Military recruits in basic training and catholic school students have one thing in common: they are numbered rather than named.  At age thirteen I was relieved to escape the confines of Our Mother of Sorrows without knowledge of any number; my name is Gabby Procci. 

            From pre-school to seventh grade, I was spoon-fed religion.  Of course, we were taught math, science, language, history, etc.  However, each subject was taught from the perspective of Catholicism in a subliminal way.  When I was younger, I would gulp down each dose without question, just as all of my other classmates did so willingly. 

On Fridays we went to church and every other day besides that we studied “faith” for an hour in the morning.  Each and every one of us impatiently waited until second grade to receive communion, fourth grade when we could go to reconciliation, and then we would look forward to confirmation in eighth grade.  I could not tell you for the life of me why eating a wafer or telling an adult all of the bad things you have done was so exciting, and yet it was.

Communion went over smoothly.  At eight years old we put on our most serious faces to receive what was described to us as the body and blood of Christ.  Later I would find that Christ was just some very considerate and caring, hippy-like man, but until I was struck with that knowledge he was Christ, our Lord and Savior.  With blinders on, we walked down the center isle of the church, only opening our mouths for the Eucharist to be put on our tongues.  From that moment on, we were a home for Christ; this made all of us connected.

In fourth grade a few things had happened; I was maturing much faster than most of the other girls and when that didn’t make me different enough, I began to have weird feelings that I could not put into words until I learned the definition of the word lesbian, that same year.  Curled up on my bed crying, I choked out what I feared was happening to my mother.  She told me I was too young to know and I tried to believe her.  When the sacrament of reconciliation came around, being homosexual was a sin that I felt the need to admit.  After I fled the small room where I had talked to the priest, I prayed as hard as I could, just like he had suggested.  When it was time to leave, I had said the rosary so many times I thought it had worked.  It hadn’t.  That was the first spark that made me think pure faith wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.