Contours of the Skull

Twenty-Nine

Prologue

Dear Reader,

I now admit: I do not know who I am.

My notion of my life is defunct. Despite my years of temperament and abundant facilitation, the chips have fallen and many are in need of recollecting.

While I sit in this robust airport at 5:30 a.m., I ponder my existence. I ponder my continuance. I ponder my fate.

Who am I? I am angry, terrified, and concerned over the rest of my natural days. The remarkable manifestation from the last several months has left me searching for who I am. To sit in a place of travel with such confusion as to where I am, who I am, and what I am plays a bizarre contrasting view at this moment.

B9. My gate. The next departure is to New York, where a catalog of circumstances awaits. Terrified over the outcome that I am soon to embark upon, I hope only for points of solution and resolve.

But how did I get here? What brought me to this place of redevelopment? Was it the monastery that excused me from its community because of my serious need to further my pilgrimage in identity? Was it my self-centered desire to seek out the acceptance of others?

Or was it, as Brother Aaron called it, the false self that emulates my psyche to a place that I now find very troubling and difficult to depart?

My decision to write this letter to you, and ultimately this book, humbly clears mutual points: I now accept my current status of identity, and I am open to sharing my thoughts with you. This is because I hope my journey to complete my understanding of identity helps create a variance within your life. I also wish none of the flowing episodes I am currently facing spill into the lives of my readers. Unfortunately, my belief reflects the complete opposite. We all possess an empathetic relationship to our emotional and mental challenges. Not knowing who I am is a statement we all have made one or more times in our lives.

During my twenty-eight days in the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Georgia, I became aware that there was a lot I did not know about myself and the role I have to fill in this world. A place such as Holy Spirit is filled with the rich existence of pure love. Central to that is the love of God. I could not continue my observership with this weight on my heart without constant fear of destroying that harmony in such a profound environment. My belief, until now, was that one can become great by accepting anything that comes to approach him or her, despite how it suffocates the soul. The acceptance, up to this point, was better than love for me, or how I personified my love for others. In fact, this acceptance became me.

So where do I go from here? Knowing I must depart for New York any moment now, my anxiety increases. I am troubled, lost, in need of clearance. Moreover, I am dying for someone to love me. But not the Eros love that evaporates in eventual time. Oh no. I am in search of that profound love that trumps all other loves. That agape love. That love of God.

September 10, 2010

Gate B9

Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport

Atlanta, Georgia, USA

1

First Interview

"You got to be ready for this life."

Brother Matthew Costo, a slim yet defined older monk, could be heard throughout the lengthy corridors of the guest house. A Cistercian monk for over fifteen years, his knowledge of the life was paramount to many of the monks who have worn the famous black and white of the order.

Born and raised in the Italian neighborhoods of Providence, Rhode Island, and proud of it, his raspy mid-Atlantic voice reflected his past existence. He had been the vocations director at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit for over five years, so his interest of monastic prospects gleamed throughout his work. His method to his passion was only the reflection of the truth of the life; it is a laborious, austere, simple journey praised by God.

With his legs crossed and his demeanor defined, he continued to question me as to my level of interest in the monastic life.

So why do you wanna be a monk? It’s not as glamorous as it’s made out to be. But it’s well worth it.

I have had interest since ’99, Brother, I responded. I remember the first monastery I ever visited, Mepkin. I fell in love with the place and have had the calling since. I just feel I should now answer the calling.

Well, you’re young and intelligent, he replied, while attempting to remove pieces of his recent lunch from between his teeth with the sucking action of his jaw. You seem as though you can make up your mind well. You’re married?!

No sir.

How’s your health?

I have Crohn’s disease. Other than that, it’s good.

I have that too, he responded with surprise, realizing the distinct comparison between us. He then initiated this mezzo-high-pitched chuckle only a trained actor could imitate. But I haven’t had an outbreak in years.

He continued, Any felonies or convictions?

I couldn’t help but think about my very recent experience with a hotel in New York, where I couldn’t pay at the last minute the remaining balance of a hospitality bill I had already cared for only hours earlier. I had no intention of checking out that day or mysteriously vacating the premises, and I was renting four rooms at the time. So, the business I was providing the hotel was exceptional. Yet, as a result of some terrible luck and unfair disadvantage, my next evening experience was in the humble custody of NYPD Central Booking. Fortunately for me, I was only charged a Class A misdemeanor in the end. Yep, it was a stupid, unfair reason to be locked up, considering I was a platinum member of the Starwood Corporation for a number of years. Another black man being accused of some ridiculousness, I thought, as I was handcuffed on one of the club-level halls of the Four Points by Sheraton Time Square Hotel in New York. Tears poured out my eyes and rolled down my cheeks in absolute embarrassment as guests of the hotel stared at me while I was escorted from the 33rd floor and out the premises of the place I considered my second home for over four months. The staff knew me by my first name and most of them considered me when wishing to discuss their days and problems within their lives, and vice versa. To most, I was considered more as a friend than a customer. So I couldn’t understand why I was experiencing any of this, since the hotel made thousands off my company and me during the months I was occupying living space. In the end, I could only assume it was because a greedy corporation demanded the last of a minority based business. And because of that assumption, I refused to hand another dollar to them that day.

After I was charged, I fought the case for weeks, but only conceded once they offered to dropped the charges to disorderly conduct and remove them from my record the following year. Little did I know that I could have sued the hotel and city for wrongful arrest –I found this out only days after a deal was made with the prosecution.

Not yet, I hesitantly responded, thinking that the case hadn’t gone to trial and no decision had been made on the outcome at that time.

That’s good, he said. So why this monastery? And why Cistercians?

This was my second visit to Holy Spirit, so my understanding of the place was bright in my mind. I visited four Cistercian monasteries prior to this one, so I could compare from all I had experienced. At first, the environment here seemed too liberal for an order of the Strict Observance. The monks were much friendlier, and the separation between the community and retreatants was less rigid than that of previous communities.

The monastery was just over sixty years old, celebrating its first jubilee in 2000. When it was first established, only about 10 percent of the state of Georgia was Roman Catholic, and about 1 percent of the Catholics had ever seen an actual monk up close. When the monks arrived in 1944, the town of Conyers treated them as aliens on some ungodly, spiritual mission.

I feel comfortable here, Brother, I replied. I have grown fond of this community and the brothers. I believe my calling has led me here.

Well, we’re a different breed. I have been here for over fifteen years and I am still getting to know the brothers. He, again, created his unique laugh. It’s like marriage. It’s like you’re married to this community. Once you meet them and they seem to like you, and you them, it will be a match made in heaven.

He was right, for only the work of God could have led me here to Holy Spirit. Over the next sixty years of its existence, the monastery would develop a sincere relationship with the community of mostly Protestants—Southern Baptists. The result would ripen a community that was receptive to openly providing monastic knowledge to those who sought it.

As for me, I never knew that another Cistercian monastery existed in the confines of my backyard.

I grew up in South Carolina, raised in a Southern Baptist household overseen by my maternal grandmother, Mable P. Scott. Miss Mable, as she was leisurely called, was an extraordinary human being who imbued our home with an immeasurable vitality. However, the expression of her exuberant personality was limited to an exclusive audience within a single venue: to her family within the confines of our home. In large social settings, such as our Baptist congregation, Miss Mable mysteriously transformed into an extreme introvert. Crowds of people sapped her confidence and muted her extroverted personality. The Miss Mable we knew and loved, whose pleasant conversation permeated the air of our Sunday dinners with the fragrances of sweet words and laughter, had been all but invisible three hours prior.

My grandmother unknowingly taught me the ways of the social introvert, and I was a good student. Sunday church outings found me facing my worst fear on a weekly basis. It was during one of those outings when, standing alone before a crowded congregation, my stepfather instructed me to proclaim my fulfillment with the Holy Spirit. I felt quite the opposite. The only thing that filled me during that time was the distinct terror of a hundred eager eyes, each anticipating my emotional reaction to a feeling that I neither had nor particularly desired. This habitual anxiety eventually alienated me from the faith of my family, as I sunk deeper into my shell, unwilling to face my mounting fears. It seemed easier to avoid uncomfortable situations, to repress my personality, and guard myself from any unwanted feelings or emotions. In the long run, this attitude left me feeling utterly unfulfilled.

I would pursue a definitive change to Catholicism during my junior year in high school, which I considered as one of the proudest moments during my youth.

Brother Matthew instructed me on the process to being a Cistercian monk. My journey would include four formal interviews with four different members of the community. Second, a criminal background check, in search of possible felonies, would be performed. Next, the vocations committee of Holy Spirit would meet to determine my fate of partaking in a formal observership. This meeting with Brother Matthew would complete my first interview requirement.

You seem like a great applicant, Rod. Everything looks good on your application. All we need to do now are the formal interviews and background check.

Referring to the thick questionnaire given to me three days prior, this fifty-page document asked me everything from my name and basic description, to family, to educational background, to sexual interests, to work history, to drugs and alcohol. It even dove into the topic of mental history and psychotropic drug use.

Taking me over two days to complete, this questionnaire exhausted my memory. It contained a series of essay questions that resisted against any method of clear thinking, as how could I remember anything particularly related to last week, let alone seven years ago in college?!

The interview lasted about an hour. With a manila folder containing the fifty-page document in front of him, Brother Matthew went through every question on the questionnaire to clear up any confusion or disbelief—and for appropriate reason: I was requesting to move into the home and the lives of the other forty-eight brothers living there.

Lies on the application

Closing the folder with such a force, Brother Matthew immediately excused himself from the interview. He thought he heard his name being called and did not wish to be rude to the caller, thinking it would be a person in humble need.

I continued to sit still in the somewhat stuffy room, filled with remnants of ninety-three-degree summer heat, as I awaited the return of my animated interviewer.

Looking around my whereabouts, I began to notice its uniqueness. Room 102, otherwise known as the Mother Teresa room, included a very large image of the Mother of Charity herself, with her hands folded and her eyes filled with the peace she instilled during her, in my opinion, short life span. A granddaddy cushioned armchair sat behind me in the right corner of the room, while a love seat also sat directly behind me. Both of them were looking very comfortable right about now. I had been sitting on a very thin piece of black vinyl cushion for over an hour and could use some benevolence of immediate comfort.

In front of me stood a symmetrically square glass table, each side containing a comparably black thin cushioned chair. On the top of the table was a centerpiece of salt and pepper shakers for the room’s occasional private meal guests. And on the opposite side of the table was the manila folder, which contained, what would eventually be, the infamous, thick fifty-page questionnaire.

I began to think about the questions again in my mind, hoping for resolve. Realizing I needed this life and understanding the frailty of losing any possible opportunity, I did what I could to make myself attractive to the community. I wrote as best I could (although my handwriting still had much to be desired). The answers, particularly the essay questions, were direct and as clear as I could make them. Then there were the scale-based psyche questions, those one hundred gruesome interrogations of redundancy that only wanted to know who you were in the form of trick statements. I thought I completed those well, too.

But what about the basic information sections that asked for info such as my family background, medical history, and educational status? Surely I completed those with honestly and good judgment.

That’s when I began to get that feeling. The vivacious butterflies in my stomach were up to no good again.

The highest level of education I had ever completed was my junior year in college. Unfortunately, I stated the complete opposite on my monastic application to Holy Spirit. To them, I was Roderick A. Scott-Padilla, PhD.

How would they find out the truth? A possible background check? Brother Matthew never hinted at an educational-based review. I felt relieved about the application, almost proud of my lifelong accomplishments. I remained in place until the return of my interviewer.

But what about the medical history?

The butterflies progressed with exhilaration.

My mind became filled with thoughts of the several prescribed medications I took daily, if not occasionally. For a twenty-nine-year-old, my health was positive overall but not enough to not question my ability to live a life of persistent solitude and austerity.

Asacol and Ondansetron, both for the occasional flare-ups of Crohn’s.

Valtrex to prevent any occasional episodes of herpes simplex-II. –

Tylenol No. 3, a narcotic for those constant pains directly relating to my Crohn’s flares.

And lastly, the cocktail meds. All three—Norvir, Truvada, and Reyetaz—had become a resounding support within my most recent five years. But to place my connection with these meds on my monastic entry application?! I was aware of the love and respect monks have for the sick, considering their abundant dedication to the Rule of St. Benedict. Yet my fear of pronouncing the truth overshadowed any sympathy for my more serious chronic illness: HIV.

I continued to sit in my chair, this time with greater unease. Knowing my respect for the brothers was evident in my heart, I was troubled with the lies on the fifty-page document. Nevertheless, I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to feel as normal as the other applicants who walked through the community grounds, attempting a chance at the life that only Christ can consecrate.

In my opinion, lying was the only way to be considered normal at this point.

Brother Matthew soon returned to Room 102, a little more out of breath than usual. He began to inform me of an important telephone call he was expecting from another prospect for the life. The caller was a personal referral of a priest friend in Atlanta, so he didn’t wish to miss the opportunity to satisfy the inquiry.

Settling into this chair, he resumed the conversation.

Well, Rod, I don’t think we need to continue now. Do you have any questions for me?

I sat still to ponder over the question. That’s when I thought of another topic, which immediately revised my train of thought.

So what happens after I’m accepted? Do I still deal with you?

Oh no, answered Brother Matthew. You will be under the care of Aaron, the novice master. He will be the person you will deal with at that point. I’m just the transporter. Another moment of the unusual chuckling released from the monk’s lips.

I see, I responded.

Composing himself, he continued, Any other questions for me, Rod?

I thought of telling Brother Matthew the truth. The pain I was feeling in lying to this holy place had met my guilt. But now I had a choice: man up, be honest, and reap the consequences or proceed