Topic: Church

Author: Chris Dunn

I don’t remember the kid’s name. He was only with our class for a year, and maybe not an entire year at that. At the time, he seemed slow and angry, the kind of boy I had learned it was safer to avoid, so his name didn’t stick, only his face – and barely that. He might have dropped fully from my memory to languish in the bin of forgotten classmates who’s faces now stare up at me tauntingly from grade-school yearbooks, except for one bizarre exchange we had during church. For the purpose of this story I’ll call him Steve, since there were never any Steves in my grade school years. Not that I remember anyway…

Seating in our church at St. Margaret Mary was very easily regimented. The kneelers were spaced so that each would comfortably support a pair of students. If you don’t know what a kneeler is, you’ve obviously never been to a catholic mass. Stand, sit, stand, kneel, sit, kneel stand, sit. There was a script to follow and corresponding blocking that we were all taught at a young age, and the kneeler was the cushioned, fold-down bench provided to keep us from cracking our knees against the hard stone. Now some kids found that it also provided a comfortable place to rest ones feet either during long periods of standing or as if kicking back on the world’s lamest recliner during the few seated periods. This was strictly forbidden by the nuns! And while I never held much truck with the actual mass, the one thing I could do was follow rules. There was a particular joy I found in adhering to regulations my peers chose to flaunt. It made me feel good in oh-so-superior, hall-monitory type of way. So, “No standing or resting your feet on the kneeler” – No problem.

I see now that I must have seemed like quite the little suck-up. My classmates had their sly moves down, loudly replacing the kneeler after use only to ease it silently to floor with an extended foot once seated. Looks of admonishment did nothing to dissuade their quest for comfort and rebellion, and once down, the kneeler was easy to hold in place with a firm foot. I needed a better strategy and it came it the form of a simple machine – the wedge. In this instance, the wedge was my foot, placed between the raised kneeler and the bottom of the pew. Once so inserted, no amount of casual effort could dislodge it. My classmates would glare at me, and I would smile back or ignore them, wrapped snuggly in my blanket of smug, self-righteousness. No one liked sitting next to me. This became the game. Could you get the kneeler back down, quickly and quietly before I could get my wedge in place? And of course the Catholic mass affords several rounds of game play for the players to first – learn there’s a game on – and then to develop their strategy to thwart me. Since I was paying very little attention to anything but the game I had created, few could challenge me.

Then Steve came. He arrived at church late that day. Either he was in trouble or came from outside the diocese. I’m nearly certain he wasn’t catholic. I don’t think he took communion, and he never sang. Mass was well underway when he dropped into the pew next to me sparing me one of his, “don’t mess with me glares” before leaning back with a look of annoyed disinterest. As the mass moved through its paces, and I sat back after the post-communion kneeling period, Steve tried to place the kneeler on the floor. Mass was almost over, it was time to truly kick back and give it the full blow-off, but I was there ahead of him, wedge in position. His casual effort thwarted, Steve glared at me, screaming daggers in the silence of the reflection. “Give it up!” his gaze demanded. “What’s your problem?” he wanted to know. But he knew the rules, knew he was technically in the wrong. He just hadn’t known he was playing my game.

If you know me, you know that I enjoy nothing so much as winning. His angry glares were like cheers from the crowd. I wasn’t about to back down. The Steve did something no other student had had the audacity to try. He bent down and gripped the kneeler in both hands and pulled, pulled with all his might, pulled until I feared he’d break every bone in my foot. This violated the decorum of the church and all the rules of the game. I would have gladly yielded the point to his out-of-the-box strategy, but there was one problem, my foot was stuck. There was no way to dislodge now, not with all the pressure he was applying. All I could do was stare in disbelief and pain. And he stared back, in rage! He seemed so mad, and suddenly I didn’t feel so smug. When he released the kneeler, I thought for sure it was free his hands to deck me. Punch me out, right there in the church. But instead, he snorted like an angry bull, jumped to his feet and left.

I sat there stunned. “You can do that?” Just leave church… I never would have thought to. As I eased my foot out and wiggled my toes to see they were all still present and functioning, I felt a weird regret. Sure I had won, but why? Steve was such an outsider and this faith meant nothing to him, why did I take such perverse pleasure in enforcing a rule I didn’t even agree with? In that moment he seemed very angry, but he also seemed lost. Kind of sad and alone. He left school soon after that. I’ve always wondered what demons he was fighting that day. I’ve always wanted to apologize for not realizing my brief victory wasn’t worth denying him a moment of respite from the fight.