I was most excited about the cake. From what I heard, the big finale was all about the cake. “It’s normally large and white and there’s a plastic baby in a compromising position on it,” said my friend. Wow. How could you beat that? Pre-all-of-this-activity, I had seen cakes of this description in a few Montreal bakeries, and had wondered, in my sanctimonious ignorance, what the hell they were for-the birth of an infant? I thought it quite cruel, as a baby straight out of the womb couldn’t really eat anything solid. He’d be forced to stare on, in terrifying black and white, while his beast of a mother (unfairly equipped with teeth and a mature digestive track) greedily stuffed a piece of this layered heart attack into her maw. “This is what all the late night crying is for,” I thought. Revenge.
I had also seen a few of these window-wanton, girthy temptresses blessed with a large, blue frosting cross. “For fans of Christianity,” I surmised, just as a child in love with Spiderman would ask for a birthday cake festooned with cobwebs.
Upon learning the gospel truth, I must say that I was a bit confused. I mean, really-you’d order a cake to commemorate the washing away of original sin? Kind of a dour use for all that sugar and lard, no? A lentil stew, maybe, or something dignified, like three fingers of scotch-now those had the gravitas to mark God’s first disappointment in man (and man’s subsequent attempts to get out of the perennial dog house).
I managed to come to terms with things quite quickly however, as I didn’t think it fair to judge other, perhaps, less-advanced cultures on their unique ways of relating to the world. Furthermore, I did not want my disdain of irrational, antiquated traditions getting in the way of any potential, diabetes-inducing fun.
***
“What does a gal wear to these things?” I asked my boyfriend, Monsieur T., the would-be godfather of the proceedings. “I dunno-whatever a woman normally wears to church, I guess.” Looking up from the pants he was pressing, he could see by my expression that his glibness wasn’t going to cut it. “Well, nowadays in Quebec’s churches, you’ll see everything from jeans to miniskirts to sweater vests. Nobody really dresses up for Sunday services anymore.” Noticing that my face was still screwed up like a constipated toddler’s, he continued on:
“After the Quiet Revolution, the people here just stopped going to church. They stopped getting married, they stopped going to their priests for advice, they stopped taking part in the traditions that conventionally bound family and community together. They found other ways bond, to connect, to do things and get things done. The respect and fear and wonder that held them in check for so long just ceased to be.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, always ready to engage in debate, even with the scantiest knowledge of the issue at hand, “I see people going to church all the time in your neighbourhood.” Did Petite Patrie escape the Quiet Revolution? Judging by some of the fashion found around the area, it wasn’t crazy to think that this place had all but dug in their heels at the advent of 1962.
“Well, firstly, we’re close to Montreal’s Little Italy, and a lot of the older generation of Italian-Canadians still centre their lives around the Church. Secondly,” and at this, Monsieur T. had to wave his hand in front of my face to snap me back to attention, as my mind had already wandered off into the ricotta-filled realm of mini cannolis.
“As I was saying,” Monsieur T. pressed on, “this particular neighbourhood, which was once considered very ‘working-class’ Quebecois, is now populated with a lot of Latin Americans, Dominicans, Cubans and Portuguese. They have their own history with Catholicism, and their own ties to the Church.”
I couldn’t fight him on that. With all the new taquerias, cevicherias, and busy, late-night barbershops sprouting up (with requisite spill-over of young, preening, sidewalk lotharios), I had jokingly begun referring to his part of town as “Spanish Harlem.” It made me giddy to think I could easily get a hit on every corner (and before you start accusing me of being a racist bastard, understand that I am only referring to the extraordinarily strong, tiny sweet treat of Cuban coffee-let’s keep it clean, people).
With thoughts of churros and cannolis and thimble-sized caffeine bombs sashaying around my head, I went to sleep, gleefully anticipating the big sugar payoff to come.
***
The next morning, we dressed (having both escaped the lure of the miniskirt), and made our way along Beaubien Street to church. There was signage here and there on the lawn, advertising youth programs, basement bazaars, and concern for the state of my soul. “How nice of them,” I thought (but really, they needn’t worry). We were some of the first attendees to arrive, only “out-earlied” by the man of the hour, Lil’ C, and his super chill posse of two (otherwise known as his parents).
The kid was looking cool and collected in a pair of ivory cotton pants, a crisp white dress shirt, and a matching, v-neck sweater vest. He was perfectly kitted out for a swank beach wedding, or prepped to step in should a spontaneous cricket match erupt.
It turned out that Lil’ C was not the only one egging for some holy attention that day; he up against three other baptism contenders, primped and set to get their worship on. There was “Disgruntled Chef Baby,” with his white silk tunic and puffy, toque-like hat (I don’t think he dug the hat), “Baby Liberace,” in his gleaming, all-white, all-satin suit, and “Cater Waiter Baby,” whose parents, I suppose, had already concluded that their child was going to grow up to be an unsuccessful actor.
After a few preliminary greetings and hand-shakings, Monsieur T. and I scooted into a pew, close up to where the action would happen. We had Lil’ C (and crew) in front of us, and his beaming grandparents to the back. “Padded foot rests-neato!” I whisper-shouted, raising my tired heels up from the marble floor. “Um, no-those are for kneeling and genuflecting,” corrected Monsieur T., already questioning his decision to invite me along.
“Tout le monde, en arrière, s’il vous plaît !”
And with that, we followed the priest-a young, Mexican padre with an obvious pasión for electric blue robes–and his flunky to the back of the church (which I thought was odd, since we had just secured our seats and gotten comfy).
While we all were busy elbowing for a good place to stand, the priest rallied the fathers around to ask what they required from the Church. “Bapstism,” responded every dad-every dad that is, save for Lil’ C’s. Lil’ C’s pop came back with, “Bonheur,” or happiness, which was pretty shrewd, if you ask me; ride the coattails of the other christenings, and then get in a little something extra for your own kid. Now that’s a dad who’s thinking.
El Padre, relatively satisfied with the answers he received, kept on with the show. Intoning what sounded like a refrain from La Isla Bonita, he doled out four quick signs of the cross. The tots did not appear impressed with his haste, and at least one (I’m looking at you, Chef Baby) threatened to start crying. That was probably the game with the highest stakes that Sunday-which baby was going to cry first. One tiny outburst would undoubtedly set off a tidal wave of wailing which no bottle, binkie or boob could ever hope to halt.
Trailing the priest back to the front (he was quite good at leading us about–perhaps in seminary they’re forced to moonlight as ushers), we pushed back into our seats. Lil’ C got a bit excited over the commotion, and started attacking his mother’s earring. Unable to let go of a good thing, he was swiftly passed off to his dad.
A Sunday school lesson on the rights and requisites of a baptismal ceremony ensued, complete with “raise your hand” questions, prolonged silences and embarrassed, clueless giggles from the peanut gallery. El Padre explained us about the sacraments, the vestments and the oil (I still don’t get the part about the oil), and then, upon sensing restlessness in the crowd (you really can only go so far with vestments), our consummate Master of Catholicism asked for a volunteer from the audience.
Being the closest contender in reach, Lil’ C was picked first to get off the bench. There was scuffle in my pew, as I had the godfather to left of me, and the godmother to the right. Mom, dad, Lil’ C, godparents, El Padre, and church flunky all rushed to gather around what appeared to be the holy washbasin. Up on stage stood a Dominican, a Thai and a Jew (just kidding-there’s always a Jew in these things…) and a Quebecoise who swooped in around a solitary microphone and started singing something about glory and maybe God. It was hard to tell. One of them was banging the crap out of a tambourine.
Lil’ C’s little head was positioned directly above the steel basin. El Padre commenced murmuring…something to the effect of a blessing, or a curse, or a passing criticism, stopping only to ask mom n’ pop (and god mom n’ pop) pertinent questions about the state of their ward’s nine month old soul. What he found out must’ve pleased him, or troubled him, because he proceeded to hold up a white scallop shell to those of us in the audience. He then used said tool of divine seafood to both scoop and pour wash bin water over Lil’ C’s head. Now, to El Padre’s credit, he performed this rite so that the water (which I really hope was clean, what with all the viruses and parasites going around these day) would drip in a thin stream off the back of Lil’ C’s noggin. And let it be noted that Lil’ C was holding his own-not exactly thrilled to be there, but, like a big boy, he wasn’t about to break. He wasn’t, that is, until Monsieur T. stepped up to the plate.
What was required of the godfather was to follow El Padre’s lead and pour a little symbolic dribble onto his godson’s head. And so–
Into the water went the empty shell.
Out of the basin came a laden scoop.
A move was made, to get closer to the child.
Then closer, and closer still, until…
SPLOOSH! gushed the water, all over Lil’ C’s face.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH,” cried our brave little soldier. “BWAAAAHHH,” answered back his compatriots. Men began exchanging dollar bills under their hymnals. Women began sighing and rolling their eyes. I burst out laughing, and Monsieur T., momentarily chagrinned, made the smart decision to smile, shrug, and get on with things.
After all, there were three more babies in line, with their own shaky-handed godfathers to deal with.
The ceremony continued, with some candle lighting, a whole bunch of standing and sitting, a quick turning ’round to shake hands pour donner de la paix (I didn’t understand what was required at first, and didn’t offer to shake with anybody-my fellow pew pals looked a bit put out), a little singing combined with a few futile attempts to block out the tambourine. This was all terribly interesting, yes, but what absolutely stole the show (and my breath away) was the man who I will describe for you in the next sentence. If you can stand to wait for a few minutes while I take this phone call. Just….one….Hi, mom? Yeah, I got the coupons in the mail…thanks…no, no, you already told me the thing about the cat….no-really, I’m not just….sigh….
…
OK. I’m back. My apologies.
So, who was this fabulous creature? I don’t know. Why was he there? You got me. What possessed him to preserve his scuba-tight shirted, balloon dress-panted, slick fade with eight-inch rattail glory for all these years? I wish I knew. Perhaps he was divinely informed. Maybe he was a huge fan of Cameo. Whatever the case, this beefy gentleman strode right out from (church) stage left, and straight into my (once aesthetically bored, now slightly less so) heart. A baptism miracle, he was. Right there, in Petit Patrie. I couldn’t have been happier…
…oh yeah. And the rest of the babies got water splashed on them too. It was all super spiritual, and stuff. Truly…..but for real, people-that dude was amazing! He didn’t even have a function! He just stood around, occasionally drifting over to the folks with the tambourine, maybe telling them to cool it….I dunno. Bouncer of the flock? Nah-too chill. Priest understudy? Could be, but then El Padre would’ve been best advised to step aside. Not for nuthin’, but 1986 was in the house, ripe and ready to be praised. Word up! Er, I mean, Hallelujah!
***
Back at Lil’ C’s crib (which is funny, see, because he’s a baby, and “crib” is slang for…yep, well, you get it), we all gathered round to devour a bit of brunch. I have to say-have lox, have bagel, expect a stampede to the buffet table. People can’t get enough of smoked fish these days. I was holding Lil’ C, walking him around to get kissed and coddled by the feasting throng. During a lull in the cooing, I asked him how he felt, now that he was clean of Adam’s curse, with a new lease on life, accepted into the Church, etc, etc. He didn’t say much (being more of a laconic gent), but his gurgles and drooling spoke volumes. You could tell that this was a new man in my arms, well on his way to the next stage of personal development. Which would include walking. And eating strained, not pureed peas. Yes, big things were just around the corner.
As for the cake? You didn’t think I forgot, did you? Well, sorry to disappoint, but there wasn’t a plastic baby cake. There wasn’t a crucifix dolled up in blue icing either. But there were mini-cannolis. And in the final analysis, isn’t that what we’re all really looking for? Just a simple bit of pastry, to shove into an ever-expanding spiritual void? Yes, that sounds about right.
Amen, brothers and sisters. Amen.
