Scott, Age of abuse: 10 years old in 1963
Annunciation Blessed Virgin Mary Elementary School
Diocese of Harrisburg, McSherrystown, PA
Bless me Father…..
By Scott J. Brady
I grew up in a small south central Pennsylvania town of three thousand, ninety eight percent Catholic. (And the other two percent proud to give the Catholics something to talk about!) My parents raised all twelve of us to be “good Catholics”. This meant church on Sundays, catholic schools Monday thru Friday, and total respect for the nuns, called “Sister”, and priests, addressed as “Father”, who are “holy”, and “doing God’s work”. They represent Jesus Christ here on earth.
Being “good Catholics” means First Holy Communion. A time when young boys and girls acknowledge their faith and receive the sacrament of Holy Communion. This is when we can now share in communion with the rest of the church to show our “oneness” with other Catholics. But before we can receive Holy Communion, we must ask God to forgive our sins so we can be worthy to receive Him. This is the sacrament of Penance. We are taught how to confess. We enter the confessional where the priest is waiting, kneel, make the sign of the cross, and begin with; “Bless me Father, for I have sinned….” After that, we tell the priest our sins and receive our penance and get absolution. This accomplished, we can now share in Holy Communion.
In the 4th grade, I end up in the hospital with ruptured appendicitis. Often I would wake up and see Father praying by my bedside. He would smile and I’d fall back to sleep feeling safe and secure. I was “in God’s hands”. I still have a crucifix he gave me at that time.
It’s now the mid sixties and my fellow candidates and I are about to learn which of us are to be chosen as altar boys. I’m filled with both anticipation and dread. (I’ll have to learn more Latin!). I remember praying to ask God that I be one of the chosen. Finally, not taking any chances, I make my bargain, “Let me be an alter boy and I’ll become a priest!”. (I tried, but never did keep my end of the bargain.) The day finally arrived and wonder of wonders, I was one of the chosen! How proud I was as I put on the cassock and surplice. (Yes, I know now that humility would have been more appropriate.)
When the time for my confirmation approached and I needed to select a name, I chose Father’s first name. I so admired him.
I also remember in those “carefree years” of being chosen in the spring of my final year in grade school to help “cleanup” the school. Several of us “boys” were selected, usually on Fridays, and excused from class to clean and do light maintenance around the school. So we had to work, at least we didn’t have to sit in class on beautiful spring days!
Flash forward to the mid eighties. I’m on track in my chosen profession (computer technology) and starting a family. I had “drifted” away from The Church as often happens with young adults. My wife and I try to return to the Catholic Church when our daughter is ready to start school. For some reason I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. Finally we try a protestant church and I join. (Now I’m one of the two percent!) I become a deacon and teach Sunday school. My daughter is getting a Christian education, but not a Catholic one.
Time passes and I begin to hear more and more reports about sexual child abuse. I gloss over them, for some reason, I don’t want to know about them. Then I begin to read articles about catholic priests and sexual misconduct with children. Memories of those days in grade school come rushing back. Yes, there was a priest who would hold me, telling me how handsome I was and how all the girls would be chasing after me as I grew older. There was some touching as well.
Wait a minute; you mean those “hugs” that lasted a little too long weren’t normal? The touching? Then I realize that yes, I am a victim of sexual child abuse by a catholic priest. Me!
I am ashamed. I am embarrassed. As I look at my own pre teen daughter and her innocence, I become angry and betrayed. How could he do that? One of the men entrusted with my education. With my spiritual adolescence. Yes, MY. It’s happening to ME.
As time passes, more and more of this “priestly misconduct” begins to surface; I now get constant reminders that it happened. I am forced to deal with the memories, but being an educated man (emphasis on “man”) I’ll deal with it myself. I spend years trying to hide from it, justifying it, and rationalizing it. What helps me most is that yes, he was a priest, but he was also a man. With human frailties and sins. More memories come flashing back. This same priest praying at my hospital bedside when I nearly died. He gave me the Last Rights! I want to scream from the top of my lungs: “HOW COULD HE!”
It is now the new millennium. Everyone has heard of or read about cases of sexual child abuse by priests. You can’t escape from it. As my family and friends start to talk about it, I hold back. I don’t want to participate in the discussion, which as MY family and friends know, is contradictory. I always contribute my opinions! Finally, I am forced to find a way to open up and let everyone know that it happened to me. IT HAPPENED TO ME! I write it all down. The facts as I remember them and my feelings now. It is easier to let my wife and daughter read this then to try and say it. They understand and offer love and support, which helps tremendously, and I love them both dearly for it. Next I pass “the letter” as I have come to call it, to my mom (my dad passed away some time ago). Her first reaction was that she was so sorry and then “Why didn’t you tell us?”. But after some thought, she realized that Father, being who he was and we being who we were, what good would it have done to say anything.
I carry “the letter” with me now and as each of my brothers start the discussion about the priests and sex abuse, I swallow and hand them “the letter”. We talk about it. Yes, I’m doing OK. I’m dealing with it. The priest in my case has since passed away, so I know he’s no longer dealing with it, or is he?
But, as time goes on, I continue to deal with it. I ride the emotional roller coaster each time I read an article in the newspaper or hear a news report on TV. I deal with it when it comes up in conversations, or the really sad part, each and EVERY time I see a priest! The “collar” that is worn by the man I was raised to respect doesn’t quite look the same. Not as white as it used to be. I try. I rationalize. I pray. But I can’t get over the final hurtle and say to one of them, “Bless me Father….”.
Victim and Survivor