4. The Good Catholics

Autobiography of a Little Boy

This is the fourth in a series of posts entitled Autobiography of a Little Boy. Here, I give you a glimpse into my pursuit to become the truest and best version of who I am. Each installment features a guest author who writes his story in crayon, with my left hand.¹ He’s my inner child. I refer to him as Tommy. The body of each post in this series is written by Tommy (using my left hand, engaging the right side of my brain, writing in the voice of my inner child). He also created the artwork. All footnotes, etc. are written by me, the grown-up, Tom Gentry.

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April 29 to May 3, 2025

Just like the school was a block from my house in one direction, one block in the other direction was a big beautiful church called Saint Pat’s.²

I told you my family is Catholic. Practically my entire neighborhood was Catholic. Like all the Catholic families there, we lived in the neighborhood to be close to St. Pat’s.

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When I was really little, we went to church every Sunday morning. Then, one Sunday morning when I was about three, we didn’t go. And we never went anymore unless one of my sisters or cousins got married, or someone got baptized.

This is when shit gets weird.

Instead of going to church . . .

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