Let the Games Begin
Micro-aggression pot-shot for the widow-to-be
What is it with people these days? Some must sense my vulnerability and the smell of blood rivets them to enhanced rudeness. Here’s me calling it out.
I had cooked a large, elaborate Easter dinner a few months ago and invited the parents of millennials who circulate throughout the house these days.
It was a festive family feel around our large table and my husband, in his wheelchair, enjoyed it. It was a warm Sunday afternoon.
My daughter and I sat next to my husband and fed him in between our own bites, but no one minded. It is what it is. He can’t raise his arms.
We’ve been feeding him for many months now. He has ALS.
Whilst I was washing up the dishes afterwards, the guest who is a minister ambled over to the sink to chat. Seemed like a kind gesture, keeping the kitchen-wench company.
I did not mind the work as I love holiday gatherings at almost any cost, and I appreciated the conversation. At first.
“Are you trying to turn my son Catholic?” the minister asked me pointedly, with a subtle snarl.
I absorbed the remark as I do such statements, giving the benefit of the doubt at first, thinking surely he doesn’t mean that the way it sounds.
A few days later I realized, “of course he meant it.”
What an insensitive thing to load on someone who just fed you Easter dinner.
Did he miss the original story in minister-school?
Now when I’m back at the same sink washing the dishes, sometimes I remember the remark and question why I even invited the man.
It’s the same question historically directed at friends of LGBTQ people at some gatherings:
“Are you trying to turn my child gay?”
My friend Paula told me that. She also told me what the clever answer would have been:
“I don’t have magical powers! I can’t turn anyone into anything.”
If I could, you’d surely be a large toad by now, Mr. Minister.
Easter morning I had included his offspring millennial in my car on my way to mass. I did not hold a gun to the kid’s head. He had said he wanted to go to church. Catholic mass is where I was going.
See? Now I’m trying to explain.
I do chuckle to myself though when recalling the question, so as not to implode. If only the minister knew the dyed-in-the-wool Anglican roots of my ancestors and the history of my husband.
It was my mother who converted so as to annoy her Anglican parents. Back in the day. About 50 years ago.
It ended up being a religion that feeds my soul. None of my siblings adopted it. Not that it matters.
And at a time like this, caretaking my ill husband, when I cling to prayers, chaplets, novenas, rosaries and saints and vespers, let’s not start ripping on my spiritual sustenance.
And no, my Italian husband is not the devout Catholic in case that was the hare-brained assumption.
He’s agnostic, and back in the day, was a Pinko in the Old Country, where the Vatican happens to be.
Watch yourself. You never know when someone may vent on a blog, Mr. Minister.