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	Re-Examining the Memories of a Catholic Childhood By Bill Farr The Age September 16, 2009 http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/reexamining-the-memories-of-a-catholic-childhood-20090915-fplu.html The men of the church may be too close to see the pain and suffering. APPARENTLY, I'm one of the lucky ones. Reading in this paper yesterday of the sexual abuse by Catholic priest Monsignor Penn Jones of former altar boy Gavan Boyle was quite a revelation. An awful story, Boyle's life, and the lives of his family, were affected by those events in a lasting and tragic manner. I have to admit that such stories have long held a fascination for me. I grew up in a family where Sunday Mass was obligatory. Not celebratory. My mother was from a strong Catholic family. My father, a loving, decent man, demonstrating few religious beliefs, came along on Sunday mornings anyway. Growing up Catholic in Washington Street, Essendon, the five of us kids would walk the 200 metres or so to school at St Teresa's, under the care of the Sisters of Mercy (nearly all of whom fit that description). St Teresa's Church on the other corner completed my personal childhood triangle. Home, school, church. We were an unremarkable '60s family, working class, struggling with one breadwinner and five hungry young mouths to feed. It was with some joy, then, that I won a scholarship to sing in the choir at St Patrick's Cathedral. This meant changing schools. So began the daily trip into town to attend St Patrick's School, a little bluestone pile in Young Street, Fitzroy - long since demolished. It was the local Catholic school and also the feeder school for members of the choir. Its principal was Brother Dean. Legend had it that Brother Dean had been a boxer, under the fighting name of Dogger Dean. It was, of course, the only name we kids used for him. It was 1967, I was 10 years old. Looking back now, it's a distance almost unmeasurable. St Patrick's school was primary only. Form 1 choir members enrolled at Cathedral College, in the old Parade College building on Victoria Parade. The school chaplain at Cathedral College was Monsignor Penn Jones. Being school chaplain involved, I'm sure, many responsibilities. All those years ago, though, all I can remember of his involvement was as counsellor for boys going through puberty. I must have been 12 or 13 when it was announced that Monsignor Jones would be having a one-on-one chat with each of the boys in my class - to discuss any issues they had with, physically, becoming men. I don't remember much about mine, though I still recall feeling uncomfortable discussing such issues with anyone, let alone a senior member of the archdiocese. Jones was based at St Patrick's Cathedral. I therefore came into contact with him quite often as a choirboy, through Sunday High Mass, choir practice and at school. My memories are hazy, but somehow he became friendly with my parents through contact with me. He occasionally gave me lifts home from Mass, would be invited in, sometimes to enjoy a drink, sometimes a meal. Drives home - there weren't many - were awkward. The conversation became an extension of the counselling sessions. I vividly remember one such chat revolving around erections. Of course, I was having plenty of those, but he was reassuring me that erections weren't, in themselves, sins. It seemed a refreshing change from the interminable round of Catholic guilt that was all-pervasive. Jones behaved impeccably. He was kind, gentle, amusing - an enjoyable dinner guest. We felt quite privileged to have been smiled upon in such a manner. My mother, particularly, blossomed in his presence - she loved having him around. We became friends. One summer, he asked my parents if we would like to join him for two weeks' vacation at the house next door to the Catholic church in Rosebud. He would be saying Mass daily, and was hoping that my brother and I would be altar boys. Sounded like a pretty good deal, and it was. Free accommodation, on the job training (we'd never been altar boys before), and the rest of the time to do as we wished. That summer there was lots of sun. Lots of swimming. Jones would sometimes join us for games in the water. Innocent and fun, I had grown comfortable doing "family" things with him. Tired and, often, red from sunburn, lazy afternoons after the beach were spent having a nap. Very occasionally, Jones joined me in bed and we slept next to each other, sometimes his arm around me. Nothing more. I don't remember feeling upset, or even uncomfortable. He gave me no reason to question his motives. It's quite an experience to have these summer memories now re-examined in a cold, harsher light. Maybe I was lucky. Maybe, on the other hand, here was a man enjoying an all-too-rare family experience. Who knows? Certainly, he transgressed elsewhere. Did I escape simply because he had grown close to us? During those years, there was a young deacon at St Patrick's Cathedral. His name was Denis Hart. I have moved away from the church. He is still there. He is still so close to all that the church stands for. Good and bad. From my perspective, I can see clearly the pain and anguish of those who have suffered. Maybe it's harder to see it from within.
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