Losing my religion: Sharon Angelici

LOSING MY RELIGION

LOSING

Church might be a home and community for some congregants, but for others, it’s a source of heartbreak.

RELIGION

Words: SHARON ANGELICI Images: ANNIE SPRATT

I WAS FIVE years old the first time the Catholic Church crushed my soul.

My mother worked for the church, and I spent most of my afternoons with the parish priest when morning kindergarten classes ended. I loved him. He taught me how to be Catholic, and when I told him I wanted to be a priest like him, he broke my heart with the truth: “Girls can’t become priests.”

The image of him and the way he said those words are etched in my memory. I cried because being myself wasn’t good enough for the Catholic Church.

I’ve spent the last 48 years trying to come to terms with the rejection I felt. I tried to be good enough by following the rules and playing along. I tried to teach my children that loving a higher power was the key to feeling balanced, but I’m not sure I ever believed it myself.

IN 2015, THE SUPREME COURT of the United States granted marriage equality. I celebrated with my queer family members, while at the same time struggling in silence with my own bisexuality. I never spoke to anyone about being queer. It didn’t fit the expectations of a Catholic wife and mother. My 20-year marriage to a man didn’t remove my attraction to women.

I went to church the first Sunday after the announcement, overjoyed by the Supreme Court ruling. I kept thinking of my found family who were finally able to get married.

The priest preached about his disgust and encouraged us to fight against the decision to let gays marry. He urged the congregation to use their voting power to challenge the decision and overturn the ruling. I wiped away tears as my husband leaned over to console me. I felt like that five-year-old child again. It felt like every moment of my devotion to the church was suddenly erased because I am queer.

I realised that day that I was never going to be good enough for this patriarchal institution. By no choice of my own, I was less than. I was born a girl and I didn’t choose to be bisexual. I’ve never questioned the way I am, but again the church told me I wasn’t enough.

I LEFT THE CATHOLIC CHURCH and didn’t attend a service again until my mother’s death in April 2018. Her fight with cancer was short and intense.

I spent most of her last days in the hospital and nursing home advocating for her care.

Mom was a member of the same church for over 60 years. No-one from the parish came to see her. I had to call for the priest to anoint her and I had to request ashes for her during Lent. The faith group she’d dedicated her life to abandoned her.

I prayed with Mom every time she asked and many times when she couldn’t. Her belief was humbling, and in our quiet days together I came to terms with a faith journey separate from the religion of Catholicism. Recognising that I didn’t have to follow the church’s precepts helped me let go of a lifetime of rejection. Being queer and identifying as a bisexual woman is who I am, and I realised I could be happy without the church.

Mom died in the early hours of 21 April. She passed in her sleep. I was with her until the funeral director wheeled out the grey and black printed body bag. I didn’t want to let her go.

I spent the next few days planning her funeral with my family. We knew exactly what she wanted for her funeral mass.

I returned to the same church building that once echoed with my five-yearold giggles and dreams. It was a hollow building, and the absence of God’s love was palpable.

When we met with the church staff, we were sure that the service would honour Mom’s devotion to Catholicism. It did not, and my five-year-old self was crushed again.

My mother had the terrible misfortune of dying during Easter season. We were told that all the readings that she loved couldn’t be read in May because it was outside the correct liturgical season.

My parents helped build that church. My mother was the director of religious education for over 20 years. She would have fought for everything she was being denied in death.

We weren’t allowed to eulogise Mom during the service. We couldn’t put up her picture, display articles of faith or sing the songs that celebrated her life, because the church is more concerned with rules than souls. I wanted to go rogue and break every ridiculous restriction.

The funeral mass was dictated by the priest and his minions. The parish director held the service hostage until we wrote cheques to pay the priest and the music director. No-one cared who she was or how much she’d sacrificed as a Catholic woman – they just wanted to finish the business of dying.

We were allowed to say a few words before the mass began, and every person in that church heard from me and my sisters how incredible Mom was.

I wanted to call out the church for treating us like nothing. I didn’t think it was possible to hurt more as a Catholic. The absence of love from the priest and the parish director would have broken her heart.

My niece and uncle sang the farewell songs during the funeral mass. The priest left the church before the final song was played. I guess he had something more important to do than honour this part of one of the seven sacred sacraments. Mom’s death was just another business transaction, and he’d already been paid.

I know that my mother wasn’t a movie star or a political figure, and in the wider picture of the universe she was just my mom, but she had faith and devotion. She deserved the music she wanted and a biblical reading that summarised the life she lived.

CHURCH WAS MEANT TO BE a home and a community – but not for me, the straight-passing person, the bisexual married woman and the devoted daughter who wanted the best at the end of an extraordinary life.

The home of the church has conditions for entry, and I wish that five-year-old me wasn’t eternally on the outside wishing to be good enough to enter.

SHARON ANGELICI has been writing works of fiction, short stories and poetry since childhood. Her first published short work, Dear Kane; what I wish we would have said, is an exploration of the impacts of hatred and bigotry and has been used to start conversations about suicide and depression. She writes queer fantasy romance, including three books in the Maker Series published by Write With Light publications. She is based in the United States.

Photography series by

W O N D R A

W O N D R A

Q&A with DADDY DOE

Wondra (they/them) is a non-binary, unapologetically queer photographer currently residing in Southeast Portland, USA. Their passion is meeting new people and creating ethereal, thought-invoking and empowering art through photography. A firm believer of strength in vulnerability, Wondra loves creating a raw and emotive viewfinder between two realities while making humans feel beautiful and seen. Primarily, their photoshoots take place out of their home studio and spacious backyard, and they are able to create a unique world through their dream-like images. Their work has been featured in Vogue Italia, Pornceptual, DSCVRD, Stereogum, Gothesque Magazine, The Mighty, Causette, Our Culture, Marie Claire, Enorm Magazine, Femme Rebelle Magazine, Elegant Magazine, Dark Beauty, IMIRAGEmagazine, Girlgaze, Feminist and more.

DADDY DOE. Photographers rarely get in front of a camera. What inspired you to take selfportraits and what do you get out of taking them?

WONDRA. Self-portraits are some of my absolute favourites since they’re actually how I began my photography journey. At 15 years old, I was a pretty shy kid and felt intimidated to ask other people to model for me, so I learned how to use the self-timer and photograph myself. There was this antique lamp that I liked to play around with in my photos; I remember experimenting with shadows from that lamp and the window in my childhood bedroom. Since then, my self-portraits have really evolved into a special way for me to heal and explore so many parts of myself. I’d highly recommend that any photographer give self-portraits a shot.

DD. Do you have any artistic rituals for yourself before a shoot?

W. I think rituals outside of photography are very important to me before going into a photoshoot during the day. Waking up, drinking some coffee and then lifting or going rock climbing for an hour in the morning feels really good for my brain. Doing things with my hands and moving my body tends to put me in the right headspace to create and be artistic.

DD. You photograph self-portraits and photographs of others in your home for a lot of your work. Most recently, that included a selfportrait series taken during your trip to Minnesota, where you grew up. Tell us about the connection to home that is woven through your work.

W. Minneapolis will always feel like home away from home to me. I miss my friends out there so much, and visiting always feels bittersweet.

Home has a different meaning for everyone, but for me, home is the people I love. Home also feels like the connection I have to myself and my body, though it doesn’t always feel that way. My hope is that this is translated into my self-portrait work.

DD. How do you find a way to connect with people you’ve just met when you’re photographing them?

W. I love getting to know people and photographing them in a way that they’d like to be perceived. This can indeed be challenging to do with someone I just met! Something that has helped me through this process is inviting a conversation around why they are wanting a photoshoot, what themes they like and what about my work they were drawn to.

DD. How has your journey with self-exploration and identity evolved over time through your photography?

W. Constantly evolving! My self-portraits help me explore my identity, but meeting, creating and connecting with other queers does too – tremendously. I find that I’m always learning more about myself through photography and this community.

“Home has a different meaning for everyone but for me, home is the people I love. Home also feels like the connection I have to myself and my body, though it doesn’t always feel that way”

DD. I’m a queer person of colour, and exploring my eroticism, sensuality and kinks in a safe space has been hard to do, so I’m selective about who I explore those things with. The comments from the people you work with indicate that you collaboratively explore these spaces, safely and respectfully. Could you tell us about this process?

W. Communication is so incredibly important – for all photoshoots really, but especially for the more kink-related ones. For these photoshoots, I will talk with the person(s) I’m photographing about what activities they will be doing during the photoshoot, so everyone involved knows what to expect and there are no surprises. It’s crucial that everyone involved knows that anyone present at the photoshoot is able to stop at any moment – for any reason.

If I’m photographing someone who is modelling solo, I will usually suggest they invite someone close to them to the photoshoot. I think bringing a buddy is good practice for anybody at any photoshoot with any photographer.

Also, it’s really great to research photographers! If you’re wanting to shoot with someone you haven’t worked with before, reaching out to models they’ve photographed can be really helpful and insightful.

DD. You have an incredible talent for capturing a moment in your photography. How do you know when it’s the right moment?

W. Such a compliment! Thank you! Movement is one of my favourite ways to capture an image. I offer as much or as little guidance as my model wants or feels comfortable with. This can involve them moving around freely, or I might pose them in a more exact way and then ask them to make smaller, more localised movements like moving their fingers, arms, head, etc.

DD. We’d love to hear about one of your most fulfilling collaborations.

W. My work with Trista Marie McGovern, most definitely! Trista is a good friend of mine from Minneapolis who is a disability advocate, writer and photographer. I had the privilege of doing a series of photoshoots with her that she coordinated, exploring disability and sexuality. She compiled them all into a book paired with her writing and prose and it’s absolutely beautiful. Her book is called Where Shame Dies.

DD. What is the message you hope to share with people who experience your work?

W. It’s important to me that people feel the queer love and joy in my work. It’s also important that people are able to see themselves in my work. I don’t photograph one certain type of person and I want that to be reflected in my portfolio. I want people to feel included and welcome to work with me.

DADDY DOE is an artist, performer and mentor with over 10 years experience in her fields. Her passions are activism, movement, art and erotica. When Daddy is off the clock, she ends up working on creative projects because she just can’t help it, constantly trying to find the balance of artist to self.