Fifty years ago, I was the kid faithful Catholics were wondering about because my parents weren’t married and my father took off before I was born. Family friends and realtives, Catholics all, had a good number of conversations about the morality of my “situation,” how sad it was that I was likely to turn out “just like my mother,” if it was sinful to let their kids play with me, would they be sinning if I went to their house, if I should be allowed to attend Catholic school, etc. Many of these talks occured right in front of me, as if my out-of-wedlock birth made me somehow immune to harsh words.
My first grade teacher, a sister, stood me in front of our class and told my classsmates that I was a “bastard.” She then went on to explain what that word meant. She told them they would be sinning if they played with me at reces. This was a small town, everybody knew everybody. She told them my father’s name, which is how I learned it, and told them that my mother had always been “loose.” All this to six-year-olds. Yeah.
So, from where I’m sitting I’d much rather see kids and their parents accepted. Just accepted. No pity. No condemnation. No judgement, which seems to be a favorite activity of people who think they live in Moral HIghgroundsville. Just accepted.
Babysit for 'em.
