Taking A Whore’s Bath And Other Memories of Going To Church.

Our Lady of Guadalupe Church in Antonito, Colorado. Established in 1863, but burned down in 1926. The woodwork at the alter was built by my Grandfather.

Eight children lined up in a pew row, or wait, maybe it was only 7, because one of my brothers was the altar boy that Sunday. To those watching us as we took our seats, they would never of guessed the chaos it took for us to get there on time. There we were with our beautiful mother sitting beside us, her hands gently laid upon her lap, clasping her rosary, her pink pearl nail polish shining under a yellow hue of stained glass. Her angelic face exuded the same divine beauty you see in any catholic Sunday school textbooks. You know the ones— lovely illustrations of wholesome blonde mothers and their good little children, running in flowered dresses near a stream, with the virgin Mary watching from above. My mother was (as still is) angelic looking and her character has always matched all that is good in the world.

A few days before mass, Father Norman had called her in a panic. The church had run out of communion and none was coming anytime soon to our small community. What to do? Create your own parable of loaves and fishes? Yes, of course. Which is why he called the miracle maker herself, my Madre. At just 14 years old she worked in a bakery, and we watched as the wafers were baked, hundreds of quarter sized communions, covering every flat surface in our kitchen. I still remember those round cookies…which tasted nothing like cookies. A great disappointment to those of us who weren’t old enough to go through our first confirmation yet. And Father Norman? He was ecstatic. He was relieved. For once he didn’t have to save someone, because she saved him. Go figure.

As the calm widowed mother of eight children sat there looking so elegant and serene, all of us were still probably dizzy from the pandemonium that took place at our house just 20 minutes ago. Departure time for Sunday mass was upon us, but my little sister came in from playing in the mud puddles from the previous night’s rain. My mother winced at the sight. “Brigid!” she yelled for our oldest sister. “Take her into the bathroom and give her a whore’s bath!”. Yes, you read that right. A whore’s bath. Given that her father served in WWII as a sailor, looking back, I guess it was a term that didn’t faze her to use on us little ones. As a result, we always called quick baths a whore’s bath.

Ten minutes to departure— we knew it was time for inspection. As always, the hair was always the last to be considered. And every single time, our hair would need to be brushed. She would yell, “Everyone to the bathroom, now!” We braced ourselves for the wet-hairbrush-ran-under-a-stream-of-cold-water-treatment. Clasping our little hands to the bathroom sink for impact, our unruly hair was gathered as tight as the brush would allow. Our delicate skulls were pulled high, as our long brown hair was gathered in an abrupt up do. My own smooth little forehead suddenly became shinier while cold drops of water ran down my cheeks, my neck, and then slid down my back for a final run. As a 9-year old, my eyebrows were fashionably “on fleek”. A Vogue magazine model had nothing on my profile. Once done, she’d yelled, “OK, everyone get into the damn car!” And this time she brought the hairbrush…but not for brushing up ponytails. It was her weapon of choice for any spankings that would be needed.

Sitting in the church was somewhat of a relief from the chaos in getting there, but as soon it was time for the Penitential Rite, instead of using the time to reflect on our sins, our sibling humor would raise its ugly head.

In unison, the church all spoke the words, “I confess to you Almighty God, and you my brothers and sisters…” but the words “brothers and sisters” would inspire us to covertly point at each other as the words, “brothers and sisters” came out in ecclesiastical unison. I distinctly remember my sister gesturing from left to right, mouthing in sync with the congregation, “…and you my brothers and sisters…”, her little fingers pointing at us while smiling. We all fought laughter as it spilled up through our lungs and fought its way to our vocal cords. Unchurch like behavior made our poor mother wince as she recited her prayers with eyes closed. Or perhaps it was really only one eye closed. She was always 2-steps ahead of us.

But, then there was the “Glory” or “Gloria” word. That’s my mother’s name and it would bring us to life when songs or prayers affiliated to the name came forth. Singing “Glory in the highest” we would subtly reach for our mother, throwing us into yet another fit of laughter and ungodly like behavior. Soon, we would be laughing silently until our sides hurt. We would get “the look”, and sometimes discreetly get shown the hairbrush. We tried our darndest to maintain some sense of mature sobriety, but our antics made it so hard.

One time I remember looking back at the pews behind us and seeing the Vigil boys. All five of them, sitting perfectly in order of birth, from oldest to youngest, paying attention, focused on prayer and salvation. Looking at such perfection of olive skin tones and beautiful tussles of black hair, my eyes drew to my classroom crush…let’s call him Charlie. Handsome, sweet, and one of the smartest kids in class, just seeing him inspired me to calm the younger kids down. What if he saw all of our hellion antics? I felt so bad as I looked up to see Jesus on the cross. Here he was dying for our sins, and there we were— acting like diablitos. Soon, we would be into the Apostle’s Creed “I believe in God Almighty….” and then time to proudly watch the community take my Madre’s communion.

As mass would come to conclusion, we would all gather outside of the church and the adults would check in with each other while the kids played around. Sometimes there was a potluck, sometimes it was that time to go to Sunday school. But knowing I could go home soon and let down my ponytail was the best feeling ever. We were free to go run around the neighborhood— ride bikes, climb trees, play games, read, or go back to that mud puddle. Either way, nighttime would come, baths would be drawn, homework would be completed, and sleep would ensue. The goal for the next morning and getting to school? You guessed it—dodging a whore’s bath and avoiding another facelift with a tight ponytail.