This section chronicles my life from accidental birth in November of 1983 in Queens, NY, to July of 1992, when we left NY.
Like all good Catholic's, I enjoy shamelessly mocking Catholicism.
My life in New York epitomized the nuclear family, what set it apart were the personalities of my Irish and Colombian heritage, who were all raised in Queens, who were all crazy, funny, and loving, and who all drank obscene amounts of alcohol.
Most of my stories revolve around Catholic school because it was such a big part of our lives, but there's plenty more funny stories from my time in New York.
My stories from this time period will fall into the following categories:
Un-remorseful mocking of Catholicism.
Catholic Schoolboy mischief and fights in the schoolyard of St. Pius X.
My crazy, blue collar, alcoholic, violent, Irish-Catholic family on my dad's side.
My crazy, ghetto raised, hot tempered, violent, Colombian-Catholic family. Most specifically my mother and Grandma.
My first encounters with girls as a child. (First naked girl at age 6, by accident. It was a complete failure)
My family's visits to Manhattan on weekends where I thought that only black people could be hired to wash your windshields.
My visits to my mother's ghetto school where she was the loudest and most badass librarian in the world.
If there is anything you would like me to write, please vote!
Like all good Catholic's, I enjoy shamelessly mocking Catholicism.
My life in New York epitomized the nuclear family, what set it apart were the personalities of my Irish and Colombian heritage, who were all raised in Queens, who were all crazy, funny, and loving, and who all drank obscene amounts of alcohol.
Most of my stories revolve around Catholic school because it was such a big part of our lives, but there's plenty more funny stories from my time in New York.
My stories from this time period will fall into the following categories:
Un-remorseful mocking of Catholicism.
Catholic Schoolboy mischief and fights in the schoolyard of St. Pius X.
My crazy, blue collar, alcoholic, violent, Irish-Catholic family on my dad's side.
My crazy, ghetto raised, hot tempered, violent, Colombian-Catholic family. Most specifically my mother and Grandma.
My first encounters with girls as a child. (First naked girl at age 6, by accident. It was a complete failure)
My family's visits to Manhattan on weekends where I thought that only black people could be hired to wash your windshields.
My visits to my mother's ghetto school where she was the loudest and most badass librarian in the world.
If there is anything you would like me to write, please vote!
Made in rome
My parents chose old fashioned Roman Catholicism as the best way to ensure their son came out fucked up in the head. It worked perfectly!
Not only did my parents choose Roman Catholicism, they chose a fundamental sect of Catholicism that was excommunicated by the Vatican for not following the new rules. I can respect that!
In my Catholic school, St. Pius X, we had mass every day. This is painful for anyone, young or old. But making this more painful was the fact that mass was in Latin, so no one, teachers included, had any idea what was being said. All of the teachers were ordained nuns, (Except one) so they should have known Latin, but I caught one of them in their own bullshit during mass, when I was just 6 years old.
DONNY- "Sister Mary Rose, what did Father Kelly just say?"
SISTER- "Don't worry about things that don't concern you child"
DONNY- "But why can't I know what he said? Do YOU even know what he said?"
SISTER- "YES I know what he said" She looked around to make sure no other nuns could hear. "You should keep to yourself or the Lord won't hear your prayers"
DONNY- "But if I don't know what he's saying than what am I doing here?"
SISTER- "You are being quiet and obedient and praying to God. Now shush and say 5 Hail Mary's"
This pretty much sums up Catholicism.
Loads of bullshit, fear, blind conformity, and blind obedience to orders and tradition.
I can't imagine how much more twisted I'd be if i stayed there longer. I was only in St Pius X until I was 8 years old, but it felt like eternity.
Somewhere along the way my parents thought that I should be an altar boy. (This is long before all the priest rape showed up in the news)
I liked the idea but I was too scared to agree to it. So naturally, without discussing it further, my mother threw me into the fire. She approached the Principal, Sister Mary Bosco, one day after school.
In typical, shameless, MOM tradition, she parked the car and got out right in front of the school, where 30 other parents were attempting to pick up their children in the loading zone.
MOM- "Good afternoon Sister Mary Bosco, how are you?"
BOSCO- "I'm good Ms…?"
MOM- "O'Malley, thank you"
BOSCO- "Yes, yes of course"
MOM- "My son has something to tell you"
I cowered behind my moms leg. Mom shoed me off.
MOM- "Donny wants to be an altar boy."
BOSCO- "Oh how lovely. I will let Father Kelly know" Sister Mary Bosco looked at me with an evil smile as if to say "You fuckin sucker," and next thing I know I'm gettin slammed in the ass by Father Kelly. Just Kidding! Sorry, bad joke…..He was actually a good man.
I am incredibly grateful for my time spent in Catholic School, and my time spent as an altar boy. It taught me everything I didn't want to do, and everyone I didn't want to be. It made me the mischief that I still am today. It taught me how to appear disciplined and serious, while at the same time being sneaky, cunning, and strategizing to beat the boss.
The strictness of Catholicism made me WANT to beat the boss and the system.
This must be why I became such a well behaved teenager, and such as humbly obedient Marine Officer. (No I wasn't)
It proved to me that I don't need religion to be happy, fulfilled, saved, or loved.
God bless those holy nuns, and God Bless the Catholic Church, in all its glory!
"Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam"- Look it up!
Not only did my parents choose Roman Catholicism, they chose a fundamental sect of Catholicism that was excommunicated by the Vatican for not following the new rules. I can respect that!
In my Catholic school, St. Pius X, we had mass every day. This is painful for anyone, young or old. But making this more painful was the fact that mass was in Latin, so no one, teachers included, had any idea what was being said. All of the teachers were ordained nuns, (Except one) so they should have known Latin, but I caught one of them in their own bullshit during mass, when I was just 6 years old.
DONNY- "Sister Mary Rose, what did Father Kelly just say?"
SISTER- "Don't worry about things that don't concern you child"
DONNY- "But why can't I know what he said? Do YOU even know what he said?"
SISTER- "YES I know what he said" She looked around to make sure no other nuns could hear. "You should keep to yourself or the Lord won't hear your prayers"
DONNY- "But if I don't know what he's saying than what am I doing here?"
SISTER- "You are being quiet and obedient and praying to God. Now shush and say 5 Hail Mary's"
This pretty much sums up Catholicism.
Loads of bullshit, fear, blind conformity, and blind obedience to orders and tradition.
I can't imagine how much more twisted I'd be if i stayed there longer. I was only in St Pius X until I was 8 years old, but it felt like eternity.
Somewhere along the way my parents thought that I should be an altar boy. (This is long before all the priest rape showed up in the news)
I liked the idea but I was too scared to agree to it. So naturally, without discussing it further, my mother threw me into the fire. She approached the Principal, Sister Mary Bosco, one day after school.
In typical, shameless, MOM tradition, she parked the car and got out right in front of the school, where 30 other parents were attempting to pick up their children in the loading zone.
MOM- "Good afternoon Sister Mary Bosco, how are you?"
BOSCO- "I'm good Ms…?"
MOM- "O'Malley, thank you"
BOSCO- "Yes, yes of course"
MOM- "My son has something to tell you"
I cowered behind my moms leg. Mom shoed me off.
MOM- "Donny wants to be an altar boy."
BOSCO- "Oh how lovely. I will let Father Kelly know" Sister Mary Bosco looked at me with an evil smile as if to say "You fuckin sucker," and next thing I know I'm gettin slammed in the ass by Father Kelly. Just Kidding! Sorry, bad joke…..He was actually a good man.
I am incredibly grateful for my time spent in Catholic School, and my time spent as an altar boy. It taught me everything I didn't want to do, and everyone I didn't want to be. It made me the mischief that I still am today. It taught me how to appear disciplined and serious, while at the same time being sneaky, cunning, and strategizing to beat the boss.
The strictness of Catholicism made me WANT to beat the boss and the system.
This must be why I became such a well behaved teenager, and such as humbly obedient Marine Officer. (No I wasn't)
It proved to me that I don't need religion to be happy, fulfilled, saved, or loved.
God bless those holy nuns, and God Bless the Catholic Church, in all its glory!
"Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam"- Look it up!
Courting Courage
As a young boy I was painfully shy and easily intimidated by pretty girls. I was not able to talk to them, interact with them, sit next to them, nor even be in the same room as them. I would get nervous, sweat, and shake. My voice would crack, and most importantly, I wouldn’t know what to say to them.
When my parents or my friends pushed me to go talk to girls I had a crush on, I would say one of the following; “But I don’t know what to say!”
“What am I gonna say to her?” “I don’t have anything to talk about” “I’m not gonna talk to her, that’s stupid, why would I go talk to her?”
In the movie “40 year old Virgin,” Steve Carell gets accused by his friends of “putting the pussy on a pedestal.”
I never did that.
Instead, I used to put pussy at the very top of Jack’s bean stalk; so high up in the clouds it never seemed realistic. It was always just a dream.
This story is the FIRST story I can remember about my earliest encounters with women.
“When I jumped in the car my heart was still racing. I slid down in my seat so Theresa wouldn’t see my bright red face.”
COURTING COURAGE
In the fall of 1990, as a 2nd grader St Pius X, I had a crush on a beautiful girl named Theresa who was several grades older than me. I knew nothing about her except that she was beautiful. I ached to talk to her everyday. I drew stick figure pictures of us together. I drew hearts that had our initials in them with construction paper. I dreamt of her all day every day. I told my parents that I thought I loved a girl at school. I was 7 years old.
Finally, my dad recommended that I write her a letter. My dad is old fashioned, and he’s an incredible writer, so now that I look back, it makes sense that he recommended a letter.
I got two envelopes and two pieces of loose-leaf paper. On one piece of paper I wrote;
“I love you very much.”
I folded the paper 4 times like we were taught by the nuns in Catholic school, then I placed it in the envelope, and labeled the envelope;
To: Theresa, From: Donny
On the other piece of paper I wrote;
“I wish that we can get married someday.”
I folded it and placed it in the envelope just like the other.
I couldn’t focus on anything at school the next day because I was so nervous about giving her my handwritten love letters, which I equated to a serious marriage proposal.
The Catholic school I attended had only 64 kids and taught grades 1-12, so I had at least a dozen chances to give her the letters that day, but I cowered out every time.
I was so embarrassed to even approach her, that my confidence decreased with each failure, and the chance of me even considering-considering it again, decreased with each failure.
By the end of the day I was on the verge of abandoning the idea completely.
I stood around waiting for my Uncle Al to pick my brother and I up in front of the school, near the brick steps. The whole school was outside waiting for their parents. I knew it was my last chance, so my heart was racing out of my chest. My face was already flush red as I stood by myself, 30 feet away, watching her laugh with her friends.
I began to doubt myself. She was so beautiful, so much older, and more experienced, (She was in 5th grade) I knew she’d never go for me. I made up my mind and decided it wasn’t worth it. I knew that if I walked up to her and handed her my letters, all her friends would laugh at me, and I would be publicly shamed.
A few minutes later my uncle showed up, I tucked my tail between my legs, and walked to the car hating myself, almost in tears. I got in the car and stared at Theresa out the window. I didn’t want her to know I was staring, so I looked out of the corner of my eyes; it probably looked creepy. She was sitting by herself on the steps. All her friends were gone; she was alone, and vulnerable, and I had a much smaller chance of being publicly shamed if she rejected me. The song “It Must Have Been Love” by Roxette was playing on the radio. I had to do it. I yelled to my uncle as his car passed her, “WAIT STOP!” He slammed on the brakes, scared as if there was a baby in the street,
“What’s wrong?” he asked nervously.
“Umm, I forgot to give something to someone. Be right back.”
I ran out of the car with the letters in my hand, wrinkled from all my hand sweat. My heart was racing so fast I couldn’t think straight, I stopped in front of her and said “these are for you” as I held out the two wrinkled envelopes. She looked at me with a confused look on her face, then looked around in the hopes that one of her friends was around to reassure her. No one was there. I was so nervous all I wanted to do was get away from her and get back in the car. She looked at the envelopes, then slowly reached for them, with her eyes focused intently on them as if they might explode. As soon as she touched them she looked up at me. I stared right back at her, but I had more of a “deer in the headlights” look then the look of a boy trying to create a deep, meaningful connection with her. I felt like I was floating for a second, and I might have pissed myself a little. The millisecond her hand had gained control of the envelopes I turned around and bolted back to the car as if mom was chasing me with a hanger after seeing my report card.
When I jumped in the car my heart was still racing. I slid down in my seat so Theresa wouldn’t see my bright red face. I wanted to yell “GO GO GO!”, but I didn’t want my uncle to know how truly uncomfortable I felt, so I said quietly “We can go now.”
We drove off and the knot didn’t leave my stomach until that night when I was lying in my race car bed (that my dad built for me) and staring at the ceiling in the dark. I processed what I had done that day. Up until that very second, I was consumed with thoughts about Theresa, what she thought about me, whether or not she’d go out with me, talk to me, or kiss me while sitting on a swing set. (Had I known what blowjobs were I would have fantasized about her blowing me, and would have probably been much more content)
As I stared up at the ceiling that night I was not as consumed by thoughts about her and “us” as I was earlier. I still thought about those things, but the new image on the forefront of my mind was no longer her, it was me.
It was me, handing her those letters. I loved myself for writing those letters and sheepishly handing them to her. I was happy that I still did it even thought I was scared to death of it.
This was a sign of things to come, I just didn’t know it at the time. It would be many years before I understood the importance of my actions and emotions that day, and how they would propel the things I do every day to ensure that when I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, I have a smile on my face.
She never said a word to me, not then, not ever; which didn’t make me feel good. I got over it, the real prize was the emotion associated with doing what I was afraid of.
That experience was not about her, nor love, nor women. It was about me, and my fear. Was it a little cowardly to wait till her friends were gone? Sure, but I was such a pussy that even with them gone, I still felt the fear, and I still pushed through it.
That was my first battle with “courting courage,” the first battle in a war that raged for two decades before finally coming to an end.
When my parents or my friends pushed me to go talk to girls I had a crush on, I would say one of the following; “But I don’t know what to say!”
“What am I gonna say to her?” “I don’t have anything to talk about” “I’m not gonna talk to her, that’s stupid, why would I go talk to her?”
In the movie “40 year old Virgin,” Steve Carell gets accused by his friends of “putting the pussy on a pedestal.”
I never did that.
Instead, I used to put pussy at the very top of Jack’s bean stalk; so high up in the clouds it never seemed realistic. It was always just a dream.
This story is the FIRST story I can remember about my earliest encounters with women.
“When I jumped in the car my heart was still racing. I slid down in my seat so Theresa wouldn’t see my bright red face.”
COURTING COURAGE
In the fall of 1990, as a 2nd grader St Pius X, I had a crush on a beautiful girl named Theresa who was several grades older than me. I knew nothing about her except that she was beautiful. I ached to talk to her everyday. I drew stick figure pictures of us together. I drew hearts that had our initials in them with construction paper. I dreamt of her all day every day. I told my parents that I thought I loved a girl at school. I was 7 years old.
Finally, my dad recommended that I write her a letter. My dad is old fashioned, and he’s an incredible writer, so now that I look back, it makes sense that he recommended a letter.
I got two envelopes and two pieces of loose-leaf paper. On one piece of paper I wrote;
“I love you very much.”
I folded the paper 4 times like we were taught by the nuns in Catholic school, then I placed it in the envelope, and labeled the envelope;
To: Theresa, From: Donny
On the other piece of paper I wrote;
“I wish that we can get married someday.”
I folded it and placed it in the envelope just like the other.
I couldn’t focus on anything at school the next day because I was so nervous about giving her my handwritten love letters, which I equated to a serious marriage proposal.
The Catholic school I attended had only 64 kids and taught grades 1-12, so I had at least a dozen chances to give her the letters that day, but I cowered out every time.
I was so embarrassed to even approach her, that my confidence decreased with each failure, and the chance of me even considering-considering it again, decreased with each failure.
By the end of the day I was on the verge of abandoning the idea completely.
I stood around waiting for my Uncle Al to pick my brother and I up in front of the school, near the brick steps. The whole school was outside waiting for their parents. I knew it was my last chance, so my heart was racing out of my chest. My face was already flush red as I stood by myself, 30 feet away, watching her laugh with her friends.
I began to doubt myself. She was so beautiful, so much older, and more experienced, (She was in 5th grade) I knew she’d never go for me. I made up my mind and decided it wasn’t worth it. I knew that if I walked up to her and handed her my letters, all her friends would laugh at me, and I would be publicly shamed.
A few minutes later my uncle showed up, I tucked my tail between my legs, and walked to the car hating myself, almost in tears. I got in the car and stared at Theresa out the window. I didn’t want her to know I was staring, so I looked out of the corner of my eyes; it probably looked creepy. She was sitting by herself on the steps. All her friends were gone; she was alone, and vulnerable, and I had a much smaller chance of being publicly shamed if she rejected me. The song “It Must Have Been Love” by Roxette was playing on the radio. I had to do it. I yelled to my uncle as his car passed her, “WAIT STOP!” He slammed on the brakes, scared as if there was a baby in the street,
“What’s wrong?” he asked nervously.
“Umm, I forgot to give something to someone. Be right back.”
I ran out of the car with the letters in my hand, wrinkled from all my hand sweat. My heart was racing so fast I couldn’t think straight, I stopped in front of her and said “these are for you” as I held out the two wrinkled envelopes. She looked at me with a confused look on her face, then looked around in the hopes that one of her friends was around to reassure her. No one was there. I was so nervous all I wanted to do was get away from her and get back in the car. She looked at the envelopes, then slowly reached for them, with her eyes focused intently on them as if they might explode. As soon as she touched them she looked up at me. I stared right back at her, but I had more of a “deer in the headlights” look then the look of a boy trying to create a deep, meaningful connection with her. I felt like I was floating for a second, and I might have pissed myself a little. The millisecond her hand had gained control of the envelopes I turned around and bolted back to the car as if mom was chasing me with a hanger after seeing my report card.
When I jumped in the car my heart was still racing. I slid down in my seat so Theresa wouldn’t see my bright red face. I wanted to yell “GO GO GO!”, but I didn’t want my uncle to know how truly uncomfortable I felt, so I said quietly “We can go now.”
We drove off and the knot didn’t leave my stomach until that night when I was lying in my race car bed (that my dad built for me) and staring at the ceiling in the dark. I processed what I had done that day. Up until that very second, I was consumed with thoughts about Theresa, what she thought about me, whether or not she’d go out with me, talk to me, or kiss me while sitting on a swing set. (Had I known what blowjobs were I would have fantasized about her blowing me, and would have probably been much more content)
As I stared up at the ceiling that night I was not as consumed by thoughts about her and “us” as I was earlier. I still thought about those things, but the new image on the forefront of my mind was no longer her, it was me.
It was me, handing her those letters. I loved myself for writing those letters and sheepishly handing them to her. I was happy that I still did it even thought I was scared to death of it.
This was a sign of things to come, I just didn’t know it at the time. It would be many years before I understood the importance of my actions and emotions that day, and how they would propel the things I do every day to ensure that when I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, I have a smile on my face.
She never said a word to me, not then, not ever; which didn’t make me feel good. I got over it, the real prize was the emotion associated with doing what I was afraid of.
That experience was not about her, nor love, nor women. It was about me, and my fear. Was it a little cowardly to wait till her friends were gone? Sure, but I was such a pussy that even with them gone, I still felt the fear, and I still pushed through it.
That was my first battle with “courting courage,” the first battle in a war that raged for two decades before finally coming to an end.