X Marks the Spot

My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…..

February 21 was Ash Wednesday and I dutifully went to church to do what I’ve always done for more than four decades—I had ashes placed on my forehead. It was nine in the morning and there was a relatively large crowd, mostly people about to go to work, making sure that they observed this Holy Day of Obligation before life got in the way. Frankly, it would have been just another Wednesday had Glenn not reminded me the night before, “Don’t forget your ashes.” He’s good in that way. He always makes sure that I do not miss or forget rituals and services. He could almost be my mother except that they stand on opposite sides of the Cross. Plus he has more hair than she does.

Normally, when I get my ashes, I proceed with the rest of my day and think nothing of it. By the early afternoon and without any intervention on my part, the black mark begins to fade and what is left on my forehead is nothing more than a smidgen, like bad mascara that got smudged before it had a chance to dry.

But this particular day was different: I found myself receiving more than my usual quota of stares in a way that left me feeling uncomfortable. The quality of the stare was particularly disconcerting as it didn’t begin in the way I was accustomed to: the sudden look in mid-stride by whatever it was that caught their eye and the moment of clarity that illuminated whatever it was that caught them by surprise. In most cases, it was over as quickly as it began.

Not this one. It began with a pair of eyes carefully focusing on my face, not quite fixing on a point but searching for one just the same, unabashedly, then upon finding it, lingering, and lingering some more. Was my nose out of joint? Did I apply too much foundation on one side of my face? Were my eye bags sagging down to my knees? Were my roots showing and were they, heaven forbid, trying to estimate my true age? Then a polite acknowledgement of something I already knew. “It’s Ash Wednesday.”

I almost let it pass until I caught my reflection in a mirror and was horrified to see how huge and black the mark was. A helicopter could have landed on my forehead, it was that big. In the past, the mark was nothing more than a smudge, like a Nike swoosh, pressed in a hurry because there were others on line and there were trains to catch. You couldn’t even tell it was a cross. But this one labeled me very clearly and there was nothing I could do. Because of it, I felt singled out. I didn’t like it.

I don’t go around telling people my religious affiliation nor do I discuss the depth of that connection. I don’t talk about my rosary collection or the saints to whom I pray the Novena. My religion is a very private and personal matter and I prefer to keep it that way. It is not a topic of conversation at cocktails. People who know and understand this about me know when not to overstep their boundaries because when they do and some of them have, I go for the jugular.

The ash on my forehead marked me in a way that didn't make me feel good or special. Instead, I felt exposed, marginalized and diminished. I found myself walking around with a heavy heart and an even heavier head sitting on my shoulders. Suddenly, my religion felt like a burden rather than a blessing. Seeing others like me, with their foreheads sullied by that big, ugly mark didn’t change that feeling.

And it wouldn’t come off.