Sunday, February 19, 2017

An Irish Priest and a Swastika

LENT MEDITATION, 2017

Ephesians 2: 17 - 20
17 He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near. 18 For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit.
19 Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God’s people and also members of his household, 20 built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone. 21 In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord. 22 And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.


As a boy I grew up Catholic. While I have many memories regarding my religious upbringing, one moment has been forever burned into my mind. My parents, brother, sister and I returned home from a weekend trip out of town to discover something horrific painted on our garage door. On the door, painted in bright red, was a swastika, with the words “GO HOME PAPISTS” written below it.

Having grown up in a neighborhood full of dads who fought in World War II, I knew the meaning of that sign. Then the confusion set in, on many levels. This was my home, so where would I go? Do people think we’re Nazis? The name “Mooney” is Irish, so that made no sense to me. Strangely, one thing is still clear in my mind – the red drips streaking form the words. I remember being afraid someone had written these things with blood.

The next day, at St. Columban Catholic School, my teacher noticed I was upset. I didn’t want to talk about it, yet she remained concerned. She wondered if I’d like to speak with Father Murphy; I nodded. He was always nice to me. I walked slowly to his office. He was standing at the door as I approached, holding a small trash can.

“Good morning, Edward! What brings you to my office?” He said with an Irish brogue woven through the words.

“I don’t know. Sister Teresa thought I should talk to you.” I shrugged as I looked down at the floor.

“Well, it can’t be that you’re in trouble. Is something bothering you?” He trailed off. I nodded.

“Yeah, I guess so, Father.”

Just then Mary Ann walked by – and I felt nervous. Father Murphy must have picked up on my emotions.

“You know, I have to take this trash out to the back. Want to walk with me a bit?” He asked. I nodded. We went through one of the doorways nearby. It was quiet for a bit. Father did not say anything.

“Something happened yesterday, Father, when we came home from Solvang.” I started.

“Ah, Solvang! I do like that town. Wonderful food!” He chuckled lightly.

“Yeah, I like it, too. I got a neat flag of some country called Denmark there.” I said, very quietly.

“Oh, Denmark is a wonderful place. But I don’t believe that a flag of Denmark caused such a long face.” He gently touched my chin. I felt a sob coming up.

“When we got home we saw that someone had painted a swastika and some mean words on our garage, Father.” I blurted out. I felt myself take a deep breath.

“Oh? What words?” He sounded more serious. He squatted down near me and touched my shoulder.  I told him. 

“Oh, Edward, those are terrible words.” Father Murphy said, in a whisper as he arose.

“I don’t understand. Why would someone do that, Father?” I looked directly into his eyes. He paused.

“My son, look over at the parking lot there.” He pointed as he dumped the trash into the large bin.

“I see it.”

“What do you see there?” He asked.

“Two cars.” I answered.  Father Murphy smiled.

“I like your answer. Walk with me…” He said as we turned around.

“Well, it’s just the way it is.” I was more confused.  He stopped walking, and I followed his example.

“You didn’t say, ‘a green car and a white car’, you saw two cars. You saw what made them the same, not what made them different.”

“Okay, but what about the words on the garage door?” I asked as we started walking again.

“Edward, some people focus on what brings us together as followers of Jesus. Other people want to see how we’re not identical. Someone in your neighborhood obviously does not want to see you as being like him.”

“So, people on my street hate me because I’m Catholic?” I asked, with fear in my heart.

“Oh, I believe almost all of them like you just fine…” He said as he tousled my hair. He had a big smile on his face.

“You think so?” I wanted his answer to be “yes”. Father Murphy nodded.  We arrived back outside of his office.

“Just watch, you’ll see. Now, off to class with you!” He squeezed my arm and I returned to my class.

Later, as my mother stopped the car in front of my house, as we arrived home from school, I saw five or six men, with my father, painting the garage door.  I knew the other men did not go to our church, so I was surprised.

“I guess most people do like us…” I said quietly as I remembered the smile on the face of Father Murphy.

Today, I’m concerned that Christianity is in another time of division. Anyone who does not believe exactly as we think is a suspect. Fear, hate and division overpower us at times.

It is my prayer this Lent that we remember the message of verse 19, that tells us that we are “fellow citizens with God’s people and also members of his household.” Let us turn from division and toward that which unites us; let us all be re-painters of garage doors. Let us see two cars, not green ones and white ones. Let love be our guide.

Edward Mooney, Jr.
February, 2017

Friday, February 3, 2017

An Unexpected Lesson

Edward Mooney, Jr.

©2017 Edward Mooney, Jr.

February, 2017

It was early in the morning on the first day of the new school year. I had come in before sunrise to set up my room; all was ready, except for one thing.  For decades my final chore before classes began was to place sticky plastic letters at the top of the whiteboard (or chalkboard early in my career), spelling out my name. I’d gently peel each letter off the sheet and carefully place it on a temporary line. M R . M O O N E Y.  Tradition held that each and every day I’d change the date right under my name, in chalk or with a board pen later on. 

That was just how I operated, but it was not to be that particular year.  As I started the annual chore, I paused. I realized something fundamental had changed. My twenty-five year tradition was about to change, by one simple letter. For the first time ever, I spelled out my name differently. The letters I peeled off spelled D R . M O O N E Y. I stepped back and looked it over. I was proud of all I had accomplished. I adjusted my necktie. I decided this momentous occasion demanded that I dress the part.

The awarding of the doctorate from Northeastern University in Boston was the result of years of hard work. There were vast expanses of reading, and rugged mountains of writing. There were jungles of group projects and desolate deserts of papers written by a tired man, all alone, in the middle of the cold night.  The university honored me by handing me that diploma. They had deemed me worthy. I stood up straighter.

Moments later my students started drifting into the room. I had known some from the year before, but most were new. The veterans didn’t notice the one-letter change on the board. They knew who I was; they were too busy discussing their new schedules to notice.

A new girl entered the classroom and secretly, with eyes quickly moving back and forth, scanned the front of the room. She let out an audible gasp as she read my name. She turned to her friend, standing close by.

“Oh, crap! We have another doctor guy!” She whispered, but loud enough for me to hear. I’m not sure why, but I’ve always had the ability to hear things around my classroom. Most of the time I find it quite helpful. Sometimes that gift is a pain. This time I was confounded. I wasn’t sure how to deal with her words. Her friend whispered back.

“So, how many times will you end up in the vice principal’s office this year, Laura?” She asked. Both of them were startled as I turned and walked toward them.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I overheard your discussion,” I started. The first girl, the one I presumed was Laura, started to speak.

“Hey, it’s kind of private…” Laura trailed off.

“I know, but it does involve me, and I want us to start off on a positive note. I’m a little confused. What do you mean by that ‘doctor guy’?”

“Hey, listen, I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry.” Laura moved toward a student desk and put her books down. She turned away. I took a deep breath.

“I know you didn’t. Laura…do you mind if I call you Laura?” I asked in a kind voice.

“I guess so. That’s my name.” The girl stared at the floor.

“It’s a good name.  I like it.” I responded as Laura slowly looked up.

“What? You like it?”

“Oh, yes. My youngest daughter’s name is Laura. I wouldn’t have picked that name if I didn’t like it.” I smiled.

“Yeah, picked it. Nobody forced you to give her that name, huh?” Laura seemed angry. Just then the first bell of the new school year rang. School was in session.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure where you’re going with this. Of course not. My wife and I agreed on the name ‘Laura.’ Did someone force a name on you?” I asked as Laura chuckled loudly. Her friend chimed in. Other students in the class noticed the tense conversation and turned to watch.

“I’ll say. I had a teacher two years ago who had that ‘doctor’ thing in front of his name. I spent too much time in the vice principal’s office that year, just because I’d slip and call him ‘mister’.”

“You got sent to the office for that?” I asked softly.

“Like I said – for not calling him ‘doctor’. So, to answer your question, I wonder how many times you’re going to send me to the office this year.” Laura’s voice was dripping with sarcasm as she once again turned away. I took a deep breath and looked at the front whiteboard.

“For calling me Mister Mooney instead of Doctor Mooney, zero.” I answered. She quickly looked up at me. As I looked at her face, covered with a confused look, the final lesson of my doctoral program sank in. I could not demand that people should call me “Doctor Mooney”. I looked at the clock. Exactly five minutes had passed in the school year. That’s how long I was puffed up about my new appellation.

“Oh, come on. I don’t believe that.” Laura responded.

“I can understand why. I’ll have to prove it to you.” I turned to the entire class and got everyone’s attention.

“What is he doing?” Laura whispered to her friend.

“Hello, everybody, and good morning! Welcome to your new school year!” I moved to the front of the room and picked up a blue board pen. I wrote the letters ‘Mr.” under the title “Dr.” by my name.

“What are you doing?” Laura asked loudly.

“Introducing myself. I’m Mister Mooney.” I smiled.

“But what about the ‘doctor’ thing?” Laura pointed. I took a deep breath.

“Believe it or not, the school year is only about seven minutes old and you’ve already taught me something very valuable, Laura. Yes, I have a doctor’s degree, but before I earned the degree I was first a man who valued people, and I was someone who wanted people who could feel safe and accepted in his classroom. You see, when we feel safe, we learn. When we feel threatened, we shut down.”

“Well, I agree with you on that shutting down idea…” Laura huffed and nodded.

“You just taught me that if I demand that you call me by ‘doctor’, I’ll create a wall between us. I’ve been wondering about this, since I graduated, and now I see the answer.  If I demand a tribute, such as you using this title, it would be as if you gave me a one hundred dollar bill, but in board game money. It looks like a hundred dollars, but it’s not. It’s worthless. There’s no value to just using the word.”

The class chuckled at the image. Laura nodded.

“So, the rule is I’m ‘Mister Mooney’ – all of you are used to that idea – and ‘Doctor Mooney’ only if you want to use that title. No one will force you. Is that a deal?” I smiled at Laura.

“Better than the deal I got two years ago, so sure.” Laura’s tone softened.

“Well, then, let’s get on with what we need to do today!” I said as I walked over to the poster with the classroom rules listed on them. I discussed each one, then went around the room and had each student introduce themselves.

“My name’s Adam, Mister Mooney.” One boy said. He looked surprised. “I mean Doctor Mooney…” I shook my head.

“Either one works in here, so not to worry.” I responded as I looked at the clock.

“It seems I’m about a minute short here. But I think I covered everything.” I shrugged.

“Not quite. You missed something.” Laura answered as she stood up and walked to the front of the room. I was confused. She picked up the eraser to the whiteboard. She erased the “Mr.” I had written below the “Dr.” sticky letters.

“Now things look right, Doctor Mooney.” Laura smiled.

The bell rang. Much had been learned that day.

- - - - - - - -
THE END




Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Noni’s Welcome Cookies

Edward Mooney, Jr.

©2017 Edward Mooney, Jr.

January 31, 2017


Virginia Marino, "Noni".

Every summer it happened the same way.  It was our annual migration to the homeland; we returned to the land of the Boston Red Sox to spend time with my extended family. My father, sister and I were born in Massachusetts; my mother was from Rhode Island. I guess I could say that I grew up “bi-coastal.” When I came back from most of a summer in New England my California friends would tease me about how I would say “Bah-stun.”

The five of us (with my California-born brother) would arrive late at night after a flight from California. The adrenaline and excitement in Los Angeles dulled to what I now call a “happy drowsiness” by the time we landed in Boston. After a long drive to Rhode Island, I was downright exhausted.

We young ones typically fell asleep before we got a chance to wolf down many of Noni’s wonderful lemon cookies. I called them “Welcome Cookies.” They were always there, every time we arrived. I connected the cookies with her throwing her arms out and crying, “Welcome!” I can never forget being dazzled by all of the baked goods on the table before me, and all of the hugs I received. To me, heaven was on Providence Street in West Warwick.

The memory of every arrival at my Noni’s house is still blurred with sleepiness – and this went on for a number of summers. To this day I can only guess how I made it upstairs and into bed. It was not under my power.

The sunshine always woke me on my first full day “back east,” as we used to call it. It was always a morning late in June that I’d wake up in her bedroom, beginning my time of the year as a New Englander. As her oldest grandson, born on St. Joseph’s Day, she allowed me the honor of sleeping in the second bed in her upstairs room, the one with the grate above the kitchen.

My mother used to tell me that the grate allowed the heat from the kitchen to warm the upstairs in the cold, long Rhode Island winters.  She also told me the second bed used to belong to my late grandfather, and how much of an honor my Noni bestowed on me by letting me sleep there.

It was just a simple room, with wooden floors and walls. My Noni was like that.  She never really owned much, and she worked hard all of her life. She had simple values – but they were clear.  God, family, country.

A few photos adorned the walls, but on one June morning in 1963 three items on her dresser got my attention. In the center was a crucifix. On one side was a black and white photo, with two young people in it.  The right side was adorned with a small 48 star American flag in a wooden stand. Yes, I counted the stars. The pattern looked odd to me.

I was trying to gather enough strength to get up; I turned in time to watch my grandmother open the bedroom door, carrying something. She started quietly and gingerly, peeking around the edge of the door, but she ended her entrance more energetically as she noticed I was awake.

“So, my Eddie is awake!” She said with a broad smile. Noni pushed forward a small tray, covered with lemon cookies, marbled chocolate cookies, and more.

“Uh-huh…” I mumbled. Even that was an effort for a seven year old after travelling across the United States.

“Maybe a cookie to start your day?” She offered. I smiled.

“Oh, yeah. I love your ‘Welcome Cookies’!” I offered.

“Welcome cookies?” she asked, with a confused look.

“Every year I think about them on the airplane, and in the car from Boston. You always say ‘welcome’ when I see first them.” I grabbed one of the marbled chocolate cookies this time and took a large bite.

“I’m glad you like them,” she answered.

“Oh, yeah!” I turned and looked at the items on her dresser, especially the photograph.

“No talking with a mouthful…” she whispered. It was then that I knew where my mother got that idea. I swallowed.

“Sorry. Mom tells me that, too.”

“Then I taught her well!” Noni smiled.

“But she never told me about that picture. Who’s in it?” I pointed as I reached for a lemon cookie. Noni sat on the edge of the bed and sighed.

“I am. I’m the woman in the white dress. The man is your grandfather.” Her voice was almost at the level of a quiet whisper.

“You? Is it like a wedding picture?” I asked.

“No, it’s not ‘like’ a wedding picture. It is my wedding picture, my only one. Back then we had little money. It’s the only picture I have from my wedding.”

“You should have had a Polaroid camera! I saw one of those on TV!” I blurted. Noni smiled.

“We didn’t have such things almost fifty years ago, Eddie! Cameras then had a big box and a man with a cloth over his head!” She said with a quiet laugh.  I looked at her differently, and I’m sure it was with a confused expression.

“Cloth?” I asked. Noni stood up and walked over to the dresser. She picked up the wedding photo and looked at it for a long time.

“Cloth. Eduardo, my grandson, you must understand that things have changed so much since I was your age, since I came to this country. Like this flag. Now we have fifty stars.”

“You came here like how I came here from California?” I asked, naively. She laughed.

“First of all, you were born in Massachusetts, so you are returning. But it was not like what you did yesterday. Oh, no…”

“What was it like? Did you fly here with your mom and dad, and your sisters?”

“Oh, my, my, no, no. There was no way to do that back then. I came here on a boat, across the Atlantic Ocean. Have you seen the place called Italy on the map?” She asked. I nodded.

“Yeah – it looks like a boot. Does it really look like that?”

“Well, maybe if you were up high in an airplane, it would, but from a boat it looks like mountains, towns and roads…” Her voice trailed off. An unpleasant silence filled the room. In my heart, I felt that she was remembering her mother and father.

“Did you go back and see your mom, and grandmother?” I asked. Just then I noticed a tear moving down her cheek.  She opened her mouth, paused, and closed it again. I waited.

“No. Since I left I have not seen them.” I noticed her voice was trembling.

“I’m sorry.”

“You are a wise young boy. How could you have known that I was trying to remember their faces – my mother and father?”

“I just guessed. I didn’t want to make you cry…” I said very quietly. Nonie reached out and stroked my hair.

“No, it’s alright, Eduardo. It’s just, well, it was so hard to come to America. I was only a teenage girl, not much older than you are now.”

“You came here alone?”

“I had my sister. But my parents stayed behind.” She answered as I took another bite of my cookie. Just then a piece broke off and tumbled on to the bedspread.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” I said as I gathered the pieces.

“And there were no ‘welcome cookies’ when I arrived at Ellis Island, either.”

“Ellis Island?”

“Yes, in New York. We immigrants first landed there. You know about the Statue of Liberty?”

“Oh, yes, we read about it in history.”

“That was my first view of America.” Noni sat back on the bed.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. Noni looked out of the window.

“She is still my favorite part of America.” She said in a very serious tone.

“So there were no cookies?”

“Oh, no. They fed us some soup-like food and hard bread. I don’t know what those things were called. They did not taste very good. The bread was hard. First they put a tag on my coat, and I only had one suitcase. They put a tag on that, too. Then they gave us some food. We had no choices. Eddie, you carry with you this week more than everything I had back then.”

“Really? That would be hard. I really need my shirts and my comic books!” I said as Noni’s smile grew.

“Oh, my. Yes, you would have had a hard time without your ‘Superman’!” She laughed.

“Did you have any toys?” I asked, afraid to hear her answer.

“One, a small doll.” Noni leaned over and pulled a very small item from a drawer. It was a simple doll, and it looked well loved. Noni started straightening the doll’s hair.

“I spoke very little English then. I could say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘yes’ and ‘no’. Not much else.” Noni put her thumb to her mouth, wet it, and rubbed at a spot on the doll’s arm.

“I understand.” I stared at the doll.

“My whole life changed when I came here. I was so scared. People in uniforms were looking at my papers. Other people looked into my throat, and checked my eyes.” Noni gently placed the doll back into the drawer.

“What?”

“They checked to see if we were healthy. I remember shaking so hard that I dropped some papers at one point.” I noticed Noni’s Italian accent got thicker.

“What happened?”

“Someone was yelling at me in English and I could not understand him. I found out, later, that he was yelling at me about how I did not understand English. It scared me because I had so much to learn.”

“What did you do?”

“I looked out the window at the statue, and I thought she was smiling at me. Lady Liberty. Yes, I know that is crazy, maybe, but it helped. And I touched my crucifix, believing that God would see me through the fear.”

“Oh…” I said, softly.

“And God did get me through. And you are a remembrance that God took care of me.”

“Me? How did I do that?”

“Where I came from, March 19th is an important day, the feast day of my favorite saint.”

“Because of my birthday? I don’t get it.”

“The first March 19th after I came to America I went to Mass and promised God that I would not forget what He did for me. It is Saint Joseph’s Day. He always sends me a blessing on that day.” Noni smiled as she looked at me.

“I guess that’s why I have Joseph as my second middle name.”

“Well, I wanted you to have that as your first name, but your father decided differently. But you have Joseph in there, and that is good.” Noni sighed. I felt like this bothered her.

“Wow. I could have been ‘Joseph’…”

“Never forget what your birthday means to me. Right after that I met the man who would become your grandfather. I thanked St. Joseph for him. Then you were born, many years later. I believe God was reminding me that He has done much for me. I lived long enough to see a grandson.” She nodded at me.

“Then you married my grandfather?” I pointed at the photograph.

“Oh, well, that was some time later. I had much to learn. Life was hard before your grandfather and I married. I learned English because I had to, and it was hard. I was always afraid. People told me to go back from where I came…” I interrupted her.

“What?”

“I learned that some people don’t like you if you have an accent, or go to a different church.”

“That’s sad.”

“I believe it is. So, some wanted me to go back to Italy.”

“I’m glad you didn’t!” Noni smiled and touched my arm.

“I remember once asking my cousin what a ‘dago’ was. People kept calling me that.”

“What’s a ‘dago’?” I asked.

“It’s a rude word that some people call Italians.”

“People called you names? Like kids in school do?”

“Yes. Your mother, who was born here, did not learn English until she went to school. They said terrible things about her.”

“My mom? Really? I am so sorry.” I said. Noni nodded. I took a last bite of the “Welcome Cookie.”

“Oh, nothing to be sorry about. I am happy that because your mother and I went through all of that pain you have a nice home, toys to play with, and you can go to school.” Noni gently slapped my knee. She stood up and walked toward the bedroom door.

“Noni?” I asked.

“Yes?” She answered as she walked through the doorway. She paused and looked back.

“I wish you could have had some ‘Welcome Cookies’ back then…”

“I have something much better now!”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You…” She pointed as she turned and walked down the hall.

- - - - - - - -
THE END