On Catholic Guilt and Irish Goodbyes

on tartan plaid, on a sense of control

If you went to Catholic school, you may be eligible for compensation.

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No need to haul any documentation. Leave your unorganized receipts at home undusted. It will be known. The secondhand Catholic guilt will cut through any room before you arrive. And it sure as hell will know to linger long after you’ve left.

My Indian immigrant household operated off of a scarcity mindset fueled by a western world mercilessly prodding at their tender bodies and minds insisting they continuously prove their worth. My parents believed in order to live in the U.S., to stay alive in the U.S., they needed to be exceptional. The lack of opportunities to pull them out of poverty and toward financial mobility would not be found in their homeland, Tamil Nadu. So they emigrated.

This better life they sought—a race—was buoyed by the understanding that education comes first. So naturally, my brother and I, both raised Hindus, were plopped into Catholic school encased in tartan plaid, white button-ups, and khakis. My experience in a predominantly white school during some of the most formative years was inevitably complicated. My beliefs of who my gods were and what religion meant to me was haphazardly flung up into the air – only now has it landed on the soft of the earth. Only now is it close enough for me to consider. 

My proximity to generational wealth was palpable yet still completely foreign. The life I lived in my family’s two-bedroom apartment felt abundant, was abundant. The generosity of the synthetic carpet warming and transforming into a sun spot under me on a quiet weekend morning brings me to tears. However, very different tears still form when thinking about the cruel look on a friend’s face when they visited my home for the first and last time. The home my parents built from their fierce love I am certain I will never experience from anyone else on this entire planet was on display for eyes that could not open.

Of course, it is complicated. On one hand, I have benefited from receiving a strong education and impeccable penmanship. On the other hand, at 27, there are still therapy co-pays that are dedicated to unraveling those years and its aftereffects on a first generation Indian-American girl. Funny how the tuition bill my parents received didn’t have an asterisk denoting this inevitable future hidden cost. 

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From a young age, my affection for reading was enthusiastically encouraged. I have fond memories of spending Saturdays at the public library with my entire family. Letting my gentle fingers dance, sometimes even rest, on spines of hardcovers in their plastic jackets. A quiet crackle beneath my fingertips; a controlled explosion. Entire universes were tangible here. The only thing between me and them was time I needed to read. Even now, I find myself overwhelmed by the reality that I will never be able to read every book I want to read in this lifetime. This truth overwhelms me. But from that young age, I found ways to sneak a read. 

In middle school, I was Team Edward. Proudly, I went all in for him – his mystique, his glittering skin. I was committed. So committed that I was ready to devour reading the Twilight series in spite of Amma deeming those books, the ones that got a bit too spicy for her liking, as off limits. Still, I snuck a read. I placed all 629 pages of Eclipse into the literal Holy Bible and read away. This was perhaps my earliest form of sex education. Catholic school’s version was abstinence sprinkled in with terrifying abortion propaganda. In all fairness, I was trying to round out my education because education comes first. 

Now I am sure Amma noticed. And if she didn’t, it’s because she was a working mother with a neverending list of responsibilities I cannot begin to fathom. Nevertheless, the shame and guilt I felt from lying to her was heavy. So heavy I tried to lighten it by helping out around the house a little extra. I washed the dishes without being asked or announcing they are done. I did not dare to complain about my lunch even though I really do not like Red Delicious apples. I let bygones be bygones in fights with my brother even though my sensitive heart was aching. Without realizing what I was doing, I started to believe I only deserved to be quiet in my life.

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Indians and the Irish? We are kin. That’s the result of surviving British colonization – my people are my people despite our differences. So of course, I am well-versed in the Irish Goodbye. At an age where my knees creak and feet feel tender when I wake up, I no longer have much interest in nights out. But on the rare occasion I am out past my bedtime in somewhat sensible shoes, I do know that when I have hit a wall and have had my fill, I will leave. There is no rhyme or reason on who is alerted of my slick departure. In most cases, I likely just go. Quietly. The fuss and prolonged farewells when I know my soul wants mascara extracted off each eyelash and my body tucked safely beneath my sheets is something I don’t have the patience for. So I go. I drive myself back or call an Uber and get comfortable with just myself. I might send a text to one friend and say I’m on my way home, and I had so much fun. I even mean it. 

Lately, I’ve been noticing I don’t even make it to the bar. Or the dinner. Or my friend’s apartment. Or the dance studio. Or the open mic. Or the grocery store. Or my desk. Before I even have the chance to avoid the fuss and prolonged farewells, I have made the decision I will not be showing up to my life. This is how I manage my loneliness. I vehemently refuse it even before it can utter a syllable of protest. I withdraw from connection and community—the very one I build my life around. It comes from the idea that I have control over my isolation but not my loneliness. The loneliness will find a way to me regardless of what I do. It will sneak up in any climate no matter what excitement is penned on my calendar. But my isolation? I choose when and how that plays out. So I pull back from my world. So I grow smaller and fold into myself. So I listen to a story, a universe in my head that tells me if I do not even show up, how could I feel the devastation of someone I love not noticing that I have left? Of someone I love leaving me before I am ready to let go?

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It was not for the American highway system sprawling through states. Or American cul-de-sacs in white picket fence-lined neighborhoods. Definitely not for the American beef burgers oozing heart disease onto generously buttered buns. Amma and Appa chose a life of constant change and drastic upheaval several time zones away from their families and communities for their children, me and my brother. Before we were even born, they knew their shot to give us a life, a beautiful life, a better life than anything they could imagine for themselves, would require them to sacrifice their own comforts of familiarity. The very things that make this life bearable, often in a world so bitter and cold. I am overwhelmed with gratitude that two humans who did not even know me or my existence had loved me so deeply that they believed I was worthy of living such a full life.

Of course, I will still lean into the Irish Goodbyes at parties, even the ones I avoid going to. But I will be committed to the practice of staying here and attempting to enjoy this life that is the result of generations of love. I will be committed to figuring out how to stay despite the guilt and shame that overwhelms. There is no destination for me to exit to. And just maybe there will be days where I don’t want to quietly leave. I will show up, enjoy the party, and tell people who love me when I am ready to go home. I’ll even let them embrace me in whatever state I am in. I will trust when they say they are happy I came. 

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It is Easter Sunday. He has risen. His blood and covenant has saved His people from their sins. And I have spent the better part of the weekend under the cast of existential dread that has unforgivingly loomed above me for the majority of the year. I had told myself I was going to be productive. Write a couple essays, revise some poems. Instead, I canceled plans and stayed in bed. Looking at me from my side table is a framed photo of me and my parents. I am six years old, I love to read, and the word “loneliness” is not yet in my vocabulary.  I put the shame aside, sit up in my bed, and call my best friend, Kelsey. Of course, I unravel but stay upright. She tells me she is so happy I called.