By Decoy Dilettante
It was the Holy week of Easter in the foul year of our Lord, 1994.
St Michael’s Church was chock-a-block with faculty, clergy, students, and the broader congregation. I sat in my pew, observing a stained-glass depiction of the Passion of Christ, whilst chatting to my Grade 4 classmates. My teacher leaned across the other students and commanded I be quiet; the occasion demanded our reverence, and, as this was my third warning, she asked I sit beside her.
My silence lasted mere moments before I spoke again. I asked her about the windows. She told me to stop talking.
Why? I thought. It was a biblical question, and we were in a biblical location. What better place to secure a greater understanding?
I possessed a spirit of inquiry about these images of pain and suffering. I desperately needed to know if the blood-coloured panels were stained with the blood of Christ, and was it the same blood that the Priest makes red wine with?
At this stage in my life, I had completed the sacrament of Holy Communion, and was surprised that the body of Christ tasted exactly like an icecream cone. The blood, however, was still a mystery. Unanswered questions would inevitably inspire curiosity.
My thirst for knowledge remained unquenched. An intense scowl that I was all too familiar with grew across my teacher’s face. Her mean eyes were decorated by crow’s feet, the result of years spent playing the role of a serious authority figure, and they seared with contemptible rage toward me.
I tried my best to pretend I was a statue.
I could only contain my boredom for so long before I proceeded to pick at the scab on my right knee. I’d obtained it the previous week during a particularly spirited game of tackle bullrush. The scab was about the size of a 10-cent piece, and almost as perfectly round.
Pick. Pick. Pick.
As I lifted the edges of the scab, it became apparent that the possibility of removing the scab as a whole piece was, indeed, possible. In terms of scab-picking, this was the ultimate outcome: a true skill, an artform. With exacting hyperfocus, I diligently removed the scab. A whole piece, a perfect disc of crusty flesh.
SUCCESS!
I tried to show my teacher the scab. She shushed me. I placed the scab in the breast pocket of my school shirt to show my best friend after mass. Not only would he appreciate it, but he was the only person deserving of bearing witness to such a miracle.
Blood began to form at my open wound.
I covered the wound with the palm of my right hand. When I lifted it up, I discovered a round circle of blood on my palm. I clapped my hands together and shared the blood across both palms, then marvelled at the symmetry between my own palms and those of Christ in the stained-glass window.
I couldn’t contain my excitement; my excitement was boiling over. RED HOT! Taking no heed in my teachers’ numerous warnings, I blurted it out.
‘Miss! Miss! Look! Look! Stigmata!’
Decoy Dilettante is a clown, and raconteur who dabbles in the art of illusion through mediums of animation, illustration and the written word. Approaching all with a ribald irreverent fury coupled with a complete lack of self-awareness that some have called delusion whilst others have mistaken for confidence.
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