My job interview for altar boy

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cifamerica/2012/may/10/my-job-interview-for-altar-boy

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I came prepared with a list of my skills. I would be the best altar boy ever. So good, in fact, that he would only need one: just Father Hansen and me, on stage. Blowing everyone away.

Our meeting was in the rectory study. Wood paneling, leather chairs, even more Jesus pictures than we had, as I recall. It looked like one of those libraries that rich old vampires had on Dark Shadows.

"So what did you want to talk to me about today, Lizz?" he asked, gesturing for me to sit in the matching wingback chair. I thought I would hit him with some of my background first. I opened strong: "Well, I love performing." Then I told him how much I loved playing my guitar and singing for my family and friends. He seemed to be enchanted. I knew I had impressed him.

"Well, you sold me!" he said, slapping his knees. "I think you are just about ready to play with Sister Carmella at the guitar mass."

"Cool, yes!! Wait … what?"

I didn't come to talk about the guitar mass, but what a bonus. If he thinks I am good enough to play at mass, I could be the singing altar boy! I was a bit cocky now, so I just cut to the chase.

"And I would really like to start serving mass as an altar boy! I think if I'm looking at being a priest, I should start right away."

His face turned white. The white that is really grey, the color skin turns right before you barf up fish sticks. He had not expected this.

He was quiet for a second, then said, "Lizz, we just don't have girls as altar boys. It's not allowed."

I didn't understand. I quickly went through all of my qualifications in my head. Age 12: check. Ability to hold big cup: check. Light napkin folding: check. Bell ringing on cue: check. Why wouldn't I be allowed? It's not like part of the job was hauling around anvils, and those dresses the boys wore were pretty much unisex. It didn't seem like the penis came into play. (Don't go there.)

It just did not make sense, so I simply asked, "Why isn't it allowed?"

Clearly, he was used to most Catholics who just took his word as, well, gospel, so he had to think of an answer pretty quickly. And after a minute that seemed like an hour, he gave me the lamest excuse I had ever heard in my life, before or since.

"Well, because it's called altar boy, not altar girl."

Really? I said to myself. That's all you've got? No way was he this pathetic. Father Hansen was supposed to be the cool young priest.

Then I realized: this was a fixable problem. I helped him out with the perfect rationale.

"But aren't they called that because there're only boys doing it? Couldn't you just call the boys 'altar boys', and the girls 'altar girls'?"

The ball is in your court, Padre.

He did not seem at all bowled over by my solution. He started that adult rubbing-palms-on-the-pants thing that meant he wanted this to be over. I thought priests were trained to see greatness and that they had special connections to God so they were able to fix anything. He knew he'd just offered up a bill of goods, and he knew that I didn't buy it. I didn't really think he bought it either, so he did what all adults do: he made this someone else's problem.

"Maybe you should write a letter to the bishop and see if he can help," he suggested.

Ugh. This was just like at home when Mom didn't want to be the bad guy, so she said, "Go ask your father." Except now it was Father Hansen who said, "Go ask my father."

All adults were the same. Lame.

Of course, it never occurred to me that women couldn't be priests. I just thought they all wanted to be nuns. I was oblivious. My twelve-year-old goals were of the moment: wowing the crowds with my mad altar boy skills and making money so I could buy stuff.

And though I knew this battle was lost, the war was not. I would write to Bishop Roach. Yes. Roach. I left the rectory and raced home to work on my letter. I blasted through the kitchen past Mom.

"So how'd it go?" she asked.

"Father Hansen suggested I write Bishop Roach and ask him for help!" She smiled a huge smile and said, "Ahhh, you go ahead and do that, then."

Wow, I thought. Mom is not confused? Cool. Weird, but cool. But Mom and Father Hansen knew a little something about Bishop Roach that I didn't: he had a great love of the drink. So unbeknownst to me, I was pouring my heart and soul into a letter to a man who was pouring his heart and soul into a highball glass.

The Roach never wrote me back. And even though I did get to play "Turn! Turn! Turn!" on my guitar at a few masses, I never got to be an altar boy.

I think it was my first real taste of injustice. I was so frustrated as I watched the boys, week after week, at the altar. They went through the motions like zombies, with no flair or style, no presence.

I still needed to make that lip-gloss money. I played songs from Godspell on my guitar to do it.

For a quarter of what the altar boys made.

<em>• This is an edited excerpt of Lizz Winstead's new book, Lizz Free or Die, published on 10 May by Penguin US.</em>