Sins of the swine

Strange, is it not, the things that stick with us?

Most stories of childhood come wrapped in the warmth of summer by babbling brooks, hide and seek, merienda on a tree with the sun on the shoulders.

My memories, meanwhile, are of a flying Bible, pork-based persecution and the slow, methodical erosion of my self-worth.

Early on I figured I might not be cut out for sainthood. While I had the moral certitude, I lacked the constitution to endure the ridicule in my household.

I was at least 14, devout to the point of parody; I could be found perched by the window, reading aloud five chapters of the text every Saturday as if auditioning for the role of junior prophet. My piety radiated like a halo for all to see.

I was a Catholic attending an Adventist high school, where I was thoroughly indoctrinated into the virtues of dietary purity and the sins of the swine.

The Adventists had convinced me that salvation hinged on avoiding bacon, which they seemed to regard as Satan’s preferred breakfast meat.

My mother viewed my habit with seething irritation. Her breaking point came at the dinner table.

Her sinigang could tempt even the most hardened ascetic: The hearty mingling of herbs, the tender meat, the delicate undertones of vegetables seemed to weave an aroma of comfort and care that only my mother could craft.

“Not impressed,” I thought. “Sin is what gives it flavor.”

I fussed at the air, waving my arm in front of my face the way you might fight off a bee.

The bowl made its way about, and I sat with the serene confidence of a martyr, waiting for my moment to save their errant souls with a sermon at the dinner table.

When it reached me, I politely pushed the bowl away with the solemnity of a child privy to the dietary habits of ancient Hebrews.

“I cannot partake of the unclean.”

My mother’s fork stopped midway into her mouth.

“What do you mean you cannot partake?”

“Leviticus,” I replied, as though the mere mention of it would silence all dissent. “The swine. Though it divides the hoof—”

“For heaven’s sake,” she snapped, cutting me off before I could finish damning the entire table to perdition.

“You’ll sit here, at my table, eating my food, and call it an abomination? Who do you think you are? Moses? Should we all bow down?”

It felt as though I were defending the faith.

My mother left the table without a word.

I thought I had won.

What I failed to notice was the dangerous glint in her eye, the kind that precedes either divine smiting or maternal fury.

I braced myself.

I thought, fleetingly, that she might be fetching a rosary, perhaps to exorcise whatever Adventist spirit had possessed me.

Instead, she returned with my Bible—dog-eared, annotated, hefty as a typewriter: the kind that makes even the bravest reconsider their life choices.

She held it up like a priest about to cast out a demon, or like Moses preparing to part the sea. One fell swoop and it became a missile.

The book sailed through the air, pages fluttering, scripture breathing as it arced toward me. In a blasphemous instant, I thought it was almost beautiful.

“Hypocrite!” she thundered.

It was a perfect shot. Center mass. The impact was immediate, both physical and theological. Either she’s been training that arm or the Lord himself guided that throw.

The gospel, I discovered, is much heavier when applied directly to the chest.

I clutched it, gasping like a televangelist mid-exorcism.

Around me, my kins stared intently at their plates, suddenly fascinated by the geometry of their grains. Holiness, they knew, could be dangerous at close range.

“I’m only obeying what I’ve been taught,” I declared. I started to well up.

“The Adventists say—”

“Religion,” she said, “is no excuse for rudeness. If your faith makes you look down on others, it’s not faith. It’s arrogance.”

“Well, if you’re so holy, perhaps you’d like to lead us in a blessing for the sinigang you won’t eat?” my father interrupted.

As children, did we really understand the complex emotional economies that govern family dynamics?

It’s only now, years later, that I can begin to unpack what was really happening.

My mother wasn’t angry because I refused her bounty; she was mad because, in that refusal, I had unknowingly placed myself above her.

In her eyes, I wasn’t practicing faith—I was practicing superiority.

Isn’t that what righteousness often does? It isolates. It separates. It places one on a pedestal that, inevitably, one is left standing alone?

My holy dietary restrictions created an emotional fortress that I was too proud to even notice was there.

It was all very dramatic: me standing as the beacon of moral clarity; my poor family huddled below, probably wondering why I was acting like I had just discovered the secret scrolls of sainthood while they were merely trying to enjoy a meal.

I think back to that dinner table and wonder what might have been different if I had simply taken a bite. Would it have tasted of rebellion? Betrayal?

Grace?