May 25, 2017

by Cynthia Gunnells

Guilt is a funny thing. It wears you down like water torture, dripping on your conscience over and over and over until you can’t take another second and give in.

I am quite the expert on guilt having been raised Catholic, and since my partner comes from a clan of pinky-ring-kissing, sign-of-the-cross-blessing Italians, we both grew up certain that our gayness was going to land us in hell forever.

When my daughter was born, I was resolute on the fact that she would not be Catholic. She would know all about evolution and science and goodness and light and love and acceptance. That is until my ailing Father-in-Law, who I adored, made it his dying wish to see her baptized. Once that guilt kicked in there was nothing I could do.

Traditional Guilt

Even though I am not a fan of organized religion, I can’t help but feel peace sitting in a silent cathedral inhaling the aroma of candlewax, watching the morning sun through beautiful stained glass and fantasizing about Sister Theresa from eighth grade religion class. My Catholicism is just as much a part of who I am as my gayness is. It’s all in there and makes me who I am. I’m ok with that.

My daughter is now eight-years-old and, like scores of second grade Catholic girls, made her First Holy Communion this spring dressed as Madonna Ciccone circa 1984. I’ll admit that I felt the weight of this amazing tradition as I looked at old photographs of the moms, aunts, great-aunts, grandmothers and great-grandmothers in our family who have done this before her. I hope I am giving her a gift, even if I don’t fully realize it yet.

I’m still ambivalent about organized religion and often have conversations with my daughter about evolution and science and goodness and light and love and acceptance just to balance the scales. But so far nothing but positivity has come from this experience. In fact, it’s rather cathartic.

And I refuse to feel guilty about that.