I look up to see the daunting sight of large stained glass windows and tall looming statues that always seemed to look deep into your soul. My mother’s long, slender hand wraps tightly around my stubby three-year-old fingers as she leads me down rows and rows of worn wooden pews. The melodic sound of the choir and bells ring through the rafters in almost perfect harmony as the church service begins. Looking up wonderingly at my mother, I tug lightly on the hem of her dress, preparing to ask her a question. She looks down at me and places a slim finger over her closed lips as a silent gesture to not make a fuss and pay attention. I obediently look down and keep quiet for the rest of the mass.
When I was young, I had always thought that this was the way of all humans. That everyone in the world lived the same life I was living. I wanted so badly to follow in the footsteps of my mother as I grew older, trying my best to live a good life with God that she always taught me to do. My mother is a typical Hispanic woman who is hard-working, unselfish, strict, and very religious. As the years slowly went by and I endured lecture after lecture about how to be the perfect Godly woman, or how to dress myself more conservatively and conduct myself more properly, a whirlwind of questions kept tormenting my mind. I fought with myself internally as I slowly began to disagree with Catholic beliefs.
It was not until I reached the age of sixteen when I discovered that not all Catholics were who they said they were. I met many that were very controversial, insincere, and above all, extremely judgmental towards others who were not like them. I could not call myself a Catholic when there were other Catholics who were being so self-assertive and egotistical about their beliefs. I repeatedly tried to tell my mother how I felt about wanting to leave the church and live on my own merit without having to rely this much on some Heavenly Being I could not see, but I was paid little heed from time to time. She kept telling me how it was not always up to me to make my own decisions about what to or not to believe.
I fought with her. I fought with her day after day. I fought with her until we were both yelling and crying. I fought until she finally backed down. She hugged me tightly as if afraid to let go, and said to me, “I just want you to be happy, Naomi. I want you to find something that you believe in that will make you happy and make you a stronger woman than you already are.” As I thanked her for letting me go, I told her, “I still want to be a good person, mom.” She nodded and gave me a sad smile. To this day, I still look up to her greatly for sticking to her beliefs and for being such a strong and independent woman. I greatly aspire to be as brilliant and passionate as she is.
A very good and religious friend of mine once told me, that being a good human being doesn’t have to be a religion; that having good human morals and values doesn’t mean giving your life to another identity. I love my mother more than anything in the world, and she has been and always will be my biggest role model. If I can one day be as half as great of a woman as she is, then I don’t believe that I need any religion to get me there.
