Topic: Church

Church

1965 was a big year for the Catholic Church.  They started saying Mass in English and Vatican II, a group of church leaders aiming to modernize things, came to a conclusion.  And when I was a few months old my parents had me baptized at The Church of Annunciation in Cincinnati, Ohio.   I was an infant so I don’t remember it much, but they have the pictures to prove it.  I’m wearing a white gown, and mom is in a dressy skirt and blazer combo.  I was taught early on that church was a place of reverence and quiet.  You didn’t talk or chew gum or even bring in a cough drop.  You dipped your fingers in holy water and made the sign of the cross when you entered.  You knelt before you sat down in your pew.  And it was God’s house, I was told, so you’d better show some respect. 

In 1968 my younger brother Chris got baptized at the same church.  I don’t remember this baptism either, but my mom retold the story so many times I feel like maybe I recall a bit.  Mom says that as we bustled around the apartment getting ready for Chris’s big day I kept repeating these words to myself:

“No saying gok.  No saying gok.  No saying gok”

Mom didn’t ask me what I meant by this or why I was repeating this mantra.  Apparently, I continued in the backseat as dad, mom, Chris, and I drove to the church.

 “No saying gok.  No saying gok.  No saying gok.”

I was three, a precocious, outspoken inquisitive three year old in a fancy dress, black patent leather shoes, and little ribbons in my hair.  We entered church in silence.  I already knew the drill.  I did the sign of the cross and genuflected before we slid into a pew way up front.  We got a special place because it was Chris’s baptism.  Relatives had come to the big event, and they filed in the pew behind us.  I’m sure I was thinking about the party we were going to have back at the house.  On the menu were cake and punch, and probably some beer too, for the grownups. 

At some point in the Mass, which I’ve now learned is about an hour long, it was time for the Baptism.  When I was little I thought the Mass was surely 2-3 hours long every time.  The godparents went up with my mom and dad.   The godparents mom later told me had the task of ensuring the child would be raised Catholic if anything should happen to the parents.  I remember asking mom, “Like what?  Like what is going to happen to you guys?  Are you going to die?”  And then I started freaking out and mom had to talk me down. 

Chris had a white gown too of some kind.  I think mom made it, but it was more boyish-looking.  No lace or frills.  It kind of looked like a priests robe or something.  At the big moment when the priest was pouring water over my brother’s head and saying the magic words, “I baptize you, Christopher Parnell Telemachus Dunn” in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” I loudly interrupted.  I had to steal his moment.

“GOK! GOK! GOK!” I exclaimed, and then began laughing at my own joke. 

My parents shushed me, but they were too amused to be mad.  Mom asked me multiple times over the years what “Gok” meant, and I had to tell her I had no idea.  I still don’t.  I wasn’t punished.  At the end of the day Chris’s baptism still took despite my outburst.  And we all had cake.