In the Name Of
Written by Grace - New Jersey, USA
In Catholicism, a name is sacred. It demands respect, a sign of dignity marked on their tongue with just a few syllables. We are taught in long, wooden pews that to take the Lord’s name in vain is sacrilegious, that “A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches”. It follows us through our time on Earth, etched in the Heavens for when our passing comes. The final sacrament of initiation is to select a Confirmation name, sealing us with the Holy Spirit. In short, we must take on a new name, most commonly a Saint. It is said that to adopt their name is to burn their virtues into your heart. You are not just you anymore. The Saint and yourself are intertwined in God’s open arms.
I had already taken many names up to this point, but never one so important. My mother would pry as to which Saint I would select, but I could not admit my indecisiveness. There were so many aspects of my identity, but none of them tied quite perfectly to a Saint. I was not brave enough for Saint George; Not kind enough for Saint Veronica. I felt like a tapestry, pieces of my puzzle unable to be assembled into a full being. How could I find my way to God, if I could not find myself?
It was my bisexuality, surprisingly enough, that gave way to a new road. There was always a barrier in my mind between the Church and my queerness, two pieces of me that could not coexist. To be Catholic meant to scrub my lips of any taste of woman, yet to be queer meant to tuck my cross under my jacket. Bisexuality, too, had a similar feature of being defined in the word or: I was to either thread my fingers through her hair or tug on his collar. There was no in between. I could not be bisexual–I had to be half lesbian, half straight. There were always two Grace’s, one giggling to Sunday School students about a cute boy, another perfecting winged eyeliner for the girl next door. Two masks, neither quite me. This or that, him or her.
In that moment, when the incompatibility became too much to bear, God pointed me towards St. Catherine. Maybe it was because she too sat in her own despair and decided–despite a world full of or–that she would be an and. A scholar and a woman. A princess and a Catholic. The Lord’s child and herself, all at once. She refused to swallow her identity as a Catholic woman, defeating every philosopher who dared to debate her. God loved her, for her whole, not her pieces.
It was as if a fire had been lit within me. Tears collected in my eyes, yet I could not explain why. Someone had scratched her name beside mine in Heaven, I am sure of it, connecting us in life and death. Two walking paradoxes, but nothing about our existences were antithetical. For if God truly loved His children, would the taste of girl’s chapstick really keep me from heaven? No, I think not. I think the door would be open, the fireplace roaring as He told me how happy He was to see me. That whoever I brought alongside me would not matter, for I would be here, with Him.
I have a million names, but Catherine is carried right next to my heart. I am Grace and Catherine, Catholic and Bisexual, all at once. A beautiful hymn of faith and being, someone that belongs.
