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Friday, Aug 16, 2002
Father Schoppe
August 16, 2002
We spent time at three different Catholic parishes when I was a child. My favorite was St. Francis. The architecture of the church had a post-modern feel. It was light, airy, open. Instead of a large, ominous crucifix hanging over the altar, they had a cheery mosaic of the ascension. It's the type of church John XXIII had in mind when he started a reformation movement in 1962 -- a movement that died with him in 1963.
Mom is the kind that always goes to church, even if she is out of town. We spent a lot of weekends in a small town on the coast called Palacios. The town was about half white and about half Hispanic. Whites called brown-skinned people Mexicans, or Meskins. I was amazed but not surprised to see crackers acting like they was there first or something.
The membership of the parish was predominately hispanic, and the pastor was an old-fashioned priest from eastern Europe. Father Joe had a pre-John-XXIII mind set, but was willing to follow orders. He lamented the loss of the Latin rite, but didn't have kind words for Latin-rite splitters.
My most vivid image of Father Joe is his delivery of a fire-and-brimstone sermon. Catholics usually are too reserved for that sort of thing, but Father Joe let loose one fine spring morning. The first couple of rows were occupied by freshly scrubbed children, awaiting their first communion. On one side, the little boys had fresh haircuts and were dressed in neatly pressed slacks with white shirts and ties. On the other side were the little girls dressed in elaborate, frilly, white party dresses.
Father Joe noticed all the cafeteria Catholics in the church that morning, and tossed aside his sermon notes. Many of the fathers rarely went to church, but left that as something for the mother and children to do. But they would show up for the biggies -- Palm Sunday, the blessing of the fleet, Easter, Christmas ... and first communion. This didn't sit well with Father Joe.
Father Joe spoke loudly enough to reach the guilty-looking fathers in the back, and let them know that their God is a jealous God. The kids up front looked terrified as this lean, stern, fervent man laid down God's Law in no uncertain terms.
The third parish was St. Thomas More. The interior of the church was definitely old school. While St. Francis was light and airy, St. Thomas was dark and closed in. The crucifix over the altar was a wooden sculpture intended to convey the fullness of Christ's agony. It was sculpture informed by Gray's Anatomy. Christ didn't get influenza to save you from your sin. He was beaten, stabbed, nailed to a tree and left to die for your piteous soul.
I despised the place, and the pastor, Father Charles Schoppe. But it was closer to our house. So we switched. Mom wanted to save our souls by sending us to Catholic school, and we could get to St. Thomas by bicycle. Might have had something to do with integration and bussing, but that wasn't discussed.
Father Joe of Palacios was old-fashioned and had a stern side, but he was a warm man underneath it all. Father Schoppe was the sort of man that sucked the life out of a room. He disliked children, his sermons failed to connect, much less illuminate, he was disliked by his own nephews, and he drove a fucking Buick convertible. How's that vow of poverty going there, Padre?
Schoppe and I had a few run-ins. In our seventh grade biology class, we covered human sexuality. The teacher informed us that Father Schoppe would be dropping in to give us his views on marriage and sex. The idea of this cold, cruel man imparting his views on sexuality was deeply disturbing to me.
I was the one (or was it Randy?) who blurted out "After Father Schoppe explains marriage and sex, then Stevie Wonder will give a lecture on French painting." The whole class had a long, hearty laugh. Oh, it was a moment of bonding. The joke got back to Schoppe, and the lecture never happened since we weren't "mature" enough as a class.
After it was communicated that Schoppe did not like the nickname "Padre", he was given a new one by my eighth grade class: "Hijo". (I'm pretty sure Randy came up with that.) To our consternation, this nickname pleased Schoppe greatly, as he took it as proof that the children were finally warming up to him. It especially creeped me out to hear the little kids calling him Hijo. I was the one who spoiled the love-fest by telling Schoppe, during a rare visit to our classroom ...
ME:And that was the end of that nickname.
[Concerned.] I don't know, but I think "Hijo" is a disrespectful nickname.
ASSHOLE:
[Beaming] Whatever for? I think it's nice.
ME:
I hate to say this, but I think it's short for something unkind.
ASSHOLE:
[Still beaming.] I can't imaging what?
ME:
I don't know how to say this, but I heard it was short for "hijo de pendejo". I'm not sure what that means, but I don't think it's very nice.
CLASS:
Muffled snickering.
[ANGRY ASSHOLE: Smile fades to frown. Scans class with icy glare. Exits stage left.]
During my recent stop in Houston, I got an update on old Hijo.
Bishop Deals with New AllegationsSometimes we get strong vibes about people, at least I do. Although Schoppe never violated me, I had a strong negative vibe from the beginning. I don't know how these things work. An article in the August 5th New Yorker talks about reading faces, both unconsciously and conciously. Perhaps it was Schoppe's face that gave it away. Perhaps he couldn't completely conceal the void in his soul.
Diocese Moves Forward in Implementing New Charter
Allegations of sexual molestation have been made against Monsignor Charles Schoppe. Schoppe has been retired since 1992 because of confirmed prior offenses of sexual indecency with a child.
In accordance with the Charter for the Protection of Children and Youth adopted by the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops on June 14, Bishop Fiorenza has informed Schoppe that he will no longer be allowed to wear clerical attire. The case will also be sent to the Diocesan Review Board. The diocese will cooperate fully with any investigation regarding the new allegations.
Tuesday, Aug 13, 2002
Letter from New Orleans
August 13, 2002
I was in Houston last week for a technical conference, and stayed with the parental units. The old man was reasonably well behaved. His latest medical crisis seems to have been enough to get him to cut down to 2-3 glasses of wine with dinner rather than his previous stupifying pace.
Nonetheless, he still seems a bit bitter for someone who has as much as he does. While driving down a narrow part of Westheimer through the Montrose district, he was annoyed by a city bus. Having experience driving large vehicles, I thought the bus driver was doing just fine. My dad spat out "Goddamn bus. Niggers driving niggers." Oh pity the poor white man in his S-class Benz, oppressed by the employees and customers of public transit.
So perhaps you can see why I chose to spend my weekend elsewhere. I had a reservation at Rue Rocheblave in New Orleans, and was happy to make my escape.
I did my best to be a bad influence, and drug Jim out on the town on Saturday night. We culled the numerous choices down to two acts: the Breeders and a local act called the Irene Sage Band. As with cuisine, it's often best to go local.
Although Irene was not as overt as the images in this OffBeat article, her performance still has strong sexual overtones. Watching Irene's girlfriends on the dance floor was almost as much fun as watching the band. Jim and I didn't catch any of their names, but we were postulating -- Lurlene, Marlene, Maureen, Ilene ...
While I was dancing in front of the bandstand to a rendition of Muddy Waters' "Got my Mojo Workin", Maureen kept bumping into me. Don't you hate when that happens? First couple of times, I thought it might have been an accident, but after she leaned back into me a dozen times, it seemed more like it was on purpose. Later Maureen and Lurlene danced together, with Maureen resting her hands on Lurlene's hips a number of times. Just what in tarnation is going on down there in the Crescent City? Is it the tropical climate, or what?
Despite all the commotion on the dance floor the high point of the evening was a cover of an Etta James song. Irene has a voice that just won't quit. Bonnie Raitt ain't got nothin on her.