WHY I TURNED OUT THE WAY I DID: OH, MY GOD

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I was about eight years old when I made my first communion. I come from a large Italian-- but more importantly to the story, a large Catholic-- family. Your first communion is a big deal.
Anyway... I’m about eight years old, like I said, and I was in Sunday school after-school, which means that after you get out of regular everyday school, learning about math and spelling and science and shit, you have to hightail your ass all the way across town to make it to another school, to learn about God and Jesus and Heaven and shit.
Now, just to let you know, just because I was a good student (read: sort of smart, I guess) doesn’t mean that I wasn’t a bad student (read: started trouble at school).
I had a smart mouth. And, as Allyson K. told me on the first day of school in the second grade, my smart mouth was going to get me into a lot of trouble. And it did. Numerous times. Not in regular school; mostly in Sunday school after-school.
Like the time I brought up the subject of incest in the Bible. I was sent home for that one.
Or the time my teacher accused me of playing the class victim. \"Nobody likes a martyr, Frank,\" she said.
\"Jesus was a martyr,\" I countered. \"And everybody loves him!\"
Sent home again.
Or the time I tried to convince my teacher that God is an atheist.
Almost expelled there.
But I digress....
This offense, surprisingly enough, has nothing to do with me being a smart ass. Or, at the very least, I wasn’t the culprit in the transgression. I was just a sweet, innocent eight-year-old trying to make his first communion and make God happy.
It was a few days before my first communion, and my older cousin, whose name will be withheld for his own protection (let’s just call him \"Will\"), was tormenting me like older cousins will.
\"You know,\" he said, \"after you make your first communion, you have to make your first confession.\"
\"I know,\" I said, trying to sound confident in a little kid’s voice.
\"You know, you have to tell God everything you did wrong in your life. Everything.\"
\"I know,\" I said. \"We learned about this in Sunday school after-school.\"
\"I know you did,\" he continued. \"I went to Sunday school after-school, too, a few years ago. But,\" \'Will\' said, \"they don’t tell you certain things. Like, you have to tell God everything you\'ve done wrong in your life.\"
\"I told you, I know,\" I interrupted.
\"And if you don\'t, bad things will happen.\"
Well, that got my attention.
\"What kind of bad?\" I asked nervously.
\"Remember that old rhyme?\" he asked. \"Step on a crack, break your mother’s back?\"
\"Yeah,\" I croaked.
\"That kind of bad. Your mom might get really sick. Your house could explode. A plane could crash into your dad\'s car. It just depends on how much you don\'t tell and how good of a mood God is in on that day,\" he told me, trying hard not to laugh.
If any of my friends had told me this I would have laughed in their faces. But \"Will\" was my older cousin, like an older brother, and he would never lie to me, right?
So, needless to say, I was a royal mess going in to the church that Sunday morning. An eight-year-old should not have to be under the kind of stress that I was under. My legs were wobbly as I walked into the church. I sweated throughout the entire ceremony. My hands shook as I accepted the Holy Eucharist for the first time. I sat down in the pew waiting for the end of the mass.
And then the time that I had been dreading arrived: I had to make my first confession.
I stood in the line, waiting to enter the confessional, creating a mental inventory of all the stupid, fucked-up, and generally wrong things that I had done in my short eight years on God’s green Earth. It was a surprisingly long list.
I entered the confessional.
I gave the whole speech about being sorry for my sins, and then I listed them. In my mind, the priest was shaking his head in utter disbelief and trying to get as far away from my side of the confessional as possible-- you know, to avoid the lightning.
Looking back, my list wasn’t anything more horrific or surprising than your average eight-year-old’s, but back then, I was a creature worth damning; at least, in my own head.
And then, Father Goble, I think his name was, sentenced me to two \"Hail Marys\" and an \"Our Father\".
Wait... what?
No damning me to Hell? No being tortured for all of eternity? No having my flesh stripped of my bones and my eyes burned from their sockets?
Two \"Hail Marys\" and an \"Our Father\"? That\'s it? Really?
Sweet!
On the way home, \"Will\" tried to torment me further.
\"Did you tell him everything?\"
\"Yes, \'Will\',\" I said. \"You can’t trick me anymore. I know you were lying to me.\"
\"Who said I was lying?\"
\"My mom said you were just trying to get my goat.\"
\"She would say that,\" he said. \"She just doesn’t want you to get nervous and forget anything. You think she likes the idea of getting into a car accident just because you messed up in the confessional? Bad things will happen,\" \"Will\" tried to warn me again.
\"I\'m not falling for it,\" I said.
And I didn\'t.
Until we got home, and found out that my beloved dog, Jessie, had died while we were at church.
Now, whether it was fate, destiny, coincidence, or a pissed-off God, I don\'t know. What I do know, or what I thought I knew then, was that I had fucked up in the worst possible way, and God had punished me by killing my dog.
On top of my crying and sobbing, I was also ranting and raving about how it was all my fault. I screwed up and God was punishing me. When my mother and my aunt (\"Will\'s\" mother) heard my rants, they questioned my actions.
I told them everything.
On that, the saddest day of my young life, a little light had shown through the dark clouds. I almost laughed through my tears, as I saw my cousin get his ass beat. Now I know how my sister felt all those times I got my ass beat after getting sent home from Sunday school after-school.