Grave Dancing…

This year the Internet through Google, email, and social networks brought me the news of my brother-in-law’s death to Bubonic Plague, my sister’s natural surrender to age, the tragic suicide of a gifted student, the devastating loss of a long time and dear friend’s young son, cancer afflictions and dozens of other tragedies and triumphs. Sadly, there was more of the former than the latter. It is a part of getting older; life passages and a developmental stages and not  easy ones–if there is ever such…
I learned yesterday of the closure of my old church in Pueblo, Colorado. They celebrated the last mass at St. Patrick’s Church this year. It was then that I looked up the names of two of its pastors in the 1970’s: Dan Maio and Jerry Varrone who later left the priesthood. They headed up the diocesan youth programs there. Both were young, bright and wholly narcissistic enough to relish the power and authority that can come with being clergy. Varrone was just arrogant and an unwitting accomplice; Maio was an evil, unrepentant pedophile.
I also read that Maio died not long ago. There was no mention in his obituary of the fact that he was once a man of the cloth. Too, there was no mention of the fact that he introduced many of us to drugs and alcohol for the first time–though that was the most benign of his sins. I don’t wish suffering, trauma or early demise on anyone, but I am delighted that Daniel C. Maio is no longer on this planet and hopeful that his passing may begin the healing process for some of his victims.
I was watching a documentary about memory and a woman who had congenital eidetic recall. Horrible memories are stored in areas of her brain that others of us do not use for information storage. For her, anything bad that has happened to her is still alive in her mind as though the trauma just occurred. while most of us like oysters ( a metaphor from the show) and smooth the rough sands of experience in our lives, learn to live with the past and sometimes even create pearls of those times, she cannot. For the victims of sexual predators it is often the the same. Trust does not easily return and hundreds of everyday items, smells or sounds can trigger anxiety, depression or rage for many years.
Several years ago I asked my two daughters–distinctly opposing temperaments and personalities–how they would deal with the advances of a predator. My eldest was unsure and confounded by even the question. Her younger sister was quick to reply that she would “kick him in the balls and then call the cops.” I lectured them both, but never told them why the subject was profoundly personal for me.
A recent article on a social site said one of the many rules of “good writing” was to never speak ill of the dead. Well, you have endured it so far and it is about to worsen.
Maio used his position to solicit and recruit sex from an alarming number of young boys in Pueblo. He carefully targeted the troubled, delinquent or sexually curious youths in his charge as a barricade against any allegations that might come his way. He did indulge in sex with underage boys who had declared their sexual preferences, but he preferred those who had not. Even after leaving the priesthood to take over his family’s printing business in Colorado Springs he volunteered his home for years and supplied overnight stays to mentally ill boys at the Colorado State Hospital. It never occurred to the staff there that an increase in bed-wetting, autistic withdrawal and rage were symptoms of sickness visited on them by Maio. He was a coward, and a dangerous one as were those like Pueblo’s Bishop Buswell and others who did nothing when told about his crimes.
I wrote a poem many years ago that was widely anthologized about my experiences as a teenager in Pueblo. My father’s injuries in Vietnam and the subsequent debilitating grief of my mother left me angry, dazed and homeless; my foster placement with Maio terminated any trust or respect I might have for authority for years to come:
A Mystery of Faith
There were other boys who knew the sound of black patent leather squeaking down the hardwood hall. the nuns like Mary Elizabeth, existing on a belief in simple answers, would never feel the drool, or smell the musk or wince at the late day stubble tearing at their cheeks. Maybe she came here to answer questions I now asked: How do women forget the making and breaking of their spirits? How do they wash away the incense of aggression? When does grown-up flesh release its hold on small bones?
How do women stand it? None of us can forget a single turn of the cold brass, stillness rushing from the room, prayers taking us out of our bodies into the rectory’s stained ceiling, being yanked back by the horrifying rituals of the familiar: The thin vinegar of communion wine, his tiny cruciform medallion rapping against flesh, vapors of toxic celibacy coming from the god who saw to it that he was a delinquent’s last chance on earth.
Sometimes we thought we knew more about being a woman than did Sister Mary. And we longed for her easy answers , but none of us risked asking questions that can change a faith forever. When do accept as she seemed to, the wind as God, one who polices the night, rattles doorknobs, whispers to us, assures us, that we can finally close our eyes to the dark?
Some of us are smoothing the sharp edges of memory into something useful or beautiful, some of us will forever wish we had killed him before he could escape justice.
Daniel C. Maio: Do not rest in peace.
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Over the last three weeks I have said farewell to more than a dozen long-term China expatriates. Most of them weary of the old and new visa restrictions and the impossibility of ever obtaining a permanent resident’s card. They hail from education, entertainment,media, high-tech and other sectors. No one has immunity in the newest immigration rout.












To paraphrase Edward HoaglandWe have in America “The Big Two-Hearted River”tradition: taking your wounds to the wilderness for a cure, a conversion, a rest or whatever. And in the Hemingway story, if your wounds aren’t too bad, it works. But, this isn’t Michigan (or Faulkner’s Big Woods in Mississippi, for that matter). This is China! 






