Amen's Boy. William Maltese

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      I felt terrified and trapped. I hit my head over and over against the wall every time he yelled at me to do so, six or seven more times, and every time, he tormented me and slugged me harder over and over. My eyebrow was bleeding. I was unable to see, and I was crying. He spit on me again and yelled for me to get out of his sight. Stumbling like a drunken man, I walked and fell, and crawled and fell, and finally crossed the last field and got home.

      My mother took me in, locked the doors, put me in the bathroom and bathed me. I don’t remember anything for several days afterwards, but I knew my head hurt. The doctor made a house call, gave me an injection, and left some pills for me. Mother and Daddy nursed me for what seemed like a month. It was only a week, and Bubba waited for me to get well. He jeered at me when he could find me alone. He promised more of the same. I was in constant fear of him.

      Bubba preceded me at Assisi Elementary School, prejudicing the nuns against me. They expected I’d be trouble for them like he was. I lived in the shadow of his evil behavior.

      It became harder and harder for my parents to control and hide my brother’s violent behavior. One morning, Bubba was in from an all-night drinking and dancing party night. He was in the foldaway bed in the den, I don’t know why. The television and my toys were in there, and at eleven years old, I was foolishly impatient. I slipped into the den where he slept to play with my toys, and there Bubba was displaying his erect penis. I didn’t know he was so big. I’d never seen him like this. I didn’t know much about sex, and I was mesmerized. I stared from the corner by the door. Then my father came suddenly in, almost knocking me over. Unfortunately my brother thought he’d been seen by my father, and although my father didn’t see the exhibitionism, my brother jumped out of the bed.

      He screamed to my father, “Get that little faggot out of here! Get that little queer out of here or I’ll kill him.”

      I was surprised when my father stood up for me. He said, “Let him get his things. He’s not bothering you.” These words of my father ignited a furnace. My brother leapt across the room, squatting down on the floor. He put his eyes directly into my eyes and called me a “Faggot!” Then from his frog-like squatting position he rose rapidly, swirling his entire body weight upward, landing a mighty uppercut to my father’s face, knocking his glasses off, breaking them. Daddy’s nose began to bleed profusely. My daddy let out a whimpering cry, and then he fell to the floor moaning, “Oh Bubba! You broke my nose!”

      My brother jumped into his blue jeans and black high-top tennis shoes, pulled a black tee shirt over his muscular shoulders and chest, and took off in his Simca.

      The days of life at home were often occasions for my victimization. This contrasted with Father Terry’s interest in me. How I became a counselee of his was an odd turn of events. His music and hospitality surprised even me. What was supposed to be discipline and correction of my behavior by him, turned into a boon.

      Sister Ida had it in for me. She set me up to be seen for counseling by one of the parish priests at Assisi. She taught Bubba years before and expected the same trouble out of me she’d had from him. She referred me to Father Damian, a strict and harsh man, a Jesuit away from his own kind, doing parish work. But Father Damian was sick with the flu and I was referred to Father Terry instead. I was very afraid. I had a secret I was ashamed of.

      Sister Ida reported me for sexual misconduct during her religion class. It was not true. I had a problem at home, no doubt, addicted as I was to masturbation in the bathroom. I never did anything sexual in class; only my penis would stiffen suddenly without provocation, and would be stuck in some cramped bent angle in my jeans. It hurt like hell, so I would wait for her to face the black board, then tugged my crotch and zipper enough to make room for myself, to straighten it out, and stop the pain. She thought I was getting aroused on purpose and playing with it. I was new at this spontaneous erection business, and I thought it very cruel of her to report me to the priest. I didn’t know this was the charge she put against me, not at first, but in sessions with Father I soon learned Ida’s wrathful lies about me.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      PERSONAL SPIRITUAL DIRECTION

      My grooming as a special “priest boy” began about three years before I left for Mettray from Assisi. I was picked by Father Terry from out of the ranks of the seventh grade. Angry Sister Ida, who disliked me very much, remembering my unmanageable older brother, expected trouble from me. Suddenly one day without provocation she slapped me across my face as I stood in line silently. I was so humiliated and shocked that I just walked straight out of the classroom and out of the school’s front door. Sister Ida yelled my name, “Thaddeus, you come back here right now!” I walked directly home, ignoring her.

      As a result of this, she was admonished by the Right Reverend Monsignor Pastor Morreau, who happened to be a classmate friend of my dad’s. However, Sister Ida didn’t let go of the grudge she formed against me and soon she lied to the priest about me. She told him I was playing with myself inappropriately.

      I was called to Father Terry’s office. I’ll never forget the day, at 2:30 p.m. on a Thursday, October 2nd, while the other students had final period religion class, I was to speak to the priest about “self-abuse.”

      I confessed, and Father Terry was kind to me, forgiving me in the name of Jesus, and telling me that we’d be meeting every Thursday from then on at 2:15 p.m. This seemed good to me. What had been dreaded turned out to be pleasurable.

      His office was like a den, and it was air-conditioned in the sweltering summer heat, and he played music, and we drank cold milk or Cokes.

      I have to mitigate the desire to fill in all the details about this time in my life. Everything seems important and meaningful. I wasn’t only running from a torturous home life, but I was enthusiastically moving forward to Mettray and to the priesthood. It is difficult to say anything bad about my father, especially since he is gone, and I miss him. He was a critical and angry force in my life. I didn’t know he was in pain; perhaps when I recognized that, I viewed him more compassionately and changed my expectations, how I dealt with him, but that didn’t happen until years after I left home for Mettray and got professional help relating to him.

      He had to deal with my older brother. Bubba defeated him often in their war of wills. It was a psychologically unsophisticated time in the United States, and Bubba’s behavior was not, in that time in the 1950s, seen or heard as a plea or cry for help with his inner demons.

      The positive acceptance and comfortable and safe atmosphere of the rectory appealed to me instantly. I had no adjustment problems in becoming a regular visitor to Father Terry. I cannot say I had a hard choice to make to lean in the direction of my priest; I treasured his affectionate hugs and frequent intimate sessions counseling me. There was no comparison to what I endured daily as a child in my family home. I beg God to forgive me telling these true stories of my life, putting my own family in such a sorry light, but there is a greater reason than my reputation or my family’s reputation. This story must be told truthfully. The truth must out! The truth must be and will be told in detail, if reluctantly.

      Before I set this story down on paper, for moral reasons, I wrote letters to many of the people in this story, forgiving them any wrong they might have done to me. I wish to tell this story with a clear conscience; it is not told in a spirit of retaliation, revenge, or hatred. No, it is told because the meaning of my search for a true vocation, and my search for physical and emotional safety are themes much larger than me as an individual. My story, unfolding before you, has in it a meaning and substance that could ease some human suffering. If I had lived a life free of pain, and had I lived a life free of isolation and solitude, illness and despair, I would have no motivation to write this. I suffered because of ignorance. A book such as this could have СКАЧАТЬ