Growing up American, I have felt most distant from the older generations in my family in terms of faith. The four-generation scale of faith begins at the top with my great-grandmother, who has always lived in the Dominican Republic and who I always picture praying the rosary over and over again. She believes she can heal people with the grace of God and has even seen him during one of her profound healing moments.
Then, there’s my grandmother. She had four out of five children in this country and raised them here for most of their childhood. She lives (mostly) in the Dominican Republic, where she uses the common phrase Si Dios quiere, God willing, whenever she can. Even with hopes as quotidian as “I’ll see you later!” she responds, Si Dios quiere. Phone calls with her always start and end with her energetic voice saying some variation or extended version of, “May God bless you and keep you happy and healthy. Remember to thank God for everything you have.”
My mother was born here. Though, these days, she hardly talks to me about God, I know she sits up on the edge of her bed every single night to pray as she always has. She does not go to church every Sunday, but always carries a profoundly grateful and generous spirit. Just as I think my grandmother experienced, the Virgin Mary has appeared in her dreams. She raised me to pray every night.
I don’t pray every night. For some time I did only because I had a nightmare on a night that I forgot to pray, but then I stopped fearing nightmares. I went to Catholic school for nine years before coming to Riverdale; I am a baptized and confirmed Catholic. Yet, I have trouble calling myself a Catholic. It may seem like I am though. Look closely at my room and you’ll find rosaries (my last name is the Spanish word for “rosary”), a photo of Mary, one of Jesus, a prayer cards of Our Lady of Lourdes (Lourdes is my middle name) in my wallet, and some religious item in every schoolbag I’ve ever had. Even though I don’t agree with the Catholicism, I still try not to take the Lord’s name in vain. And even though I don’t go to church anymore in support of all of those oppressed by the Catholic Church, I can’t deny the beauty is has nourished in the Dominican Republic.
There are statistics that say that the percentage of Catholic Latinos in the United States is decreasing. With this, the percentage of Latinos who claim “no religion” doubled from 1990 to 2008. It seems that for many immigrants, God is dying. I wonder why the idea of God has become discredited in the United States. Nieztche wrote, “the less a person knows how to command, the more urgent is his desire for that which commands” (Baumer 613). This doesn’t really explain my personal loss of faith, but I can understand how the American idea of having control over one’s life (a.k.a. income) can make one stop believing in a higher power having the control. Or it could be the opposite; maybe Latinos in the United States are feeling increasingly hopeless. My reason has more to do with how conservative the Catholic Church is, to the point that its rules hurt innocent people. New ideas and new people made me think differently. I’m not sure if that fits into anything Nieztche stated. I’ll stop there. I’m not sure.
