity
he was flown out of town that very night to Arizona.
The victims did not speak up or seek justice or lots of money
until a generation later when the newspapers and networks
started probing into the unknown epidemic of priestly molestations across the country.
The tabloid exposures unleashed a mad rush and "me too"
scramble for after so much time
a lawsuit and maybe a settlement
was all they could wish for.
by L DOUGLAS ST OURS
May 2010
WHAT YOU WISH FOR(L DOUGLAS ST OURS)
WHAT YOU WISH FOR
"A godsend!" extolled one parent.
"Answer to our prayers!" proclaimed another.
"All we could wish for!" gushed a dad in relief.
"Thank you Jesus!" shouted a charismatic mother.
They were all enthralled when the new priest, Fr. Madmanna,
assigned to our parish in 1964, announced his mission
to reach out across the yawning generation gap
and counsel their sons transitioning from adolescence
through pubescence and into their early teens.
Who better to head off their impressionable boys
from the budding temptations of underage drinking,
premarital sex, drug abuse, juvenile delinquency,
and all forms of disrespect for church and parental authority.
Other than an illicit puff on a cigarette
not much of any of that evil was happening at that stage in my life.
But for the adults who grew up watching Spencer Tracy
playing saintly Father Flannigan "There's no such thing as a bad boy"
founder of Boys Town, and Bing Crosby acting in the role of the
chaste and compassionate priest in "The Bells of St. Marys,"
there was nothing more wholesome, no relationship they
could trust more than a priest with their kids.
Keep in mind, in those days I knew more about Pluto, I'm talking the planet, than pedophilia which was an unmentionable unimaginable.
Well anyway to look cool, fit in, and impress his subjects that is us,
Madmanna tooled around in a used Corvette convertible.
he also pumped iron so he could come across real manly tough.
He was a talented manipulator with first the parents and then the kids
many of whom readily agreed to participate in his private sessions.
In that year after my brother's death and
my continued endurance of high school bullying
I was initially receptive and emotionally vulnerable to his entreaties,
but something didn't seem right and I decided to decline
his offer of a tete a tete, a decline that proved easier said than done.
After every Catholic youth league basketball game,
he would saunter into the locker room
and watch us as we changed into our street clothes.
His stalking was meticulously polite,
but if you didn't give in, intimidating and persistent.
Awkwardly I'd make lame excuses
when he'd corner me and offer a ride home in his cool car.
One night I relented to the pressure as long as another boy
agreed to get in with me and when we shared the shotgun seat
I made sure he sat between me and Madmanna.
That night as we drove, the padre skillfully questioned and critiqued my stubborn demurrals.
He cleverly parried my evasive half baked replies
with "Ah ha! So what makes you think you are better than the other boys?"
I didn't know what to say, but the way he focused his attention on me
made me surmise that my fellow rider had already submitted.
I was confused even guilt ridden over not falling in line.
Because I never let him be alone with me...all I had were my suspicions.
Even if I dared spill what I knew...I didn't know what to tell my parents
who in those ways would have figured it was a ruse on my part
to get out of going to religion class.
My god my parents were so duped they invited him many times to our house for dinner.
When I knew he was coming, I'd vanish until the meal was served.
My lonely resistance was mentally exhausting.
The last time he was our guest for supper was a Sunday.
After we cleaned off the table, Mom started washing dishes and dad retreated upstairs.
My younger siblings and I headed down to the family room.
I sat on the rocker nearest the TV and my brothers and sisters sat behind me on the sofa.
I turned on the Ed Sullivan Show who that night was hosting The Rolling Stones.
We watched in such a trance that none of us noticed the priest padding across the room.
Before I could react he reached for my lap, tugged open my pajama fly
and whispered "what have you got in there?"
And then he quickly retreated and sat on the hearth.
My brothers and sisters could only see my back and were too mesmerized by the tube
to notice what had just happened.
A week or two later he was caught fondling a boy.
To protect the church from negative publicity
he was flown out of town that very night to Arizona.
The victims did not speak up or seek justice or lots of money
until a generation later when the newspapers and networks
started probing into the unknown epidemic of priestly molestations across the country.
The tabloid exposures unleashed a mad rush and "me too"
scramble for after so much time
a lawsuit and maybe a settlement
was all they could wish for.
by L DOUGLAS ST OURS
May 2010
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