Slow Reset from Chaos

A Cradle Catholic’s Slow Boat to China

A memoir reflection on childhood displacement, inherited faith, cafeteria cookies, and the grace that kept finding me.

I am not a professional writer. I speak the way I write, and my thoughts sometimes ramble with a stutter. I am still learning how to name my faith honestly. I have called myself a so-called “neutralized” cultural Catholic, though I suppose that is still a level above being a “nominal” Christian.

This is why I write the way I remember: in fragments, with detours, but always trying to find the thread that leads me back to God. The net has yet to catch me. Living an adult life in the body of a twelve-year-old seems unfair. My life, my religion, was not a choice. A bit harsh, but true.

The seed planted in a womb does not get to choose whether that womb belongs to a Catholic, a Protestant, a Buddhist, or a Jew. We are called “Cradle Catholics.” I went to Catholic school until I was eleven, but that is another story of its own. In 1972, over the sea I went: first to Honolulu, Hawaii, and then on to San Francisco International Airport. My sister had the bright idea of surprising the family. Instead, I nearly became the airline captain’s unexpected passenger to keep. His wife was nice. “Oh, you poor thing. So adorable. Do you want to come home with us?” She thought I was up for adoption. She was beautiful, blond, and was wearing something I’ve never seen before around her neck. I had never seen fur before, and I could not have told you what it meant then.

After that first arrival, the country kept unfolding in pieces: airports, relatives, new streets, and schools I barely had time to understand before the next move came. That was military life for us: always moving, and somehow always moving deeper into isolation.

I was twelve when my feet first started pounding the halls of Golden West Middle School by Travis Air Force Base. Three or four months later, I was hiking the hills of Daly City, San Francisco, to catch a school bus to James Denman Jr. High. That is where I quickly learned about geeks, bullies, and racial slurs, and that when someone said “bad,” it meant “good.” I was confused. I learned about color coding: black, white, brown, and yellow by skin color. I really did not fit in. But you know what? I did not mind standing out, especially when I had more cookies in my hand, freshly baked from the school cafeteria for a nickel each. Five was the optimal number.

That is also when I became addicted to Twinkies, not HoHos, at the school bus stop. The store sat perfectly on the corner, just ten feet from where we waited. Who could resist that? The Chinese merchant was so kind, taking my twenty-five cents with a smile. And if I did not walk in, they would come out and wave at the kids: “Have a nice day at school. You come back, stop by the store later.” I still hear the warmth of that voice, even if I cannot write it with an accent.

Between the cookies and the school, I was not reacquainted with the church. Oh, but I do remember Mr. Tealer saying, “Boy, God help you!” as he leaned over this kid named Cedric. That was the most I heard about God. Then I prayed not to be like Cedric.

Back to being neutralized: that is what it took. God never stopped chasing me until I finally turned around and let myself be caught. It took forty years for me to take this faith to heart. My life was chaotic, and the return of this prodigal child felt like a slow boat to China.

I remember a story about Jesus and a child walking together. They were about to cross the street when Jesus said, “Hold tight to My hand, okay?” The child turned, looked at Him, and said, “No. You hold tight to my hand, because I know You will never let go.”

On February 25, 2004, while watching The Passion of the Christ, my heart broke into a million pieces. Hook, line, and sinker, I cried and could not sleep all night. The sound of the lashing, the scourging, the thorns digging through His scalp and drawing blood that trickled down from His head still lives in me. Twenty-two years later, I am still sobbing.