The battling priests of Corpus Christi
by Jervey Tervalon
Seventh Ward
As each one has received a gift, use it to serve one another as good stewards of God’s varied grace.
1 Peter 4:10
Some priests you know what they’re up to before they open their mouths. Father Murphy acted so righteous you’d believe his sermons were spun gold, but he really didn’t need to say a word, I already knew all about him. He hated Negroes, and if they made the mistake of coming to his church and sat in the colored section, the last two pews of Sacred Heart, like they were supposed to, he would berate them for being so brazen and uppity as to actually attend Mass. Colored people needed to make novenas, and I don’t think the Lord makes a distinction between white people and everybody else, so we had to put up with this heartless man who must have thought wearing a collar excused him of having to treat Negroes with a hint of kindness, Christian or otherwise. He still had a swollen face and the shadow of a black eye he had received almost a month ago from Father Fitzpatrick, but obviously you can’t beat the hate or hell out of someone. It doesn’t work no matter how good it might feel to try, and Father Fitzpatrick had done his brutal best.
I looked as white as anyone at Sacred Heart, but I didn’t pretend to be anything other than Negro. I assumed I’d receive a special dispensation from him, I’d be spared the vicious race baiting that he’d become notorious for, but before he began his sermon he pointed at the last two pews to the few Negroes who were there and shouted, “You people are not welcome, but you still come!” Then he looked directly at me, red-faced and breathing heavily; but it didn’t seem as though he knew who I was; he didn’t seem to recognize me as the daughter of John Carol, his friend, drinking partner, and fellow Irishman. I couldn’t imagine him saying to me during Mass, Helen, move to the back of the church. Don’t make me embarrass you, but after hearing the venom in his voice I wasn’t sure. I sat there stone-faced and could only breathe easily when Mass ended and the pews emptied.
Once away from the pulpit, outside on the steps, he presented himself with reserve and dignity as though his heart wasn’t as black as night. It was odd to me that this man who was kind to me as a child had changed so much as to hate so blindly. Or maybe I had never noticed it before because to him I was John Carol’s daughter, and not the daughter of a colored woman. He had overlooked that because he thought of me as he wanted to think of me, a pretty little Irish girl. When I grew into a woman, that had changed too, and I began to receive letters from him that I could never show my father.
I waited for most of the crowd to disperse before I approached Father Murphy.
“What brings you here to Sacred Heart, Helen, novenas to St. Jude?”
“Yes, Father, but I wonder if I may have a minute of your time.”
“Well, I’m busy,” he said snappishly.
“It’ll only take a minute.”
At first I thought he’d turn me down, and I have to admit I was surprised by the frown on his face, but that passed. He looked at me and smiled as though this was the first time he’d truly noticed me, and I was uncomfortable because of it; just as I was uncomfortable about the letters he had sent me.
“Walk with me,” he directed.
For an older man, he moved quickly and I could barely keep up. He led me to the rectory, unlocked it, turned and waved impatiently for me to enter. I followed him along the dim hall watching his narrow shoulders, wondering if I had made a mistake.
He opened another door and there was a young priest behind a desk typing.
“Please leave,” Father Murphy said, and the priest moved quickly out of the room. When we were alone, he pointed to a very large leather chair. Then he pulled another chair close to it and sat down next to me.
“What can I do for you, Helen? Are you finally responding to the letters I’ve been sending you?” he asked with a stupidly coy smile.
I paused for a moment, trying not to show how afraid I was as I looked for the right words.
“It’s about Father Fitzpatrick.”
His face suddenly drained of its ruddiness. He leaned forward until he was so close to my face that I could see his nose hairs.
“What about him? Did you find him lying drunk in his own filth in a gutter? He’s a disgrace to himself and to the Church, and to associate with him proves that you have no self-respect. To the world you consort with niggers like he does. They don’t see you as a colored woman. They see you as a white woman who’s an embarrassment to her race.”
I stood ready to walk out on him and slam the door hard enough to shatter the frosted glass window.
Father Murphy sighed, and took my hand. “I apologize for that. Please don’t tell your father. He needn’t be reminded how bad my temper is.”
I refused to respond with words; instead I glared, wanting very much to slap him across the face. Maybe he didn’t respect me because I was colored, but I did respect myself and I refused to be insulted by any man, and I didn’t think he was much of a man.
“I never understood you, Helen. You’re a beautiful young woman; you could marry well, but you lower yourself. You could live a good life and leave New Orleans and no one would ever have to know that you’re a Negro. You must realize you have friends who want to help you better yourself.”
“I’m not here for my benefit. The situation with Father Fitzpatrick is out of hand. Negroes are enraged and won’t stand for drunken louts disrespecting and sometimes threatening them because they come to Sacred Heart to make a novena.”
“I encourage anyone to come to our church — the Germans, the Italians — but I draw the line at Negroes. One can’t be open-minded about what is unnatural. These blacks need to know their place.”
I sighed deeply and tried to remain civil, though my blood boiled and I could feel my face flush with anger.
“Knowing one’s place may be important, but Father Fitzpatrick came to Sacred Heart to talk things out and you insulted him, and then you were both rolling in the street. That can’t go on; someone is going to get killed.”
Father Murphy abruptly shouted, “You defend that fool, Fitzpatrick! He can go to hell! What is done is done. I will deal with him. What about you? Why do you keep company with such a man? You need to ask yourself why you live as though you are colored; you have a choice. You can turn your back on those people and trash like Fitzpatrick and live with dignity. I’ve talked to your father about this and he refuses to say more than you’ve made your decision and that you’re stubborn. If you were under my roof I wouldn’t allow you to degrade yourself associating with those who are obviously your inferiors. You aren’t the same as the common Negro any more than I am.”
Furious words burst from my mouth: “The English think you Irish are dogs. I’m not interested in your opinion of the colored, as I’m sure you’re not interested in the English’s opinion of you. My father came here to find his fortune and he did; he took up with a colored woman who loved me as he does. I am as colored as she was, and I’m proud of that.”
“You’re young,” he said with an odd smile. “Your sentiments are admirable. It would be good if this could be worked out.”
The anger was gone from his voice, and then Father Murphy moved his hand down to my thigh.
“Helen, I can give you far more than your father. I can help you if you’re kind to me. Why won’t you respond to my letters?”