The Mysterious Connection Between Sex and Bowling

bowl sexMy Irish Catholic parents were not people who talked about sex. Ever. My four siblings, as far as I know, had to learn about sex the old-fashioned way–on the streets. My brother told me once that, after he had already been “to the street,” my father took him out for a walk. This alone signaled Important Doings, because my father was not big on walking. The city mailbox was less than one block from our home, and my father used to drive there. Once my dad and Johnnie embarked on this unusual father-son walk, Johnnie could see that my dad was trying to move the conversation in a certain direction. It never happened. Apparently my dad “ran up” on the subject a few times, and then aborted the mission. This unsuccessful attempt at a father-son talk was not exceptional for the times. At least in Irish Catholic families, sex simply wasn’t discussed. Ever. (Even such reticence was a step ahead of the previous generation. When my mother was a child, a boy in her class at Our Lady of Peace School told her what turned out to be the correct facts about how babies are made. Appalled, my mother ran home from school and told her mother what she had learned. Without missing a beat, Mommy Mayme replied, “That’s a dirty lie.” I have no idea when my mother realized that indeed it was not a lie but a Beautiful Truth.

By the time I started in the direction of puberty in the late 1960’s, parents were encouraged—even admonished—to tell their children about sex; learning about it on the streets was no longer acceptable. The sixth grade teachers at Christ King School must have, at some point, informed our parents that we would be talking about sex in Religion class and to be prepared for questions. I think this must be so because one day out of the blue my mother asked me to bring my Religion Textbook home with me. She wanted to look at it. This was an unprecedented and surprising request. Until that moment, I had no real sense that my parents even knew exactly what classes I was taking, much less what books we were reading. Nonetheless, I dutifully complied.

My mother took the textbook from me and took a quick glance at the Table of Contents, then turned to a specific page and read something there. Then she closed the book and handed it back to me, saying “Well, that’s fine.” Deeply intrigued and ever on the alert for Odd Parental Behavior, I noted as best I could where in the book she had looked, and as soon as I had the book back in my possession, I went there.

I found the pertinent paragraphs. It was a section of our book we had not read yet, and it was called God, Sex and You. It was mystifying. Our author started out by telling us that sex is Very Beautiful. Then he said that sex is like a fire. If I put logs into my fireplace and light them on fire, they give the room a lovely glow and lend warmth to all who are gathered. That is, the author pointed out, a Good Fire. A Bad Fire is when, instead of putting logs in the fireplace and lighting a match, I set fire to my whole house.  Such a fire rages out of control quickly and destroys everything in its path. That, the author pointed out, is a Bad Fire. He concluded by saying that sex should always be like the Good Fire and not like the Bad Fire.

I had no idea what they were talking about, and why anyone thought he needed to tell me not to set my own house on fire. I may not have been an “A” student at the time, but I knew not to do that. I didn’t pursue the matter further, though; by that time, I was resigned to the basic strangeness of all adults whenever the word “sex” was spoken.

By the time we actually arrived at this part of the textbook in Religion class, I had a sex5better—though by no means clear—idea of what they were getting at, because my mother had done her maternal duty and taken me to a movie at Christ King School about the Facts of Life.

I do not know the name or provenance of the movie they showed; all sixth grade parents were encouraged to attend along with their child. There were actually two movies, because the boys and their parents were sent to the “big gym” and the girls and their parents were directed to the “small gym.” My father did not go with us, so it was just my mother and me taking our seats while one of the sixth grade teachers welcomed us. I don’t know if the boys and the girls were shown the same film, but I doubt it. Our film involved a lot of information that I realize, in retrospect, would never have been deemed suitable for the boys.

I have only very dim memories of the film, but three things stayed with me: first, it opened with scenes from the Garden of Eden; we saw Adam and Eve looking happy and healthy, and then God pointing out a few trees that were Strictly Off Limits, and then the snake showed up and things spiraled downward from there. It was a familiar story. The one scene from this part of the film that I remember vividly was the moment when Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden. There they stood, with their hair and/or hands strategically covering their private parts, looking extremely sad. Behind them a very angry angel glared in their direction and slid a golden spear through the handles of the Gates of Paradise, shutting them out for good.

Having heard this story many times, both at Christ King School and at mass, I admit that my mind started to wander at this point. We had had to leave the house immediately after dinner to make it to the film on time, and so dessert had not been served. I knew there was some butter pecan ice cream in the freezer and some Hershey’s Syrup in the fridge. I was musing on this pleasant prospect when I realized that the film had exited Genesis and was now showing scenes of Typical Young People Doing Fun Young People Things. I was not a typical young person, though I often longed to be, and my ideas of fun almost never meshed with what other young people did, so whenever I was offered a peek into scenes from a typical life, I soaked them up with the passion of an anthropologist.

bowling2The Typical Fun Girls in this movie were, at first, having milkshakes together at an ice cream store (very nearly derailing my focus back to that butter pecan ice cream awaiting me at home), and then they all went bowling together. Over the pictures of these smiling, happy young women, the narrator intoned the information that “something was going to happen to me.” Soon. Now they had my attention. What was going to happen to me?

I am pretty sure I paid close attention at that point but I surely must have missed some crucial bit of information, because now the narrator was telling us that as a result of this thing that was going to happen, there would be times during the month when I would feel lethargic and even cranky. At those times, I would not want to go bowling with the gang. However, the narrator encouraged me, I should go bowling nonetheless; it was very important that I bowl, no matter how I felt.

This seemed to me to be a very badly made movie. I had no idea why we moved from Adam and Eve to this bowling scenario. We were still years away from Rotten Tomatoes back in 1969, but this film would have scored abysmally on my Tomatometer. After the exhortation about bowling, there were some diagrams of what looked like part of the engine of my father’s car—tubes and knobs and a central joining-up place—that the narrator said was my Female Reproductive System. He went on to say that God was amazing, because He had thought so far into my future that I already had all my eggs. “Just think of it!” said the Narrator. “Right now, this very day, you have all of your eggs already in your body!”

I cannot adequately describe how confused I was by this. All my eggs already inside me? I thought. But I eat eggs. Eggs that are clearly outside me and then I eat them and only then are they inside me. They are never “already there.” Should I not be eating extra eggs, since I already have the eggs I need right there inside me? Before I could ponder this weird Narrator Side Trip, however, the lights came up. The movie was over.

On the way home from Christ King School that night, my mother asked me if I understood the film. “Yes,” I replied honestly. I thought I did understand it; I just didn’t think it was very good. I hadn’t been asked for an evaluation, so I didn’t tell her that I had found the movie confusing and not at all well-made. Genesis? Bowling? Eggs? Then my mother asked if I had any questions. I could tell that she hoped that I didn’t, so I did not ask any, but I certainly had some. For starters, I had only been bowling once in my life, and I hated it. I was also terrible at it. Why was it now important that I embrace bowling with my friends? And why was bowling important only at certain times of the month, when I was cranky and out of sorts? Why did we go to school at night just to brush up on the well-known facts of Genesis? And what was the mysterious thing that was going to happen to me? And what was the deal with the eggs?

A few months after the Really Bad Movie about Adam and Eve, Bowling, and Eggs, I read an article in the Milwaukee Journal about a sexual assault. I didn’t know what the phrase “sexual assault” meant, so I asked my mother. She said it was an assault having to do with sex. Well, that was not at all helpful, so I asked her what “sex” was. My brother Johnnie was in the room during this conversation, and he began to chuckle. That was my clue that something was up; I had a clear vibe that information was being withheld.

My mother said that “sex” meant the female sex was a girl and the male sex was a boy. Johnnie’s chuckling intensified, and he said to my mother, “Good one.” Now I was really hot on the scent. They were both holding out on me. At that moment, my mother decided it was time to start making dinner, so she left for the kitchen to assemble grilled cheese sandwiches. I followed her.

I was a child flawed in many ways, but I had some strengths. One of them was doggednss. There was unstated information between Johnnie and my mom, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it. I stood sentinel at the cutting board while my mother methodically placed slices of Kraft American Cheese on individual slices of bread and topped them with tomato, green pepper and onions. I pushed and pushed for the information I wasn’t getting, and finally my mother erupted with, “Ok! Sex is what happens when the penis is inserted into the vagina!” As my mother continued slapping sandwiches together, I felt as if actual dawn were breaking over my consciousness; it was one of the few moments in my life when I felt literally enlightened. “That’s why husbands and wives sleep in the same bed!” I crowed. My mother agreed that yes, that was so, but even then I could see that she thought it an odd response.  She must also have been confused as to why this was such news to me; after all, she had done her due diligence: she taken me to the film at school and she had even asked if I had had any questions.

At some point I made the connection between my mother’s startling fact about intercourse and that time of the month when I would feel cranky and out of sorts. Unlike a lot of girls my age, I was eager for that part of puberty to begin. Everyone told me that it would mark the beginning of My Life as a Woman, and I was ready. Childhood had not held many charms for me, and I was ready to move on.

I kept careful watch for what my mother told me was called “My Period.” No one told me that when that rite of passage was on the near horizon, my body would change in some other startling ways. Thus it was an unhappy surprise when I went to bed one night and realized that my chest has taken on a disturbing life of its own. I didn’t have breasts, but out of nowhere my nipples were starting to swell up. That can’t be good, I thought to myself, and figured I just might be getting cancer. The thought of asking my mother any more questions in this area was not appealing, so I took matters into my own hands, and tried to pop them with a safety pin.

That did not go well. In fact, it hurt. A lot. Still not in the mood to approach my mother, I told my sister Susan I might be dying, and showed her my chest. Susan studied my chest sagely, then said, “You don’t have cancer. And stop stabbing yourself in the chest. It’s weird. It’s all just part of the whole thing that happens when you get your period. And you can’t stop it.”

I asked her if she had already “become a woman.”  “Oh yeah,” she said. “For a few years now.” This was fascinating information for me, as I shared a room with Susan and thought I knew all of her secrets. “Did you know all the facts of life when it happened?” I asked her. “Oh no,” she said casually. “It just came one night when Mom and Dad were out. I thought I was dying of cancer. But I wasn’t. Mom explained when she got home. Then she washed my pajamas.”

Not too long after that conversation, my period arrived. I was so happy. I was a woman. I told my mother and showed her the tiny stain in my underpants. She was prepared, and brought me into her bedroom, opened her chest of drawers, and pulled out a box. In the box were padded things, which she then pinned to a belt she also took out of the box. This was a “sanitary napkin.” I had never seen anything like it. She showed me how to put the belt on, how to pin the pad to the belt, how to pull my underpants up and over this bulky new situation in my swimsuit area. While I was thrilled to be a woman, I found all of these mechanics distasteful and embarrassing. My mother showed me how to wrap a used pad in lots of toilet paper and dispose of it in the wastebasket.

I was not a fan of the mechanics of Becoming a Woman, and by this time, I was eager for the conversation to end. I had no idea how I was expected to live my normal life and still deal with this belt and pin and pad and toilet paper chores. I found out that, in fact, there were now going to be days when I would not be able to go swimming or take a bath. The filmmakers who had been so obsessed with my bowling commitments might have at least mentioned this, I thought.  I actually liked swimming and I loved baths. So far I was hearing nothing pleasant about this great moment when I Became a Woman.

And then I heard some magical words. “When you are at this time of the month,” my mother told me, “You aren’t expected to participate in gym class.” Now there was some good news. I despised gym class for many good reasons. “How do I get out of it? I asked her. “Tell the gym teacher at the start of class that you are having your time of the month,” she told me. I can do that, I thought. I can definitely do that. This news almost offset the creepy parts with the belt and the pins and the no swimming rule.

At my very first opportunity, I told Mr. Landisch, our gym teacher, that I could not participate in gym class because it was my time of the month. Instantly uncomfortable, he nodded and mumbled something and hurried off, clipboard in hand. It was as if I had been given a magical incantation. While my classmates climbed ropes and raced each other on tiny little scooters and picked teams for indoor soccer, I happily sat on the sidelines with my book. As time went on, of course, I could not resist using my Get Out of Gym Free card even when it wasn’t officially required. After a few months of that, though, even Mr. Landisch was not fooled. I used my card one morning, but on that particular day, he bellowed at me across the entire gym, “Maloney, you’ve had your period three weeks in a row!” That was the end of that; I knew I could only use my ironclad excuse once a month. It was still better than nothing.

And as for bowling—I didn’t bowl again for at least twenty years. I was still terrible at it. But I felt just fine.





The Day That God Spoke German

thljaqerceWhen I went to graduate school to study philosophy, my intention was to hide out from the “real world” for a few more years doing what I loved before going to law school. I had fallen in love with philosophy in college, but I knew that no one makes a living as a “philosopher,” so I would eventually have to be practical and look toward developing some skills that would make me employable.
Three of my older siblings had done what smart college students who aren’t good in math or science do—they went to law school. Like them, I was smart and got good grades in everything not related to math or science. I felt certain that law school was my eventual destination, followed by a well-paying job and a life. The fact that just the words “law school” made my throat close up didn’t seem pertinent next to brute facts like my need for food, rent money and maybe even health insurance.
That throat-closing thing did convince me, however, to buy myself some time; I applied for and received a scholarship and fellowship from Marquette University to study philosophy. I was accepted into the Ph.D. program, which required three years of coursework, reading knowledge of French and German, oral and written comprehensive exams, and a dissertation. I wasn’t worried about all that, however, because my “secret plan” was to take the Master’s Degree option offered at the end of the second year. The Master’s Degree did not require both languages; I could, in fact, use Latin as my language. (I studied Latin for four years in high school and two in college.) Nor did the Master’s Degree require those scary-sounding comprehensive exams and dissertation. My plan was to love philosophy for two more precious years, opt out with a Master’s Degree, go to law school, and start my real life as a practical person.

At the end of my first year, the Director of Graduate Students summoned me to his office. I had done well in my classes, and the professors for whom I did research were pleased with my work. As a reward, Dr. Coffey informed me, I would be awarded a Teaching Fellowship after just one year in the program instead of the usual two. I expressed my profound gratitude for this offer, and firmly rejected it. I had no desire to teach anything to anyone, ever. I just wanted to study philosophy for one more year, and……you guessed it. Onward to law school.

downloadDr. Coffey chuckled at my polite refusal and said, “Maybe I don’t make myself clear. We are offering you a Teaching Fellowship. We have decided that you are going to teach. The Research Assistantship is off the table. You’re a Teaching Fellow now.” Oh. I swallowed hard and said, “Thank you. In that case, I accept.”
I spent the summer of that first year preparing to teach Logic. Unlike Teaching Assistants in other programs, Teaching Fellows in the philosophy department taught our own independent classes, unsupervised by a lead professor. I was on my own, in a job I had never asked for and was pretty sure I would not be good at.
Thus it was that in the autumn of 1981 I walked into Room 100 of Marquette Hall and faced thirty college freshman who looked even more frightened than I. Fortified with my Graduate School Breakfast of a Tab, two pieces of Bazooka bubble gum and four aspirin, I called my first class to order.Before the hour was over, I knew that I had stumbled, backwards and complaining, directly into the center of my life. I never wanted to walk out of a classroom again after those first thirty minutes.
In the course of that year, I made a few half-hearted attempts to talk myself out of teaching, but I knew I was done for. I loved every moment I spent with my classes, and by December I could not imagine walking away. My family knew I was loving the teaching thing, and my mother interpreted this as a good sign for my future brilliant career in the law. I would do well in court.
By the Spring semester, I knew that I was never going to see the inside of a law school. I was going to stay, and get a Ph.D. in philosophy. And that meant I had to face the brute facts of the Ph.D. requirements. I had blithely disregarded those requirements when I entered the program, because I had an Exit Strategy. With my Exit Strategy gone, I had to face the horrors that stood in front of me. First, I had to pass those language exams. Only after passing them could I even register for Comps. Only after passing Comps could I assemble a dissertation board and write my dissertation. Job #1, then had to be languages.
My Latin background was a big help when I decided to teach myself French. In the summer of that second year, I worked my way through a “Reading French” textbook and in the Fall of 1982, I took the Reading Exam in French. I translated the page of Jean-Paul Sartre’s L’imagination they handed me well enough to pass, and it was on to Step #2: German. I had studied German briefly in the third grade, but Frau Mittmann didn’t really teach us much beyond the German words for the weather and Easter. (see My Failure to Avoid German Class ) I didn’t hold out much hope that any of my previous German was going to be useful.
I signed up for a class that was offered to all graduate students who needed to pass a German exam, taught in the late afternoon by a beleaguered young German professor who didn’t have tenure. I took an instant dislike to German and he took an instant dislike to me. That might have had something to do with the fact that, on the first day, when he asked us what German might be good for in our lives, I had volunteered, “Barking orders at people?” In any event, he wasn’t teaching very much and I wasn’t learning very much, and I stopped attending the class after a few weeks.
Nonetheless, I had to solve my German Problem. After that first year of teaching Logic, I had been promoted and was now teaching Philosophy of Man, and I loved teaching that class even more. I felt in my bones that I was meant to be a philosophy professor, and yet there was German standing squarely in my path.I asked one of my philosophy professors who was fluent in German, Roland Teske, S. J., if he would tutor me.

Roland Teske, S;J.

He said that he would, and two other graduate students joined us. Fr. Teske, bless his heart, gave us his time and his energy, but we were all simply terrible at German. One of the other students in the class, a fellow named Dave, would read his translations out loud; they sounded like haiku written by a drunk man. After spewing out a mess of disconnected words in no particular order, he would invariably say, “My syntax might be a bit off.” I remember thinking, “What would it be like to have that much self-confidence?”

As the weeks went by and the exam loomed ever closer, I worked harder and harder on my German. I still remember sitting in one session when it was my turn to read my translation. I struggled along bravely, ending with the words, “And then he vaulted over the arch.” Silence. Fr. Teske stroked his mustache for a few seconds, staring at his desk. Then he said, “Well, no. Not quite. That last sentence actually says “He changed his mind.” Oh God, I thought. I am not going to pass this German exam.
The exam, I knew, was going to be a page of German text from a major German philosopher. I feverishly studied texts from Hegel, Nietzsche, and Kant, trying desperately to translate something from each of them into recognizable English. The night before the exam, I did something I didn’t do nearly enough of in those days. I prayed. I told God that I was pretty sure I was supposed to teach philosophy, that I loved it with all my heart and my students loved me. That I was really, really scared to take comps and write a dissertation. That I knew how hard it would be to find a job once I got this incredibly difficult degree. But I was willing to trudge forward and move through all of it, because it felt like the thing I was being called to do.images I remember sitting on my bedroom floor in front of the door that opened onto my little balcony, and staring at the moon, saying, “Hey, if You really want me here, doing this, I need some help. Whatever you can do. Thanks.”
That night, I dreamed I was taking the German Exam. Unlike my classic anxiety dreams, where I was late for a test and couldn’t read the words on the page, however, in this dream I was reading the ninth paragraph of the Critique of Pure Reason. It was in German, but I was reading it in English. I woke up with a start the next morning, and the mood of the dream stayed with me. I felt weirdly calm.
It had snowed the night before, and I was borrowing my mother’s car to drive to Marquette. On my way out the door, I renewed my prayer, reminding God that I needed some help if I was ever going to stand in a classroom as a philosophy professor. Minutes later, I managed to steer my mother’s silver Monte Carlo straight into a snow bank at the bottom of the driveway. I was thoroughly stuck. Panicked, I ran back into the house to call the Philosophy department and tell them I would be late while my father got out a shovel and a bag of rock salt. As he dug and I spun the wheels, I thought, “THIS is your answer, God? Really? I’m going to miss the whole frigging exam because of a snowbank? THANKS.”

My father dug me out, and I raced down the Menomonee River Parkway to Marquette, parked the Monte Carlo and ran across the campus to Coughlin Hall. I was late. I was allowed to take the exam, but I would not be able to stay past the end time to make up for the time I had lost. Sweating and out of breath, I tried to calm myself and took a few deep breaths. I looked down at the page to see what my passage was. It was the ninth paragraph of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason.

Kant’s Critique Of Pure Reason–in German.

I closed my eyes, and remembered my oh-so-vivid dream from the night before. Then I picked up my pen. 

Two days later, Fr. Teske’s best buddy and my Aquinas professor, Harry Klocker, S. J., stopped me in the hallway. I hadn’t heard anything about the exam, and I didn’t know how long I would have to wait to find out whether I had passed. With a twinkle in his eye, Fr. Klocker said, “So Roland (Fr. Teske) wants to know how in the hell you passed the German exam with flying colors!”

I had passed the German exam. It took me four more years to make my way through the rest of my coursework, my oral and written comps, and my dissertation, but I got that Ph.D. and this year I begin my 29th year teaching philosophy at St. Catherine University. I wrote my dissertation on Gabriel Marcel’s critique of Thomas Aquinas’ arguments for the existence of God. As for me, I felt pretty sure that God existed. And He was very, very good at translating Immanuel Kant.