My name is Berni and I am a Recovering ex-Catholic

When I was seven years old I had my first communion at our local church. This was soon after the mass was no longer in Latin. Before mass started they gave each of us "inductees" a sheet of paper that had a "promise" we were to read out loud in unison later in the mass. I quickly perused it ahead of time and was horrified even at my tender age at what I was literally being forced to recite. The piece went on and on about how great Catholics were with one of the points being made that only Catholics would go to heaven. Really?? Reciting this later made me feel sick to my stomach and I promised myself that I would never allow anyone to force me to say something again. But, of course, I am sure I did. Plenty of times. Parents and relatives put the pressure on. Do what you are told. We know better than you. Fall in line.

It really shouldn't have surprised my mother nine years later when I told her I had been repeatedly molested by the local priest when I was nine or ten. I didn't tell because I thought I was supposed to accept it. He was a HOLY MAN. I was just some stupid little kid.  Do what you are told. We know better than you. Fall in line.

Every Friday there was an hour when the Baptist kids would cross the highway to one building, the Lutherans kids would go to another and we Catholic kids would go to the house behind the elementary school. Religious instruction. This house belonged to a retired school bus driver and his wife, their children grown and gone. Father K would always try to get me to stay behind the others when it was time to leave. He would reach  from my back side as he talked and stick his hand into my crotch and rub and rub. It made me want to sink into the floor and die. I would try so hard to get ahead of the other kids each week and usually fail. He would call me back and do it to me again and again for months. One time I saw that the lady of the house actually saw what was happening. I pleaded to her with my eyes but she turned her vision somewhere else and never said a thing. Do what you are told. We know better than you. Fall in line.

The only reason it ended was because we suddenly got a new priest. Years later I figured that the church probably moved him because there had been another victim that actually spoke up to someone. I was relieved beyond belief, nonetheless. The new priest was old, crabby and distancing. No more worries. As I went through my teen years it became more and more apparent how old-fashioned and restricting this priest was. We were finally allowed to have a special teen mass but weren't even allowed to sing Day by Day from Godspell. Too secular. No Star Trek. A communion wafer fell to the floor when I was receiving communion and everyone stared at me like I had "666" engraved on my forehead. They even had to have a special ceremony after mass to pick it up off the floor. Egads. I was become more and more of a disenchanted Catholic as I became my own person. I laugh now when I think about the fact that I once wrote to the nun in our family. I told her I had decided to become a nun. She wrote back that I should be open to other possibilities. I like to think now that she was saying run, run, live your life. Do what you are told? We know better than you? Fall in line?

No more.

Blueberry Hill

Blueberry Hill. Somewhere in northern Minnesota, beyond the gravel trail, sits Blueberry Hill. Because of an overabundance of blueberry plants, the land inherits its name. This is where I grew up. This is where my mother would send the older kids on sunlit summer days. "You can come home when you have enough blueberries", she would say, and send us along with empty cottage cheese containers and a jug of kool-aid.

A trip to Blueberry Hill was always an invitation to play. The gravel trail through the woods would spur our imaginations, and each journey would turn into one adventure or another. And, suddenly, the woods would open up revealing the beauty of Blueberry Hill. We would pick and we would play. We would sing and we would fight. Since I was the oldest, it was my responsibility to rally the troops, eventually, and get mother her blueberries. We would march home, triumphant and thirsty ( the jug empty for some time ). "Here we are, mother dear, and here are your blueberries", we would cry. "We worked so hard in this summer heat". Mother would reward us with more kool-aid and something sweet to eat.

There were seven of us kids. The youngest, Sean, was too little for blueberry-picking before I left home. I never shared forest adventures with him. Years passed and young adults moved out and on. I don't know if Sean ever had berry-picking adventures.

On a cold, numbing January day in 1995, Sean took his life. Winter's chill was a fitting backdrop to my very existence. With the new birth of spring, my spirit began to thaw. Once again, we gathered together and walked the gravel trail through the woods. A curtain of sunlight invited us to our destination. We laid Sean's ashes among the blueberry bushes.

In my dreams, Sean is having forest adventures with the rest of us. In my dreams, Sean is there with us. On Blueberry Hill.

Chores

Chores By Berni Sarazine

It’s a sunny, Monday morning. I’ve been lying here, on the far side of the lilac bushes, stretched out, reading, and hiding. Hiding from my mother. Earlier, at the breakfast table, I couldn’t help but catch that certain gleam in her eyes. You know the one, the one us ‘lazy good- for-nothing’ teenagers hate. The one that says, “We’re going to get some chores done, today, or else”.So I’ve been hiding.

A couple of hours have passed and I am just now realizing that she hasn’t bugged me yet. I am content and comfortable. The lilac bushes are just shady enough. The combination of their fragrance and that of the freshly mowed lawn beneath me is a sweet gift to my olfactory, reminding me how much I love these early summer days. It is peaceful. My choice of reading material, some tawdry romance paperback I picked up at the market last night, is pulling me into its fantasy of love. I am just barely aware of the sounds around me. Birds chirping their familiar top forty tunes. Squirrels chattering about the nut that got away. A gentle breeze leaving and returning, again and again, waking the stray fallen leaves from last autumn and leading them into a dance.

Slowly, seeping into my reverie, I begin to notice a new sound. A familiar sound. An invading sound. The familiar chug, chug, churn, churn of the washing machine. I already know what is coming. Soon I will be hanging laundry on the line. There is no escape. I will eventually have to face the inevitable. Chores- the bane of my existence.

I try to continue reading, but it is of no use. I am preoccupied with my jail sentence. A few minutes pass and I hear steps out the front door, the springy sound of the coil on the screen door, the thud of something heavy hitting the front landing. “Berni, laundry, now!” she yells. I hang my head in resignation and yell back, “I’m coming”, as I grudgingly appear from behind the lilacs. Seeing me, but not looking in my eyes, she says, “There’ll be another load to hang soon, so don’t disappear”, as she marches back into the house like a laundry martyr.

I grab the basket handles and carry it to the other side of the house, toward the clotheslines. I carry it like it weighs a ton, hoping that my mother will catch a glimpse of me through the kitchen window. “See how hard I work for you, mother”, I am thinking. I grab the first item to hang and it is my ‘Rolling Stones’ t-shirt. I drape it over the line, lovingly, and attach two clothespins. I look at it and admire how good it is still looking after a year of washing. And so I begin hanging each item in the basket. Enjoying the smell of fresh laundry, enjoying the breeze blowing around my clothesline kaleidoscope village of color (this is the seventies, remember), enjoying the familiarity of it all. I start singing some overplayed love ballad from the radio and soon I am in another world as the basket slowly empties.

I reach down into the basket and feel nothing. I look and realize I am done. ”That wasn't so bad,” I think to myself, “I can go back and continue enjoying my book now”.

And, then I remember. The second basket.

How I Broke My Heart

How I Broke My Heart by Berni Sarazine

     It is just another one of those days. From the moment I feel conscious, nothing seems to go the way it should. I have just finished a shopping and errand marathon filled with more roadblocks than I-94 on a steamy, July rush hour. Juggling my morning purchases, I somehow manage to unlock my front door, stumble toward the counter, and relieve my arms of their burden as a resounding crash greets my ears. I look down at the linoleum and there, in a million pieces, it lays. This is how I broke my heart.

     For a moment, I am in a state of deep shock. The room seems to be spinning, and I feel as if I am being sucked into a hole in the middle of the floor. Grabbing the counter, I steady myself and take a few deep breaths. “How could I have let this happen?” I think to myself. “I tried to be so careful this time.” With resignation, I grab the broom and dustpan and sweep up the mess I’ve made. The broken pieces of my heart make an all too familiar sound as I gather them together with the broom. Sadness envelopes me as I dump the contents of the dustpan into the garbage can.

     I sit down in a chair and begin to cry. I cry for the effort I put into this last relationship. I cry for the sweet memories I have of the two of us together, knowing there will be no more added to savor. I cry for the terrible things we said to each other as we went our separate ways. I cry for all of my failed relationships of the past. I cry for the likely possibility of failed relationships of the future. I cry because I like to cry.

    I taste the salt of my tears as it reaches my lips. I grab a tissue and find comfort in the in the familiar scent. I hear my heart beating, as if it is saying “Please, don’t give up on me yet.” Slowly, I come to my senses and a calmness settles over me. I reach into the garbage can and pull out the pieces of my heart and begin gluing them back together for another day.

The Ballad of Tim and Tanya

I wrote this this morning and sang it at my bass player's wedding

"The Ballad Of Tim And Tanya"

Standing in the backyard at Grumpy's
Kennedy says he really hates France.
I stand at the mike and say, "Let the band play".
You know these people they just wanna dance.
It might sound kinda cheesy,
But love is all that you need.
And Tanya just married

My bass player Tim Kennedy.
Well, they made the move back to the city,
Working opposite shifts night and day.
I heard Pat Dwyer say,
"It'll all be O.K.,
You can get married in nordeast, here today".
It might sound kinda cheesy,
But love is all that you need.
And Tanya just married

My bass player Tim Kennedy.
Kennedy you know he loves ice fishing,
He can stare at a hole for a week.
And fantasy football team, till you wanna just scream"
I said, "Tanya, why'd you marry this freak"?
It might sound kinda cheesy,
But love is all that you need.
And Tanya just married

My bass player Tim Kennedy.
You know David Bowie did say,
I've lived all over the world.
Please be mine, share my life,
Stay with me, be my wife
I say you only need the person beside you- think!"
Kennedy got down on one knee

Said he was tired of going stag.
And Tanya's friends guess, that when she said yes,
She must have been half in the bag".
It might sound kinda cheesy,
But love is all that you need.
And Tanya just married

My bass player Tim Kennedy.
I look at Tim and Tanya together.
I wonder if he's good in the sack.
And this girl in the dress says, "I wish you success,
It's good to have the both of you back".
It might sound kinda cheesy,
But love is all that you need.
And Tanya just married

My bass player Tim Kennedy.
And Tanya just married

My bass player Tim Kennedy.

It's all about product placement

Hickster Erotica by Berni Sarazine

As I slowly regain consciousness from my drunken stupor, I stare fixedly at the GPC smoke-yellowed ceiling tiles trying to figure out where in the hell I am. The overwhelming aroma of Aqua Velva stench and bottom shelf Turkey Mountain whiskey slowly permeate my olfactory and I cautiously turn my head toward the source. There you are, lying next to me on the Armstrong linoleum floor of the kitchen in our Skyline double-wide. We are awash in a sea of empty Milwaukee's Best beer cans that have scattered everywhere from the overturned Rubbermaid recycling container. The Motorola 8-track tape player sounds like its on its last leg as it plays yet another round of Fleetwood Mac's Rumours. I notice the fly on your H.A.S.H. Jeans is wide open and your hairy left hand is holding your love unit as if it needs some cuddling after the workout you put it through last night. I am stark naked except for one Frye cowboy boot. I am puzzled as to why I have an open jar of Jif Creamy Peanut Butter nestled between my thighs. I remember you saying something about product placement?? You slowly open one eye and give me a glazed look of desire while you burp up what smells like Kraft Bacon and Cheddar Flavor Easy Cheese and General Mills Nacho Cheese Bugles. You turn and grab the peanut butter and begin spreading it generously on my inner thighs. As a jar of Welch's Grape Jelly suddenly appears out of nowhere, I rejoice in the fact that you are, once again, making me breakfast in bed.

Having a great trip, wish you were here

It's the summer of 1982 and I'm still living on the Iron Range. My friend Ellie stops by and wants to know if I would like to accompany her to a house party in Chicken Town.  She also informs me that she just scored some acid and that I should try some. I have been a "say no to drugs unless it's pot" sort of person up to this point, but I find myself agreeing. We take the acid, grab some beers and head to Chicken Town. There's a decent crowd and the tunes are rocking when we arrive. Some time later I need to use the bathroom and ask where it is. As I sit on the toilet, I look around the bathroom and I notice different bits from magazines and other assorted writings taped on the walls. And then I see it. I am convinced within a few seconds that I am reading the most profound piece ever written in the history of mankind. Written by Frank Zappa, this glorious diatribe explains how the MAN keeps trying to control the people. Nothing works until-get this- MUSIC IS MADE ILLEGAL. No way!! Mind blown!! I come out of the bathroom and demand paper and pen and then scurry back to the bathroom. As I furiously write, I can hear some of my friends talking outside the door. They are wondering out loud what the hell I am doing in here. Soon they just barge in to find me sitting in the bathtub, busy copying down this incredible manifesto into the notebook in my trembling left hand.  As I proclaim that "Zappa is a friggin' genius", they laugh at me. Well, except for one guy, but I think he's convinced himself that he can get some from me later, if you catch my drift. I might be trippin', but I didn't just fall off the turnip truck.

Heh, found it. "Eventually it was discovered, that God did not want us to be all the same. This was Bad News for the Governments of The World, as it seemed contrary to the doctrine of Portion Controlled Servings. Mankind must be made more uniformly if The Future was going to work. Various ways were sought to bind us all together, but, alas, same-ness was unenforceable. It was about this time, that someone came up with the idea of Total Criminalization. Based on the principle, that if we were all crooks, we could at last be uniform to some degree in the eyes of The Law. [...] Total Criminalization was the greatest idea of its time and was vastly popular except with those people, who didn't want to be crooks or outlaws, so, of course, they had to be Tricked Into It... which is one of the reasons, why music was eventually made Illegal."
- Joe's Garage Acts II & III liner notes, 1979.

Beginnings

My friends tell me I need to write. My brain tells me I need to write. I will write. Whether anyone reads what I write is of little importance at this point. I just need to start somewhere. Beginnings.

This is a poem I wrote for a publication years ago. It was actually published!!

Ass Sonnet in Iambic Pentameter

By Berni Sarazine

Shall I compare ass to a work of art?

Its’ form designed to make mere fools of us

And as I falter, beg, be still my heart

Rejoice, Divine Gluteus Maximus

No imperfection in yours have I found

The gods bestowed you with a derriere

That’s flawless, shapely, beautiful and round

The throngs of gawkers stop in brazen stare

Please do not blush, for I must speak the truth

The end of you will be the end of me

I count myself most fortunate forsooth

To have your rear in close proximity

I think that I shall never pass

A butt as lovely as your ass