a day at the census

Out of boredom and economy, I decided to apply with the Census Bureau as an enumerator. Over the phone I was told that the exam would take place at the Father Michael J. McGivney Building at the Immaculate Conception Basilica in downtown Waterbury. It used to be an Episcopal church. It was where my grandmother's funeral took place, since she, being divorced, was not allowed a Catholic service. Father McGivney is the founder of the Knights of Columbus (K of C), a political arm of the Catholic Church that gives money to anti-feminist and anti-queer organizations. I asked myself, "where is the separation of church and state?" But I'm in Waterbury and people don't like to answer such questions. Just as I was informed by the Visiting Nurses Association after Steve's death that grief counseling was available at various places around the city yet they were all in Catholic establishments. How was I, as a gay man, to be comforted by Catholics in their places of worship for my loss, which they condemn and profess at best a disdain for who I am? More reports of pedophilia from clergy and sexual slavery in the Vatican keep arising. And yet, here I am looking for a job.

I was told to bring identification and a completed downloaded application to the examination room. I did. I got there early and as I looked around I saw this: There were six round tables in a room with windows. Light would have shown through to implement the flourescent ceiling fixtures but they were too coated with greasy dust and surrounded by faded ugly curtains in floral print, the flowers in maroon and teal on a grey background. A portrait of Ratzinger was prominently displayed, as was a chronological chart of the Roman popes. Over the hearth of a fireplace was a bright reproduction of Christ on the cross with a larger-than-Jesus Mary sobbing at his side. Underneath were an assortment of Christmas mangers, some empty. In others the animals of the creche were lined in a row staring at the void inside the manger. There were unknown small saints as well, some encased in tulip-shaped clear glass vases. A larger than life and brightly painted statue of Mary stood next to Ratzinger's portrait. And right there was the name plate and the lovely poster brought to you by the K of C. I took some shots to prove this wasn't a dream.

I was brought out of my awe when the room began to fill with applicants. The instructor, an older Caucasian gentleman, told us that we would take the exam in an hour. First we were to fill in the application together as he instructed us. The day before I had two root canals performed on my mouth - a preferred experience to this. But I prevailed. The crowd was a mix of Latino, African and European decent. One man in our room was Asian. As we laboriously went through each question on the application, the instructor reading them aloud, we came to where they asked what languages we speak. We were instructed to put in a special code for each one we knew and given by the instructor as he went around the room. The instructor asked his partner what the code was for Chinese. The Asian man said he was Korean. The instructor again asked for the code for Chinese. The man next to the Asian man said the Asian man was Korean. The woman on the other side of the table said it's all the same. The man next to the Asian man said no, they were not. "Why not," she queried? He said they were different, like Korean, Chinese, Japanese were all different languages. "Ok, then Japan, China and Korea, put them together and what do you get?" The man across the table had his mouth open and stopped talking. "What's the code for Chinese?" yelled the instructor again. I stopped listening. The poster of priestly/bishopric allegiance across the room beckoned me.