Yesterday afternoon I was working on a small film at the northern end of Mulberry Street with my friend Eric Marciano. I caught sight of a three young black robed priests carrying a large wooden cross. About a hundred teenagers followed the Jesus wannabes. Their faces glowed with devotion to their faith. The director, knowing my feelings about the Catholic Church, sidled up to me and said, “It’s their holiday. Don’t say anything.”
“I won’t, if they won’t.” I had been persecuted by the priests and nuns for my youthful atheism.
Several of the passing worshippers wished us, “Happy Easter.”
“Happy nothing.” I muttered up my breath.
“Zip it.” The director kicked my shin. The New Englander was a private apostate.
“Okay.” He was paying me to work, not harangue the believers.
They procession disappeared into Nolita and we returned to shooting our scene.
I have to learn some tolerance.
My mother would like my moderation of excess.
She was a good Catholic and a loving parent.
Happy Easter, Mom.
foto by jorge soccarras