The time I cussed everyone out at church
Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors...and there is a little Filipino boy cussing out His people.
Originally published in my Substack: First Draft Thoughts with RV Mendoza.
“Your mother’s a WHORE” I yelled, just fifteen feet from the priest. My voice cracked around pews full of Catholic kids and their teachers.
I was yelling at a Russian exchange student.
“your shit is rotten!!”
I was in third grade, feeling clever and wild. I don’t know what took over, but I liked the sound of it. No one understood anything I was saying.
Except for my mom and my brother.
I grew up in a tiny town. Six to nine kids in a class on a good day. My brother and I stuck out. One blinking red traffic light in the whole town, yet somehow an eccentric kid from Russia and a chubby Filipino kid ended up in the same class.
It was our class’s turn to run the midweek mass. Catholic school am I right? You did a skit tied to the week’s sermon. Ours was the Tower of Babel.
Old testament stuff: People build a giant tower, get full of themselves, God scrambles their language so no one understands anyone.
Casting was obvious. The brown Filipino kid and the pale Russian kid would act out the moment the languages break apart.
I’d left the Philippines before I got good at any language. Tagalog wasn’t great. English wasn’t solid either. I learned both at the same time, and my parents spoke Tagalog while my brother and I replied in English.
So I’m standing there in front of the whole school. Kindergarten through eighth grade. The narrator says God scatters languages. The Russian boy says his line in clean Russian. He’s got it down.
My mind blanks. I can’t remember how to say “I don’t understand you” in Tagalog.
I panic. I grab the first thing that floats up. A string of swear words spills out.
I’m in a sacred space calling his mom a whore and telling him his shit is rotten.
“PUTANG INA MO!!!”
“TAE MONG BULOK!!!”
My mom took off work to watch a little school play. Instead she watched me curse out a Russian kid a few feet from the priest. My brother was a couple pews up. He froze like his whole future depended on me shutting up.
I smiled and giggled, thinking I killed that shit.
Nobody knew Tagalog, so nobody caught on. The skit ended, and the whole town felt proud that our tiny class had kids speaking other languages. Even the priest said something about diversity. I was living for it.
After mass, my brother rushed me. His teeth clenched.
“If anyone asks what you said, tell them you yelled that your goldfish died.”
Everyone forgot about it by the end of the day. The teachers didn’t ask a thing.
My mom just gave me that slow stare that promised a later talk.
And my brother kept repeating his cover to me.
“If they ask, tell them you said ‘your goldfish died’ .”
Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors...and there is a little Filipino boy cussing out His people.
