An Altar Boy Experience: An excerpt from my upcoming ethnic humor memoir titled,
Confessions of a Middle Aged Italian.

An Alter Boy Experience: by Ed Bonadio


Becoming an altar boy was an honor for young males in Italian families of the fifties. The only greater honor was to have a priest in the clan. In my family, we already had a priest, Father Joe Bonadio. He was my cousin and his appointment brought much pride to my family. Now, my father was not a practicing Catholic. He was a good and caring man with a generous nature once you got past the burly façade, but he did not like going to church. That duty was reserved for my mother, “St. Geneva”. She was the one who prayed the sins away for him as well as the four sons. Her plan for me was to become an altar boy. Then maybe, with a little help from the priests and nuns, someday I might become the next Father Bonadio. I was the last hope of my line of the Bonadio family.
My other brothers were able to deflect mother’s attempts to make them holy vessels of Christ. On the other hand, I was last in line and the last hope of the clan. The process started with the assistance of a friend, Mr. D……...; I called him Mr. Bernie. He was the neighborhood mortician and funeral director. Along with Mr. Bernie’s son, also named Bernie, I was bribed into service. We were told of the riches that came with service to the lord. Mr. Bernie made sure that we knew about the tips given to alter boys who served at weddings and funerals. “Big money”, he said as he whipped us up in frenzy with talk of new bikes, sporting supplies and unlimited ice cream sodas. All manner of treasures could be obtained from the tips received in service to the church. How could a young inner city boy say no to such an opportunity to score cash? It sounded like easy money. Besides, Mr. Bernie told us of the most important reasons for becoming an altar boy. There were the special perks granted by the church parochial school to alter boys. There was no after school cleaning duty, and time out of class to help the priest in the rectory. And most importantly, safety duty that allowed those who were chosen the power to dole out detention punishment to their class enemies. I especially liked safety duty because I got to wear a neat waistband and sash like the traffic policemen. Any kid who dared to step off my street curb before I blew my whistle would be busted and written up. Of the power, I thought of ways to wield it in the confines of my little world. It was an awesome feeling to have power at that age and it would be missed more than anything I achieved during my grade school years. But then the unthinkable happened. Due to a lack of personal self control and a slight bit of ill-natured Italian vengeance, I was defrocked.
The memorization of Latin for the Catholic mass and other special religious occasions was non-negotiable, and the major requirement for joining that exclusive church sponsored society. Being an altar boy in the fifties required the knowing of certain Latin phrases in response to the priest as he went through the litany in that ancient tongue. Upon signing up for my new career in parochial “celestial show business”, I immediately received a set of stock cards with the verses written in English and their Latin subtitles to study. Not being one to take much of anything seriously, I gave the cards a few quick reads and stashed them in my school lunch box, the old style carry-all soup and sandwich containers so popular in that era. They were tin-like cases with leaky thermos jars that all children carried in the innocent days of Elvis and other pre-teen idols. My lunch box had a picture of a favorite movie serial hero, Rocket man. Most boys had Hop-along Cassidy, but I was a cool fifties kid. Only a few of us had rocket man cases. The best thing about the rocket man case was that the thermos was in the shape of a rocket. The seals on those thermos bottles were thick rubber and did not leak. The only problem I ever had was with the top of the thermos. It doubled as a cup for soup or drinks. It was cone shaped with reversed fins that acted as a base for a cup. It was not particularly stable, and I lost a lot of hot soup from that flimsy top and its flawed design. But it was a small price to pay for being a cool kid.
Three days after receiving the Latin cards, my friend Bernie and I were summoned to meet with the priest in charge of the alter boys. His name was Father Callahan, and we were to meet him at the rectory across the street from the church on Lakewood Avenue. We were each asked to recite from memory, the first card in Latin, It did not go well for me. I was a total basket case, bombing big time, and what made it worse was my feeble attempt to fake it. My friend Bernie was trying to whisper the lines each time I stumbled and Father Callahan was getting irritated at my butchered attempt to get through the lines. I think he expected me to give up and slink away in utter shame, but there I was trying my best to get over on him. On my fifth attempt to make it through the refrains, he sternly interrupted my attempt at the ‘Christ have mercy’ response.
“No, no, no, it’s not ‘Cripso make some’, it’s “Christi Elaison”. Return to class and come back tomorrow with your lines studied.”
He then beamed over to my friend, Bernie.
“OK Bernie, now it’s your turn. I know that you won’t disappoint me like Bonadio.”
With that, I turned and quickly shuffled out to avoid any further humiliation in the eyes of God and father Callahan. I could hear Bernie spouting the Latin smoothly and clearly as I retreated from earshot. That night Bernie tutored me in the fine art of Latin pronunciations. I returned the next day and aced that card, and every one thereafter in my attempt to become one of Father Callahan’s elite crew.
Being an altar boy had its perks, but there was a dark side to the power granted to these servants of Christ. Being somewhat a rebel, I had my share of dark thoughts on how I would use this new power. Girls had not yet entered my prepubescent mind. They were the clean, sanitized, and sickly sweet Antichrists that our fathers told us to avoid like the plague. In church they would sit on the right side pews in their neatly pressed knee length navy blue skirts and contrasting virginal white cotton blouses. Of course, they were buttoned all the way up to their chins with never a chance for cleavage to pop through. It also seems strange that all of the girls wore either pig tales or pony tails in those days. I think that the mothers were unconsciously jealous of Ava Gardner and didn’t want their daughters looking like that screen harlot.
The boys at St. Elizabeth’s school dressed in blue gabardines, white shirts and plaid ties. They would squirm incessantly in their pews on the left side of the church during morning mass. This segregation was mandatory in all school and church activities, and it furthered my resolve to steer clear of these devils in pigtails and ponytails. But I do remember this little brunette with Ava Gardner hair standing out against the pig tales and pony tales. Evidently, her mother did not have the same pony tail neurosis as other mothers with daughters attending St. Elizabeth’s school. That young girl probably grew up without the typical Catholic schoolgirl psychosis. I believe that the tight hair syndrome of Catholic school girls was a disease that caused a lack of oxygen to the brain, causing massive brain dysfunction in the area controlling post marital sex. This theory will be reviewed later, in the section dealing with sex, love and marriage. It’s funny what one remembers nearly fifty years later, while recalling the past.
My fellow males were of all shapes, sizes and nationalities with predominance towards the Germanic tribes of Europe. There was a smattering of Italians like myself and, unlike our northern European classmates, we had a propensity for getting into trouble. I did have many good friends with last names ending in consonants. One was a square jawed Teutonic kid named Eddie. Like me, he also hated to be called Eddie and we would gang up on anyone who dared to taunt us with silly rhymes and double meanings. I remember, someone taunting me by calling out “Eddie Spaghetti”.
One day while I was playing with some other kids, Eddie got into a fight with some boys. Eddie got the worst of it. Upon hearing this, I conspired with my aggrieved friend on how we might exact retribution. It was to be a carefully planned vendetta, flawless in its ferocity and seamless in its execution. Friend Eddie was impressed with the deviousness of my plan and the commitment to see it through to a successful conclusion.
The plan was simple. It required a bit of luck and deception but I was determined to get major payback for my friend’s unwarranted harassment. The target was a lad named Gus. I now think back on his name and actually feel sorry for anyone named Gus. If I’m not mistaken, Disney made a movie about a mule named Gus. But Gus was a real punk. He always traveled with a trio of goons for mutual protection. The only way I could get to him was on some neutral ground. My insidious pre-teen brain conjured up church as just the spot for his punishment. Gus’s goons could not interrupt my plan and there could be no immediate retaliation. Besides, it would be an accident. I had devised the plan just as if it were a military operation, bound by secrecy, stealth and valor. This I learned, along with other lessons about heroic character, from the myriad of comic books collected over my early school years. In them were stories of real fighting men; soldiers from the battlefields of Korea and mercenaries fighting along side the Free Chinese off the straights of Taiwan. They were fascinating books filled with stories of courageous men with nerves of steel and the stealth of a black cat. With this valuable background research, I was primed and ready to take on Gus.
The operation was scheduled to take place on Tuesday. Eddie had been accosted the previous Thursday and I was itching to get revenge while the poker was still hot. I learned later on to be patient in my revenge. As the saying goes,
“Revenge is a dish best served cold”
On Monday, I asked Father Callahan if I could serve Tuesday morning mass. I knew that Gus would be there for the service. His mom made him attend church every morning before classes because she worked at the rectory and needed to be there early each day. Tuesday’s mass was not my turn for duty. I was still a novice with only two weeks in the altar boy service. I had worked two weekly masses and one funeral (thanks to Mr. Bernie) on that first Saturday after ordination.
Interestingly, the priest scheduled to serve the morning mass was Father Callahan. He reluctantly changed the schedule to accommodate my wish, giving my deserted slot to the more accomplished novice Bernie. Bernie was not in on the plan but he knew that something was up. I just told him,
“Keep an eye on Gus at mass. I promise that it will be worth it”
There were normally two altar boys scheduled for Sunday masses. During the weekdays, the before school masses only required one assistant to the priest. There were many ritualistic implements used in the course of serving daily mass. One of them is the platen. It is a plate, usually made of brass or gold plate. The purpose of the platen is to protect the consecrated host (Body of Christ) from being spoiled if it should ever fall from the tongue of the person taking communion. The priest holds out the chalice and says “Body of Christ”. The person taking communion responds “Amen” and sticks out his or her tongue to receive the communion.
It was commonplace for every child who attended mass to take communion. If you did not, it meant you had a mortal sin on your soul and needed to confess. You could take communion with a venial sin but by not going up to receive the host left one alone in his / her pew with the stigma of being unclean. I remember once being struck with guilt of mortal sin and staying put in my pew. It was the loneliest I ever felt in life. All the children were herded up to receive communion. With their hands folded to their chests in prayer, they returned to their pews in procession like a great slithering snake. One by one the newly redeemed knelt to thank God for blessing them. I sat there, hands over face in the pew, trying not to be seen. I actually felt like screaming out,
“OK, I did it. I had a few impure thoughts last night and that’s why I can’t receive communion.”
The time came during the mass, when all the boys got up from their pews to line up for receiving the “Body of Christ”. They snaked out one by one and made it down on the left side of center isle. I watched them from my perch next to Father Callahan. He held the golden chalice, waiting to distribute communion at the railing in front of the altar. There was Gus, in his slimy splendor, walking behind Jimmy, my next door neighbor. Looking smug Gus smiled thinly, his face contorting like a farm animal chewing his cud. He paid no attention to his assassin waiting to strike a blow for an abused friend. I eyed him cautiously. How would I proceed? My hands were sweaty and my legs wobbled under my angelic robes. The platen was tight in my left hand but I moved with the grace of an antelope, following the priest from the altar to the communion rail. As the priest moved forward to begin distribution of the hosts, I hesitated. Would God strike me down for this act of violence I was about to commit? I glanced over to the crucifix above the altar. To my surprise, I imagined that the figure of Christ turned to me and winked from the cross. I know that seems blasphemous, but I felt that Jesus understood that I was justified in my devilish plot. This was classic Italian revenge. It was “an Eye for an Eye” and only Eddie, God, and I were in on the deal.
Father Callahan pulled at my white cotton tunic with his free hand to wake me from my daydream. He held the chalice tight in the other hand, and I glanced at the bowl, mesmerized by its golden beauty. It was too late for me to rethink my plan. I was committed to carrying out a just revenge on a bully. The priest started serving communion to the line of boys at the communion rail. He went down the line of children stopping to place the host on each little tongue. When we got to Gus, Father Callahan hesitated and looked back to me as if he knew what I was about to do. I wondered if Jesus had somehow ratted me out to Father Callahan. I freaked and the platen became heavy in my hand. Gus didn’t wait for the priest to say, “Body of Christ”; he just thrust out his tongue. I could almost see his tonsils as he opened his mouth in sheer mockery to the act of communion. I think he was also teasing me because I was Eddie’s friend, but I could never corroborate this. Father Callahan moved over to place the host on Gus’s tongue saying the Latin words. He was determined to get on with the communion even if I was slow to respond to his previously curt whisper,
“C’mon, Eddie, get moving.”
At that moment, I blacked out. I do not remember thrusting the platen into Gus’s Adams apple. I did not see Gus’s clasped hands spring to life below my weapon and push it up toward the chalice. I only remember the chalice flying through the air above us like a rocket ship on takeoff from some nuclear silo. It was all real time, but in slow motion. The contents, the sacred hosts blessed only minutes before by Father Callahan were flying through the air as well.
They floated down all around us. In a moment of panic, I dropped to my knees and started scooping and stuffing the consecrated wafers into the chalice. It had miraculously landed right side up. A miracle, I surmised, and a sign from God as I did my best to carry things forward and make it right. Father Callahan’s face was as red as the velvet drapes that hung behind the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary watching from the alcove beyond and to my right. Father Callahan was obviously in shock, and a volcano of veins stretched out on his face and neck. His features contorted into that of a gargoyle and for a moment I thought of running down the center isle of church and out into the street to get away from the oncoming wrath of the priest.
Gus was rolling in the center isle holding his throat and screaming in pain. Nuns came rushing up to the altar area and made a semi-circle around the fallen wafers. None dared touch the consecrated hosts. Their presence on the altar side of the railing was rare. You see, in those days, the nuns had second class citizenship in the hierarchy of the church, and it was forbidden for them to be involved in any way in the sacraments; that included being inside the communion railing during mass. But this was an extreme situation and the nuns took to offense. They stormed the area like blocking linemen for an NFL quarterback.
The priest, recovering from his immediate horror, grabbed my hand and forced me to drop what was left of the hosts in my hands. He led me over to a burly nun (no doubt, a pulling guard) to guard me, and sent the others to their places in the first row of pews. Meticulously, he swept the red carpet with his hands until finishing the task of retrieving the sacred wafers.
The rest is glorious church history. Obviously, I was fired as an altar boy. I was also remanded to the nuns for further punishment. Those old gals really know how to punish, not always by physical means, although a sharp crack of the ruler on the hand or shoulder was not out of bounds. It was in the art of psychological torment where they excelled. I was made to write about a million times,” I shall not dishonor the lord in his house”. There were many other punishments, including after school cleaning chores and no recess for a week. My mom could not believe what I had done. She begged Father Callahan to give me a second chance at divinity.
“No Dice”, he said. “We can’t have this sort of behavior to occur in church. The nuns have their hands full as it is, with the seventh and eight grade hoodlums. Now to have to deal with alter boys? The next major commotion in church and I’ll be asking the Bishop for seminarians to assist me at mass.”
With all of my mother’s clout as an organist and assistant choir director, she couldn’t sway him. He did allow me the opportunity to use my recently acquired Latin talents by putting me into the adult church choir. My mother promised that she would keep me in line. I sweated the possibility of her telling my father, but since he didn’t go to church, I would be in the clear with him if she just let this little infraction slide. I promised to be a good little choir member and she promised to keep quiet.
So the prodigal son returned to the house of the lord, battered and ego bruised, but ready to accept whatever they had planned to dish out as a continuing penance. This time I would be watched like a reformed convict on parole for major crimes against society. I wondered if there was some disposition of my case over in the Vatican hall of records. Knowing my mother, she would have paid any price to have them burned.
The choir was mixed with young and old, male and female. I was the black sheep and they all took turns keeping an eye on me. My voice was not very good but at least I knew my Latin. Many a day I spent sitting and standing in the choir loft belting out those beautiful and soulful Latin standards of the church. Over time I was again accepted and my mother overcame the shame of my sordid misadventure. Eventually, I came to appreciate the gravity of my act. It was not that I had whacked Gus with the platen; I could have survived that misdeed. My grievous sin was that I had touched the consecrated hosts. In the Catholic Church at that time, only a priest was allowed to touch them once they became the “Body of Christ”. That’s what got me in hot water. Such a simple thing and that’s what got me kicked off from altar boy service.
I do have a confession to make. It was worth it. After the incident, I was viewed as a hero and one who looked out for, and supported his friends. I was not a fighter or a bully, but I had done something that would become the stuff of legend in my forth grade class. It would follow me throughout grade school and became a story oft repeated among my friends. Father Callahan recovered from his rage and eventually forgave me. I remember hearing how the other priests laughed as he recalled Gus rolling around in front of the communion rail. Father Callahan was a young priest who loved working with kids. But like all men, he was human. There were no pedophile problems in our church, at least not to my knowledge. But being a priest is a high calling and the times were changing. The sexual revolution was just getting started in the late fifties and there were rumors of priests leaving the church to start families. It wasn’t young boys that the Bishops were worried about, but the young Catholic mothers who were getting divorced or having their marriages annulled. They were prime targets for the clergy.
Over time I noticed Father Callahan become distant from his duties and eventually it was reported that he left the priesthood. A few years later it was rumored that he recanted his vowels and gave into temptations of the flesh, marrying some divorced woman with two children. I think he went on to teach high school in Pennsylvania. If he could forgive me for my transgressions, I certainly can forgive him for leaving the priesthood. God shows no mercy for those who do not repent. We both had our failings in service to God. He survived his priestly doubts to become a married educator and I… well I guess I’m still “Pecks Bad Boy”, only much older and a bit wiser.