Jacqueline M. Cohen's Open Salon Blog

"A Field Hockey Player teaches a religion class"

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 16:04:54 -0400

In early March, I was on my way up Lexington Avenue in New York City on route to meet my friend's 22 year old daughter who was in need of an objective, yet compassionate ear. My express train landed me on the Upper East side earlier than planned. I didn't want to tweet or eat, I just wanted to get off my feet and be still for a few minutes. As I looked around, I found myself gazing up at a beautiful Catholic Church. I quickly climbed up the stone steps, gripped the circular metal handle and pulled open the massive door. From the corner of my eye, I saw a security guard behind a metal desk. I spotted the altar in the distance and as I headed inside, I thought I heard the guard say "Miss you don't belong in there!" He was probably right, but I marched inside towards the rows of wooden pews anyway. There was one woman kneeling in the church. I sat two rows behind her and her Bergdorf bag.

I gently pulled the knee rest down and knelt into a Catholic pose called genuflection for reflection Staring straight ahead I could see the carved frescoes and the spiral staircase leading to the pulpit. My eyes searched for him and as I tipped my head towards the ceiling I spotted the holiest of Martyrs nailed to the cross. This is when I usually chastise myself for being a bad Catholic who only attends Mass on the holiest of holidays, weddings, funerals and baptisms.

I didn't always berate myself for poor attendance. For three years while in high school, I taught Catechism at my local church. My religious attire was a field Hockey uniform because the nuns scheduled the class after my games and practices. There was a path in the woods that led from my public school to the parking lot of the church. I don't know if my 4th and 5th graders took me seriously, but they asked alot of questions.

"Jackie, why can't you covet a neighbors wife?" " Jackie, do you know anyone that covets?"(that answer is for the short sequel) "Am I going to hell, because I've stolen lots of stuff? "If Jesus is God's only son who is God's Father?" I don't remember what I told these young, impressionable children, but it prompted me to begin my own religious research. It was a Talmudic study, with a Catholic spin.

My Father, a Eucharistic Minister, passionately fond of the chalice, seemed a reasonable resource for information regarding the Ten Commandements and the Sacraments. I would tell him how confused many of my students were about the Holy Trinity and Original sin. You know, those accessible theological concepts. Dad instructed me to tell the children that "by dying on the cross and by his holy ressurection the Lord set us free". Thanks, that'll do the trick. Then he added, "Just make sure you have them memorize every commandment. If they dont know all the prayers and sacraments they can't be confirmed." Hey, I was confirmed, but I had no inner feeling of confirmation or freedom?

I invited my class to attend a 9:00 am Mass in a small church located in a less than ritzy side of our town. I was a singer in the folk group along with a beautiful red-head and Sister Margareet Mary, both severely tone-deaf. Our guitar players were a brother and sister duet, with John Turturro hairstyles and more inside jokes than 30 Rock. Now that I think about it, they were probably laughing outloud at how horrific sounding our ensemble was. It was. As I bit the insides of my mouth, Sister no tone and the Screecher harmonized to Our Father and Amazing Grace. It was impossible to drown them out, but I tried.

My entire class showed up for the morning Mass. The only two people that didn't show was Sister Margareet Mary and her side kick. With Tony and Tennille missing, I was solo! Hallelujah! I followed the dynamic guitar duo down to the basement of the church for a quick run through. For the first time in two years, they weren't laughing. They played their little guitars and smiled after every song. My family was seated in the front row. My Mother sang louder than anyone in the congregation. Each one of my students sang and genuinely listened to the little visiting Priest fom Chile. That day they witnessed their Teacher engaged in something she loved. We celebrated together.

My personal faith has certainly deepened over the last 20 years, as well as my understanding of the intrinsic need for a place to sit, to pray, to sing and be still with all our questions that may not have answers. I may not be the Poster girl for the Vatican, but my relationship with God is more intimate and free. Like my students, I am still inquisitive but now, the path is my prayer. I still find comfort inside churches and scared places. Lao Tzu wisely shared that "at the center of your being you have the answer; you know who are and you know what you want."

My Mother My Conscience

Mon, 2 Apr 2012 13:04:56 -0400

Up until my daughter Katie was 12 years old our night time ritual consisted of the following questions. Did you brush your teeth? Did you wash your face? Did you feed the fish? Is there anything we need to do for school tomorrow? After the computer was turned off, lights dimmed and our dog was located, we both would climb up the ladder to her top bunk, layered with pillows, stuffed dogs, a giraffe, teddy bears, beanie babies and her quilted baby blanket that covered the menagerie. Sometimes a book would be requested, and other times she would beg me to tell her an Elias story. Elias is a character I created when she was around 5 years old on a hot summer day while we were stuck in traffic. Elias, a fictional organic farmer with an odd sounding voice, lived in Vermont with his Wife Molina and their two sons. It was impossible for Elias to lie or even stretch the truth. He was having some problems earning a decent living on his farm, so he had to go into town to search for extra work. There he was met with many obstacles, until he discovered he was an excellent shoe salesman. My daughter would laugh uncontrollably at the voices I would use for the parade of customers and Elias’s commentary on their taste in shoes, the shapes of their toes and their horrible manners. The store manager quickly fired Elias and many more stories ensued.

After story time was complete and we sang a couple songs, we would recite our favorite prayers and make sure that everyone we loved was mentioned, sometimes twice if they weren’t doing well. “Mommy will you stay here for a couple more minutes?” “Of course.” This was my favorite part of the day, of being a Mother, of being Katie’s Mom. This is when the twilight confessional began and her day would flow out in one run on sentence.
All the colors and the sounds from school and complicated lessons learned from friends, teachers and strangers. She would re-enact a conversation with a child that was teasing her and how she felt protective of her closest friend that was left out of the popular group. Then there would be the whispered disclosure of the boy she still liked, but was confused why he ignored her in school, but would always pass her the ball in basketball practice. I would quietly lay there holding her and her truth and all her questions
7 feet above the ground.

Last night, my daughter texted me from College, almost 2,000 miles away “I love you Mommy, sweet dreams.”

American Style Au-Pere Chapter 1

Wed, 9 Mar 2011 16:03:26 -0500

During the summer of 1986 I was a pint-pulling, soul-seeking, American Au-pere managing to squeeze in a pilgrimage with my sister.Where we climbed to the top Croagh Patrick, the holiest Mountain in Ireland. Truth be told, my undercover mission was really a quest for transatlantic lasting love.

My sister, two years my junior, called me from Paris a week before I graduated from college in PA. She was a freshman at the Sorbonne during the “Reign of Terror”. Her employers were a prominent French family living large in the Place de Chatelet. In return for caring pour les deux enfants(two children), she received free room and board. Within one month of living in Paris she was dreaming in French.

“ Bonjour ma soeur, want to work in Cannes with me this summer?" Two second pause. “Mmmm, let me think,
pause "OUI OUI OUI all the way to JFK!"

The promise of the Cote-D’azur and bouillabaisse rendered me dizzy for days. My list of caveats grew, but my determination kept me surgically focused, obscuring any foreseeable obstacle course. Graduation from college dimmed in comparison to my Parisian fantasy. Saying farewell to my unfaithful boyfriend was not an obstacle, it fueled me. My mantra “why stay with a bore if you can have Dior”! Voila!

Obstacle #1, 2 and 3: How many times will I have to babysit and cater in the next 3 weeks in order to afford airfare, spending money and other incidentals?
Answer: probably 50X MERDE!

#4. Do I have anything of value that I could sell at my own personal tag sale? Answer: NO (mmm. my brothers)

#5 Do I have anything remotely chic in my closet to wear to Paris or St Tropez? Answer: NO

#6 Can Donna at Hair Power execute damage control on my over-fried permed hair? Answer: NO

“Ask and you shall receive.” Mother positively repeated.

" Oh, Thanks Mom, I’ll just drive down to CT Savings and Loan and ask if they would advance me a thousand dollars. They'll understand even though I have no credit, I have thousands of dollars in student loans and I’m unemployed."

While Mom prayed I practiced French phrases and plotted my departure one conjugated verb at a time. "Alors! Travaillez!! Continuer a reve!"

The first time I had ever traveled to Paris was in the 8th grade. My Junior High School offered an affordable trip to ten foreign language students for five days in Paris and five days in Madrid. For an entire football season, I begged my Father for permission to go. The Giants lost, but I scored my first passport. The two chaperones were former nuns (need I explain) who were our Jr high French and Spanish professors. They were fiercely opposed to any outward displays of affection and any dialogue spoken in our native tongue. I was reprimanded for singing in English and for jumping on my friends back so he could carry me up the rocky road to Sacre Coeur. They insisted “that my precocious behavior was unacceptable and I would be sent home if it continued.”
I took heed. My friend Susan and I managed to get lost in the Louvre, hopped on the wrong Bateau Mouche and woke up late for every tour. My introduction to Paris was restricted and far from glamorous, but my sense of adventure found a new language. J' arrive!

The bright yellow wall phone in our family kitchen had a distinct piercing ring and the collective response to the clawing sound was “I’m not heeeeeere!” It would ring and ring and ring-till someone finally picked up announcing his or her first and last name and an over rehearsed ”May I please help you?”

Synchronicity

Sat, 11 Dec 2010 10:12:17 -0500

synchronicity

Twas the Night Before College.....

Mon, 16 Aug 2010 11:08:18 -0400

Twas the night before college and all through the house…

Not a creature was stirring not even a louse.

The suitcases were lined by the front door with care.

Hoping you packed enough clean underwear!

You and Shadow were nestled, snug in your bed.

While I kept pacing and shaking my head.

Sam was hacking your i phone and checking the flight.

I was trying not to cry with all my Irish might!

I looked through some pictures— And thought of the days… When you would boldly say;

“Your not the boss of me, I don’t agree- I have an idea _ just listen to me!”

As I peeked in your room to stare at your face, the memories of your childhood fell into place.

I tiptoed closer to give you kiss,

and whispered sweet Katie I wish you moments of bliss.

Know that you are my heart and I am always here!

Now Dash Away! Dash Away!There's nothing to fear!

Off you go!! You are so loved and that you know! xo