Read Madonna and Me for Free Online Page B
Authors: Laura Barcella Jessica Valenti
the living room watching Madonna videos—I guess they considered this normal for kids my age—but the rest of my behavior baffled them. They didn’t dare disturb my bedroom prayers; they just nodded awkwardly and closed the door. Then I’d dart from bed, shoot across the room, and throw the door back open; I was terrified to be alone with my prayers.
My pious insanity emerged in fourth grade, when my religion teacher went on a stint of showing us videos of Virgin Mary apparitions. Our Lady of Fátima appearing to three shepherd children; Our Lady of Guadalupe appearing before Saint Juan Diego in the early morning; Our Lady of Lourdes showing herself to fourteen-year-old Saint Bernadette Soubirous.
Saint Bernadette threw me over the edge. I still remember the video: A French shepherd girl, going about her business in the fields, saw the Blessed Virgin near a rock. She was glowing, holding rosary beads, and talking. Bernadette was never the same after that. She was forced to convince everyone of her sighting, urge priests to build a chapel, endure even more sightings. It completely freaked me out. She was so ordinary, such a nobody, so much like me. What would stop the Holy Mother from interrupting my suburban New Jersey afternoon, my anonymous little-girl life, to assign me the burden of convincing the world that she really existed?
My nightly rosary ritual began shortly thereafter. I’d follow it with an installment of Bible reading before going to sleep. My goal was to eventually finish the whole thing, cover to cover, in hopes of figuring it all out. I’d read and read until I could understand God, feel close enough to look him in the eye without trembling. On some days, I was prepping for Mary’s arrival: Maybe if I knew enough about her and the heaven she came from, I wouldn’t mind seeing her. Perhaps I could
even ask her a few things I couldn’t find answers to in the Bible. Like whether she’d had sex with Joseph after Jesus was born, or if she was doomed to be a virgin forever. And how was she able to ascend to heaven, body and soul, without her body dying or eventually rotting? I’d ask if dead people could read my thoughts—if my grandmother could hear everything I was thinking. And if so, was she mad at me?
Other times I prayed, hoping that if I did it hard enough, God would leave me alone. I didn’t want to be among his holy chosen few; I wanted to be normal. Plain. Invisible. But the more I prayed, the more scared I became of possibly seeing Mary. So I took it further. Maybe if I show God how dedicated I am in my actions . . . I vowed to never have sex until I was married and, if I could help it, not even kiss a boy until I was at the altar. The Ten Commandments ruled my every action. Even white lies were forbidden, and I obsessed over not even thinking the Lord’s name in vain—let alone saying it. If I did, I had to say a Hail Mary and Our Father on the spot. I allowed myself to say the prayers silently, but I had to do an actual sign of the cross when I was done, so God could see me. This meant sneaking behind the bleachers at gym for a quick Father-Son-Holy-Spirit. I’d dart to the bathroom at lunch or duck my head in the coat closet during class if a quick prayer was necessary. It was okay for God to see me, but if I could help it, I’d spare myself the peer humiliation.
I did have a few false alarms. I swore I saw the Blessed Virgin’s silhouette in our hallway light fixture for a whole week. This was a real problem, since I insisted on sleeping with my door open and the hall light on. After four nights of not sleeping, I knocked on my parents’ door at 3:00 AM in tears.
“Mom, I can’t sleep,” I said when she appeared, barefooted and night-gowned.
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“Well, um, come here. Sit on my bed.” She actually followed my instructions, confused and hazy, but ready for my confession. “Now look up at the light. What do you see?” I asked.
“Huh? Nothing.
My pious insanity emerged in fourth grade, when my religion teacher went on a stint of showing us videos of Virgin Mary apparitions. Our Lady of Fátima appearing to three shepherd children; Our Lady of Guadalupe appearing before Saint Juan Diego in the early morning; Our Lady of Lourdes showing herself to fourteen-year-old Saint Bernadette Soubirous.
Saint Bernadette threw me over the edge. I still remember the video: A French shepherd girl, going about her business in the fields, saw the Blessed Virgin near a rock. She was glowing, holding rosary beads, and talking. Bernadette was never the same after that. She was forced to convince everyone of her sighting, urge priests to build a chapel, endure even more sightings. It completely freaked me out. She was so ordinary, such a nobody, so much like me. What would stop the Holy Mother from interrupting my suburban New Jersey afternoon, my anonymous little-girl life, to assign me the burden of convincing the world that she really existed?
My nightly rosary ritual began shortly thereafter. I’d follow it with an installment of Bible reading before going to sleep. My goal was to eventually finish the whole thing, cover to cover, in hopes of figuring it all out. I’d read and read until I could understand God, feel close enough to look him in the eye without trembling. On some days, I was prepping for Mary’s arrival: Maybe if I knew enough about her and the heaven she came from, I wouldn’t mind seeing her. Perhaps I could
even ask her a few things I couldn’t find answers to in the Bible. Like whether she’d had sex with Joseph after Jesus was born, or if she was doomed to be a virgin forever. And how was she able to ascend to heaven, body and soul, without her body dying or eventually rotting? I’d ask if dead people could read my thoughts—if my grandmother could hear everything I was thinking. And if so, was she mad at me?
Other times I prayed, hoping that if I did it hard enough, God would leave me alone. I didn’t want to be among his holy chosen few; I wanted to be normal. Plain. Invisible. But the more I prayed, the more scared I became of possibly seeing Mary. So I took it further. Maybe if I show God how dedicated I am in my actions . . . I vowed to never have sex until I was married and, if I could help it, not even kiss a boy until I was at the altar. The Ten Commandments ruled my every action. Even white lies were forbidden, and I obsessed over not even thinking the Lord’s name in vain—let alone saying it. If I did, I had to say a Hail Mary and Our Father on the spot. I allowed myself to say the prayers silently, but I had to do an actual sign of the cross when I was done, so God could see me. This meant sneaking behind the bleachers at gym for a quick Father-Son-Holy-Spirit. I’d dart to the bathroom at lunch or duck my head in the coat closet during class if a quick prayer was necessary. It was okay for God to see me, but if I could help it, I’d spare myself the peer humiliation.
I did have a few false alarms. I swore I saw the Blessed Virgin’s silhouette in our hallway light fixture for a whole week. This was a real problem, since I insisted on sleeping with my door open and the hall light on. After four nights of not sleeping, I knocked on my parents’ door at 3:00 AM in tears.
“Mom, I can’t sleep,” I said when she appeared, barefooted and night-gowned.
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“Well, um, come here. Sit on my bed.” She actually followed my instructions, confused and hazy, but ready for my confession. “Now look up at the light. What do you see?” I asked.
“Huh? Nothing.