Confession: Para mi mama

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been over 10 years since my last confession.”

What in the name of Celia Cruz am I doing here? Mierda.

Mi mama talked me into going to confession after she saw me talking to a couple of Mormon missionaries. I tried to tell her that they save my soul every Tuesday evening and she lost her paciencia. Unless you are Latino, you do not fully understand the wrath of a Latin mother.

Her hands flailed, she cried, she prayed to every saint en el cielo, she said my abuelo was rolling in his grave, she told me she may be having a heart attack, no, this was a stroke, she told me to feel her heart, her own son having his soul saved by Mormons, she looked up to the sky (ceiling) and had a conversation with God, what had she done to deserve this, her own son, Ave Maria, why her, do you want to kill me El Guapo, is that what you want…

No mama. It was a joke. They’re nice kids who have to convert people. I think they get a Tupperware set if they convert a Latino. I was being nice mama. I was making a joke about the saving of my soul.

Oh, your soul is a joke? This is funny to you?

Another conversation with God, who in mi casa, lives right above the kitchen ceiling. I’ve looked up there. There is a crack. I should fix that.

What do you want me to do mama? What can I do? I’m sorry.

“Ten years my son?”

“Yes, padre. I don’t know the little prayer you say now. I’m sorry.”

“My son, this is a confession. This is very serious. Please do not take this lightly. There is no “little” prayer.”

Oh no. I have made the padre upset with me. I can not charm him with my amazing guapo smile because of this screen! DAMN THIS SCREEN!

“Padre, please, I am nervioso, I am sorry. I need to be cleansed. Por favor. My humble apologies.”

“Very well my son. Do not be nervous.”

He says the prayer.

“What are your sins my child?”

“I was speaking to Mormons.”

Loooooong pause. Oh Benicio del Toro was I in trouble. Look, those Mormon kids are nice. They are like the Latinos of religions. Everyone makes fun of them. They walk around in the ghetto trying to save souls and I am nice to them. They tell me their stories about tablets and Indians and I listen. Sometimes all it takes to make someone’s day is to listen to their story. Now, I will be saying prayers until I turn 64. At least I will have a song.

“My son, are you serious? Speaking with Mormons is not a sin.”

“No? Mi mama didn’t like it that I was speaking with Mormons who were trying to save my soul. She was crying to God in my kitchen. My abuelo is rolling in his grave. Tupperware set. I’m here to save my soul the real way. The Catholic way.”

“My son, is that your only sin?”

Ten years of not going to confession. Ay Dios mio! Are you serious?

“Sometimes I have thoughts father. About women.”

I do. I’m Latino. This can not be helped.

“My son, that is normal. Just make an effort to have pure thoughts.”

I then reached into my pocket to grab the four pieces of paper with my list of sins. I had highlighed sin number 4 about something with my old girlfriend Margarita when I was 17. My buddy Miguel said it was a sin, but I was never sure so I was going to find out now. Also, number 132 was highlighted. I had dated una Argentina. I wasn't sure if that was a sin. I had so many questions that were going to be finally answered. I was ready, but he started to say a prayer that absolved me of my sins.

Come on hombre! I wanted to know about the Margarita thing. Was I taking his time? Did he need to go to the bathroom?

“Gracias padre.”

“Go in peace my child.”

It counts that I was going to read the list. It counts even more that I was touching the list.

I am feliz because my mother may not talk to God in my kitchen ceiling for a couple of more days and as long as my mother is happy, that is all that matters.

Miguel says that touching the paper doesn't count and that I have to go back. What does he know? He can't even grow a mustache.

I miss my mustache.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo