My immaculate conception
By Linda RomeroI was conceived in Colorado, somewhere between Glenwood Springs and Denver, in July of 1948. I have counted backwards, assuming a gestation period of 266 days, which puts the actual date at July 11, three months after my parents’ wedding. They were married in April and spent their wedding night at Chicago’s famous Drake Hotel, where my bashful mother, who had never been anywhere so elegant, ordered a drink called a Vesuvius and was mortified to see it delivered to their table, flames erupting from the glass, attracting the attention of everyone in the dining room.
They took a trip out West the following summer during my father’s two-week vacation from work. The fruit of that journey? Me.
I have an old photograph of my mother taken on that trip. In it, she is standing next to a mountain stream, probably somewhere on Loveland Pass. Her smile is radiant.
I believe it was at that very moment that egg and sperm united, at the top of the Continental Divide, where my mother and father would have pulled over to read the sign that explains how the water on one side flowed to the Atlantic and on the other side to the Pacific. In the photograph, my mother wears a stretchy top of red-and-white stripes (or so I surmise; it’s a black-and-white photograph). Her shoes have ankle straps that tied with little bows. I am able to understand now why I came to Colorado at nineteen, alone, with nothing on the blank slate of my future but the dream of a high mountain somewhere, covered with snow.
Nowadays, it’s fashionable to tell your kids the stories of their conceptions. But when I came to the mountains, I had never even heard the word, except in connection with Jesus’ mother, Mary. My mother never used the word “conception” at all but for the relationship of the Holy Mother of Christ, the birth of Whom is recognized by devout Catholics as the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary, or, to paraphrase, the B.V.M., Mary, The Blessed Virgin, The Immaculate Conception, The Blessed Virgin Mary, The Bee Vee Em, Holy Mother, Blessed Mother, Sacred Mother, the Virgin Mother. My mother used those titles interchangeably, with the ease of a person for whom worship is an almost continuous, although private, act. Mary was as much a presence in the house as my grandmother, who had an equally long number of descriptions: grandma, gram, your grandmama, your father’s mother, dad’s mother, Amelia.
Catholic children learn a lot of big words early. They’re in the Baltimore Catechism, a collection of questions and answers that every Catholic child is expected to learn. Such children use the word “virgin” casually, but only in connection with the Holy Mother. “Put the Virgin next to the cow,” I instructed my little sister as we set up the manger scene at Christmas. The Virgin meant Mary, and vice-versa, and that was that. I was a virgin, and I didn’t even know it. If asked, I would have said that a virgin was a “holy lady from the old days.”
My misunderstanding of one word in particular still causes me great embarrassment. When I was a freshman in high school, I sat in study hall across from a sophomore girl, Kristie, who took it upon herself to be my friend. One day, she leaned over the table and whispered: “Do you know what an ejaculation is?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Well then, what is it?” she asked.
“An ejaculation,” I recited, “is a short, heartfelt prayer that helps you get out of purgatory.”
“Huh?” said Kristie. “What are you talking about?”
“You know. Like, ‘Sacred heart of Jesus, pray for us,’ gets you a month’s indulgence.”
“What? That’s stupid.”
“Well, what do you think an ejaculation is?” I challenged, and she told me. I decided at that moment never to tell her about Anthony Cottonaro. Anthony was in my catechism class of 10-year-olds, as well as my classmate at Edison Public School during the week. Anthony was so good at math that he could compute indulgences at lightning speed in his head. One Sunday, Sister Margaret pointed out the section in the Baltimore Catechism that promised three hundred days’ indulgence every time we recited the ejaculation: “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
“Wow!” said Anthony. “You could say it 100 times real fast, and get something like eighty years off Purgatory! What a deal!”
Sister Mary Edward explained to him that every second separated from God is an eternity. So just to be on the safe side, I recited ejaculations during all my free time — in the shower, walking to school or sitting at mass on Sundays. Under my breath, I mumbled, “Sacred Heart, pray for us,” or some other ejaculation from the Baltimore catechism.
Anthony said he did, too. As devout a Catholic as I, he would sometimes ask, “Did you ejaculate today?” and I would answer, “Yes. Many times.”
“Me, too,” said Anthony. We both felt very holy.
It’s so un-politically correct to believe that conception is the moment life begins. I know that, and I cringe to think that people who read this might believe I take sides in the abortion issue, which I try not to do. I have no conviction that I began to think at the moment my parents’ DNA united atop the Continental Divide. I just think it’s interesting, you know?
Another idea to throw in the pot, another answer to the question: Why did you come here? Why do you stay?
Linda Romero has lived on Colorado's Western Slope since 1969. She is at work on her second novel.
