Morphing Your Actions: Part Two
A Punch is a Punch is a Punch
It was Sister St. Charles who warned kids about the bishop. “He’s a slapper,” she said. Meaning he’d haul off and smack us, hard, across the face during our Confirmation ceremony.1 The slap was part of the ritual: A symbolic open-handed smack meant to wake us to the reality of being adults in the Catholic church.
Since Vatican II the slap had devolved to a soft pat. In most cases the diocese would send the bishop, and he’d deliver a little pat to your cheek, and you’d become an adult fully responsible for your actions.2 Except in our diocese, the Spokane Diocese, where the very old bishop still twisted from the knees and threw his entire weight into landing a whole-body splat across your face. A splat the sound of which made fathers wince and mothers look away, eyes closed. As a kid you’d see stars worming around as you tried not to cry in front of the whole parish of St. Pat’s.
Whether it’s a story or a joke or a punch…
You’ve got to land it right.
This same bishop had slapped my mother, my aunts and uncles, my sister, and when he smacked my face I found myself looking sideways at Cary Fink3 who’d just been slapped and who I’d swear was swallowing a little blood at the moment.4 Picture those Russian slapping contests, and you’ll get the idea.