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What is the significance of the title of my book, Mea culpa: a plea of innocence?
MEA CULPA is a Latin phrase. Its literal translation is my fault. It is a term that the catholic church uses to their advantage to subjugate the sinful masses. In my book, I use Mea Culpa to admit to my complicity with regard to how life unfolded. The subtitle, A Plea of Innocence, is an attempt at exoneration. It is under the ‘cloak of innocence’ that I seek leniency.
In my story, I present evidence. And I ask the reader to be both judge and jury. The first item to be considered is my birth. There is no doubt that it had an immediate adverse impact on my parents’ wellbeing.
The second exhibit comprises my childhood. Examining this phase of my life, it could be surmised that I was brainwashed into adopting a life-long role of servitude. Growing up I observed my parents’ struggle to survive. I cultivated an unbalanced sense of responsibility to offset their misery. Any inkling of rebellion that may have surfaced, was snubbed by the prevalent catholic dogma. As for my parents, they appeared oblivious to my plight. They made no attempt to lighten my burden. In fact, they may have added to it. To what extent then, can the veil of innocence distance me from guilt?
The third and final piece of testimony is my adulthood. These decades of my life represent a period of collusion. Obediently, I continue to answer my parents’ wishes. At times, to my own detriment. And persistently, I keep the burgeoning resistance bottled up. There is no hiding of this truth.
Mea culpa, it is my fault that my life turned out as it has.
In my story, I present evidence. And I ask the reader to be both judge and jury. The first item to be considered is my birth. There is no doubt that it had an immediate adverse impact on my parents’ wellbeing.
The second exhibit comprises my childhood. Examining this phase of my life, it could be surmised that I was brainwashed into adopting a life-long role of servitude. Growing up I observed my parents’ struggle to survive. I cultivated an unbalanced sense of responsibility to offset their misery. Any inkling of rebellion that may have surfaced, was snubbed by the prevalent catholic dogma. As for my parents, they appeared oblivious to my plight. They made no attempt to lighten my burden. In fact, they may have added to it. To what extent then, can the veil of innocence distance me from guilt?
The third and final piece of testimony is my adulthood. These decades of my life represent a period of collusion. Obediently, I continue to answer my parents’ wishes. At times, to my own detriment. And persistently, I keep the burgeoning resistance bottled up. There is no hiding of this truth.
Mea culpa, it is my fault that my life turned out as it has.
What drove me to write the memoir,
Mea Culpa: A Plea of Innocence?
Mea Culpa: A Plea of Innocence is the culmination of years of self-discovery. The vignettes that are at the core of my narrative, are set in 1950s Italy. They originate from fragments of suppressed childhood experiences. The delicate excavation of these memories and the subsequent reconstruction of my early years, are the result of much analysis and growth. The vignettes that deal with later years (1970s to present), are based on letters and journal entries. Looking back, I realize that my writing occurred when I was in some kind of trouble. Usually, at the end of a relationship.
I am not proud of the fact that I am in my fourth marriage. The first three unions failed not because of infidelity or incompatibility, but because of abandonment. Each of my former partners gave up on me. Too soon, I would argue. Even though the first conjugal union was extremely short - four months – in retrospect, it was the most difficult to accept. My ideals were shattered. And my trust decimated. At twenty-four years of age, immaturity guided me. Like a soldier, I bandaged my wounds, fastened my armor, and kept moving forward.
I feel an urgency to prove that I am a ‘good’ man. A reliable provider. In less than a year, I am in a new relationship. My wife and I buy a house, and start a family. We have a son, and a daughter. For a while, I boast about my success. And then, disaster strikes. I thought I had built a fortress, but it turned out to be a glasshouse. Solid brick walls crumbled into piles of broken glass. Traversing through the shards becomes a matter of life and death. I’d like to report that I was victorious, but I cannot.
At forty-one, I hold the hand of my nine-year-old son and face an unknown future. Once again, with soldierly discipline, I quicken my healing, polish my armor, and dust off my mission packet. I venture forward with a new partner by my side. Together, we weather many storms. A decade passes. Tired and disillusioned, we stand at the threshold of yet another threatening attack. I tell myself I could do it. She says she cannot. She wants out. Too exhausted to react, I let her go.
I am fifty-three-years-old. Defeated and alone. The warrior in me puts down the sword and shield. He removes his helmet and unlaces his armor. But he is not surrendering, yet. A sliver of light breaks the horizon. There is hope. Not everything is lost. There is still time.
What is wrong with me? Why is this happening? Why am I alone, again? Questions, such as these, ruminate in my mind as I attempt to isolate the source of the anguish. The answers are fleeting. Superficial. Unsatisfying. A voice inside is telling me what to do. I resist, but the voice gets louder. I must go below the surface. Dig deep. I go on a treasure hunt. I search for clues. Over time, a pattern emerges. Desperation leads me back to my childhood.
What I unearth is a ‘life unlived’ that is centered and deeply rooted in my gut. To reach it, I disentangle the myriad of sensations that have obscured it for a long time. When knotted, it emanates unbearable pain, and when liberated, it whispers a quiet joy.
I realize that writing makes me feel better. That is, every time I put pen to paper and then share the results, the load on my back is lighter. The constructive feedback I receive from my readers encourages me to continue. With writing, I embark on a quest to understand what makes ‘me.’ To accept the person that I have become. And to clear my soul of any toxic imprint it may contain. With powers to heal and protect, Mea Culpa: A Plea of Innocence is my talisman.
I am not proud of the fact that I am in my fourth marriage. The first three unions failed not because of infidelity or incompatibility, but because of abandonment. Each of my former partners gave up on me. Too soon, I would argue. Even though the first conjugal union was extremely short - four months – in retrospect, it was the most difficult to accept. My ideals were shattered. And my trust decimated. At twenty-four years of age, immaturity guided me. Like a soldier, I bandaged my wounds, fastened my armor, and kept moving forward.
I feel an urgency to prove that I am a ‘good’ man. A reliable provider. In less than a year, I am in a new relationship. My wife and I buy a house, and start a family. We have a son, and a daughter. For a while, I boast about my success. And then, disaster strikes. I thought I had built a fortress, but it turned out to be a glasshouse. Solid brick walls crumbled into piles of broken glass. Traversing through the shards becomes a matter of life and death. I’d like to report that I was victorious, but I cannot.
At forty-one, I hold the hand of my nine-year-old son and face an unknown future. Once again, with soldierly discipline, I quicken my healing, polish my armor, and dust off my mission packet. I venture forward with a new partner by my side. Together, we weather many storms. A decade passes. Tired and disillusioned, we stand at the threshold of yet another threatening attack. I tell myself I could do it. She says she cannot. She wants out. Too exhausted to react, I let her go.
I am fifty-three-years-old. Defeated and alone. The warrior in me puts down the sword and shield. He removes his helmet and unlaces his armor. But he is not surrendering, yet. A sliver of light breaks the horizon. There is hope. Not everything is lost. There is still time.
What is wrong with me? Why is this happening? Why am I alone, again? Questions, such as these, ruminate in my mind as I attempt to isolate the source of the anguish. The answers are fleeting. Superficial. Unsatisfying. A voice inside is telling me what to do. I resist, but the voice gets louder. I must go below the surface. Dig deep. I go on a treasure hunt. I search for clues. Over time, a pattern emerges. Desperation leads me back to my childhood.
What I unearth is a ‘life unlived’ that is centered and deeply rooted in my gut. To reach it, I disentangle the myriad of sensations that have obscured it for a long time. When knotted, it emanates unbearable pain, and when liberated, it whispers a quiet joy.
I realize that writing makes me feel better. That is, every time I put pen to paper and then share the results, the load on my back is lighter. The constructive feedback I receive from my readers encourages me to continue. With writing, I embark on a quest to understand what makes ‘me.’ To accept the person that I have become. And to clear my soul of any toxic imprint it may contain. With powers to heal and protect, Mea Culpa: A Plea of Innocence is my talisman.
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