As it has been noted on numerous documents created without my consent, I was born and given the name Marshall J. Williams. The J stands for Joy. It is a family name from my father’s side. Each of my paternal grandparents had immigrant roots; my grandfather being from Poland himself and my grandmother the daughter of Polish immigrants. I never knew my father, only seeing him on two occasions during my childhood, and therefore was not in touch with my very close European ancestry. I was raised by my mother and maternal grandmother. They had descended from Irish Catholic immigrants, which my grandmother could proudly trace back to the early 19th century. When my grandmother was very young, she met an Italian-born man and married. Within two years, she was a mother of twin girls and divorced. So even though I grew up in a household with second and third generation immigrant roots, it was my maternal lineage that dominated the family outlook not only upon itself but upon other people as well. Our household was intentionally American. We ate tomato sauce from a jar and I was unaware of even the existence of pierogi, a small Polish dumpling, until adulthood. English was the only language spoken in our home and considered rightfully so. It was ingrained in my upbringing that I was a white American Catholic, and in that order. Given the fact that my maternal grandfather was completely absent from his children’s and grandchildren’s lives, any semblance to an Italian heritage was always vehemently denied. Yet I, as my mother and aunt, have a very decidedly southern European appearance. We each have olive skin and dark hair, qualities rarely seen among the Irish. However my younger brother resembles very strongly my father and his Polish countenance. It was amid this air of denial that I began to formulate an outward looking attitude. I wanted to know about other cultures, religions and was fascinated with maps. During my preschool years, I witnessed Vietnamese refugees from the war entering our church and my daycare. They spoke French and were Catholic. The daycare, being run by the Sisters, accepted these fellow Catholics as readily as we were encouraged to do by our Priest from the Sunday Alter Homilies. Yet, I was torn because they were foreigners in my families’ eyes. Our church was constructed in a typical Gothic style. The vaulted ceiling sat atop walls made of cold grey stone. Large octagonal columns of the same plain material lined the walkways on either side of the great hall. The entire edifice was designed as many Catholic structures are; in the shape of a cross. The altar was located at the far end from the entrance, and the warm tan-colored wooden pews filled the space between. Each bench had a four-leaf clover type motif carved into the edges. I imagined that they were some Latin design symbolic of peace. The azure stained glass windows were nearly eight feet in height and lined the body of the church. Above the altar was a corpulent window of Rose design that faced to the east so that in an early morning Mass the light cascaded into the church. Beneath the Rose window was what appeared to be a solid wood carving of a crucifix. I would learn some two decades later after it was removed that it had actually been assembled from several sections. Over the years, mold had begun to decay the religious icon to the point that it was discarded. I was quite surprised when I discovered it wasn’t a solid object, but just another deception played out upon the masses. The figure upon the wooden crucifix appeared gargantuan in my small eyes. In reality, the carving was over ten feet tall. It so dominated the space that my younger cousin once, upon entering the Church, cried out, “Hey, it’s Tarzan!” She was but five or six then, and I guess not accustomed to seeing such large depictions of Christ. The light fixtures were octagonal in shape and over a yard in height. They hung from the ceiling upon blackened chains and the encasements were simple wrought iron cages. There were opaque glass panes, which allowed the light to proceed from its guiled cage with a pale yellow hue. I would often stare at the lights as a young child and notice that when I turned away I could still see the light. Only by closing my eyes and patiently waiting did the glare dissolve. The lights taught me about cause and effect before I had ever heard each word, much less their relationship to one another. I have often reflected on that epiphany that an action causes a reaction, as I have viewed the implementation of public policy. Of course, when government edicts cause undesired effects, one cannot just close their eyes and patiently await resolution and clarity. Once while attending Mass, bored to tears as most five-year-olds are, I tried to order the races in God’s eyes. The first two were easy given where I lived in the former Capital of the Confederacy. White people were number one followed by blacks, of course. Then, I found a problem as Chinese or Japanese must be next; but which was third, or was it a tie? Then I thought about the small war-torn country of Vietnam, and what about Native Americans, and also the Jews. Maybe Jews were white, yet that couldn’t be so, as I heard such disparaging remarks about them within my community. It was then sitting in church that hot summer day with hand fans imprinted with a funeral home’s logo all aflutter around me that I realized it was pointless to have any order—the only thing that could make sense to my young mind was that no matter the division, nationality, race, religion, culture or skin color—in God’s eyes, we must and can only be all the same.
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