On Writing my first novel

My Agnosticism Is Challenged

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 12:19:33 -0700

In April of ’09, I visited Israel and Jordan. I come from a traditional Catholic family that still refers to Jerusalem and all the towns where Jesus trekked as “The Holy Land.” And yes, though nuns in boarding schools raised me, the fact is that my religion took a serious beating during my years in college. The reading of Nietzsche, Sartre, and the other existential writers drove holes into my Aquinas/Augustinian faith. By my senior year, I found myself an atheist – not a proud one – a miserable one, who lost the use of her legs for three months. In a story, it would be a corny symbol to have the protagonist lose what she had been standing on all her life. But there it was. I could not walk.
The doctor prescribed Phenobarbital and told me to read only “American authors like Mark Twain.” I would spend my days in my maternal Grandmother’s bed, talking to her about her life and the Mexican Revolution and what it was like raising her kids in Los Angeles, alone, after the husband had been executed in 1927. I loved that story because it was the tale of a brave, single woman, alone in a country where she did not speak the language and had to rely on her young children to translate. Her Mexican restaurant supported them, but according to her it was the Holy Virgin, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, that consoled her and gave her courage. “She too, had to do everything by herself.”
Slowly, I began to walk and gain strength. I continued to study theology and after many hundreds of pages, the word “Agnosticism” quieted my angst. I could live with the belief that it is impossible to know whether or not God exists. I resumed academics, graduate school, and my life under the mantle of agnosticism.
Years later, I would ask my paternal Grandmother, “Which of all the countries you’ve been to is your favorite?” Starting in 1922, she had been around the world several times with Grandfather and I thought Paris, Rome, Venice would be the answer.
“The Holy Land,” she answered.
“You can’t mean Israel,” I countered.
“Call it what you want. It’s the Holy Land,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I was able to personally give the Blessed Mother my pesamé.”
The word “pesame” means condolence in Spanish. It means more in the Mexican culture than here. Friends, family, gather around the person who has suffered a loss and grieve with her for however long it takes. It is a very intimate act between women, especially women of my Grandmother’s generation.
In 1953, Grandmother had lost a son, my Uncle George, while piloting his own Piper Cub. I remember the house in Mexico City as always being packed with women who had come to give their “pesame.” They came, stayed for several meals, prayed, and wept with Grandmother.
My two Grandmothers’ devotion to the Blessed Mother was with me when I went to Israel. I have not prayed in any strict sense for many years, yet, at the Church of the Annunciation, where the young Mary is told that she will give birth to the son of God, I found myself practicing a willing suspension of disbelief. I imagined what a heavy experience that must have been for a young teenager. In Catholic school we always kidded about this event, saying things like, “My father would never believe me.” “He’d kill me.”
At that moment I decided to believe the whole way through the trip. So I wept at the Garden of Gethsemane, trembled as I kissed where Jesus was born in Bethlehem, and mentally held both my Grandmothers’ hands as I too gave Holy Mary my “pesame.”
This decision served me well in Jordan, where Moses saw his last days in Mount Nebo and from where he received a view of the Promised Land. I think he got a raw deal after stomping around for forty years.
So what happened to my agnosticism? I guess during the 22-hour flight back to LAX from Amman, Jordan, it resurfaced without much effort on my part. What I do hold most dear are the moments when I held my Grandmothers’ hands during the visits to the Holy Sites.

About My Name

Sun, 1 Jun 2008 13:12:56 -0700

The name Montserrat is the name of the Blessed Virgin, the patron saint of Barcelona. My grandfather was in exile from Mexico in Barcelona with his entire family. My father was studying in the Monastery of Montserrat, up in the mountains above the city. He was a teenager and not happy with where he had to live and study. He made a manda, which is a religious promise before the statue of Our Lady.

Standing in the cathedral before the ebony statue of the Blessed Mother, my father promised that if his father were pardoned and the family could return to Mexico, he would name his first born daughter after Our Lady and his daughter would come to the monastery and personally thank her. When I was born everyone knew that my name would be Montserrat. I have been to the monastery and thanked the Blessed Mother three times.

Victor’s Letter

Wed, 28 May 2008 11:32:25 -0700

In First Confession, Victor commits suicide. How do you explain that?

Like many of us, Victor is directly connected to his environment. We are all born into three nets: culture, family and religion. Some of us work to reject these and seek alternative lifestyles, family and spiritual connections. Victor accepted those he was born into. That sealed his fate.

He was born a Catholic, Mexican male with strong ties to his parents. His culture and his church strongly condemn homosexuality. We can assume that his father, whom he greatly admired, also censored how he “turned out,” as his father remains unmentioned in the Epilogue. His final letter demonstrates this.

He opens with three strong imperative sentences to Andrea then tells her that his decision to take his life was made “long ago.” He was liberated to take his life by his mother’s death – again no mention of his father. He sees his death as an end to a long life of “pain so constant that at times we seemed lovers.”

This long depression is a revelation to the reader as well as to Andrea. In an ironic, tragic arc, he is moving toward joy. “Believe that this act is my hedonistic choice.”

Victor did try alternative lifestyles, but as he says, he was unable to tolerate such deviations: “… I was cast so solidly that the slightest breach tormented me.” He tried – even left his home country to find expression: “In my travels I pursued new rules. I tried to bend, but my soul censured my desires so savagely that I craved death.” The operative word here is “crave,” which is an unnatural desire.

Hopefully others will accept Victor’s choice and see his act as a victory over the Catholic edict that denies him suicide a solution. “Truth is, I am exhausted with living a spiritual life on earth.” We salute his choice and wish him peace.  

Ruminations of Elephants and Mahouts

Fri, 23 May 2008 09:43:06 -0700

The most memorable experience of my life occurred in 2005, the summer I spent in Northern Thailand at an elephant sanctuary where we signed up to become certified mahouts.

A mahout is an elephant driver and in Thailand, it is a life-long profession passed on from father to son. No one I asked was able to tell me how long the tradition has existed. A common answer to the question was eyebrows raised in mock surprise, followed by a huge smile and a furious fanning of the hand in a backward direction to indicate many, many years past.

Our arrangements were to live at the sanctuary in a thatched-roof cabin for almost two weeks. Each of us (three in my party) was handed over to a mahout who would be our teacher and guide until we passed our final exam, which consisted of our elephants obeying 10 commands three times.

Our final exam was in the center of an arena filled with Thai onlookers from nearby villages and jungles. The commands were in Karen, a dialect of a tribe in Northern Thailand. We were called by the designation, “Foreigner,” followed by our first names; hence, I was “Foreigner Monsy.” My teacher-mahout was called Bum and his and my elephant was a beauty called, “Iá.” My life was literally in Bum’s hands.

The day began before dawn when our mahouts hollered for us to come out and go for our elephants that were chained up in the surrounding hilly jungles about a half-mile away. After we brought them down, we fed and washed our elephants and for the next several hours, we practiced getting on and off the elephant and trying to communicate the various commands.

A beautiful, silent bond took place between Iá and myself. I suppose like many others, I have never felt comfortable with my existence. I have always felt on the fringe of things like groups, school, and work. Yet, the very first time I climbed aboard Iá, an overwhelming tranquility grew within me. After he checked my legs’ hold around her neck, Bum took Iá’s trunk and led her toward the jungle.

There was something strong and light about the way she connected to the earth beneath her. Her posit was unflinching, and this feeling of certainty and belonging communicated itself through my legs and up to my heart.

I remember thinking, “Oh yes.” Oh yes, to what I don’t know, but for the first time in my life, I felt totally connected with every fiber in me to the world. I felt such joy the likes of which I had never felt before or since.

The wonderful payoff was that the feeling remained and was renewed each day until after our final exam when we parted, but Iá remains with me to this day. And, my gratitude to Bum is boundless for the generosity with which he permitted the bond to take place.