Do Tampons Take Your Virginity?: A Catholic Girl's Memoir Read Online Free PDF Page B

say anything about the lobsters or the lapas. In fact, don’t say anything at all. Just keep your mouths shut.” My brother and I nodded mutely.
    The magistrate was on the docks that day, inspecting all the boats that came in. My father and his buddies brought the boat up to the dock and the magistrate walked up to them. “Ho! Ho! What do we have here today?” he asked, arching one eyebrow.
    “Oh, nothing much... just a few eels and some other fish.” My father spoke for the group and all the other men nodded solemnly. Here in the Azores, my father was like a little king. Father was a teacher back in America and everyone knew it and respected him for it.
    The magistrate didn’t believe them and he searched the entire boat. The fishermen became indignant.
    “What, you don’t believe us? Don’t you have anything better to do than to harass the hardworking fishermen of this town?” said my father angrily.
    The magistrate frowned and left. He wasn’t ready to pick a fight with this united front. The men walked up to the shore, still angry. Instead of being happy they didn’t get caught, they were pissed that the magistrate had suspected them at all.
    “That bastard should mind his own business.”
    “They don’t have anything better to do.”
    “Useless! The government around here is useless!”
    I was puzzled by their anger. I thought they would be relieved that the illegal catch hadn’t been discovered. Instead, they were all annoyed.
    Later that night, my father went back to the dock. He crawled down to the rocks and picked up the lapas and lobsters. The bag bulged with delicacies. Father placed the illegal catch in a burlap sack and we walked quickly to my cousin Manuel’s adega , where they already had a roaring fire waiting for everyone.
    What a party it was! They cooked the lobsters, we ate the lapas, and our cousin Manuel even played some music on a little guitar. It was a great delicacy to eat the lobster meat, and then pour wine in the tail, which still held all the dregs from the lobster intestines. They let me drink some wine mixed with lobster juice. I guessed that most of that stuff left in the tail was lobster shit, but it tasted great to me.
    The lapas we ate raw. We would pry them from their shells using a knife or the shell of another limpet that we had just eaten while their little heads squirmed in agony.
    Delicious!
    Anyway, throughout the night, the main topic of conversation was what a shithead the magistrate had been. The conversation went on and on—the men attacking his work ethic, the validity of his job, and even his masculinity. Some of the men insinuated that the magistrate was a paneleiro , which is the term for “faggot” in Portuguese. They all laughed.
    I was puzzled by this unending attack on the poor man, who, to me, just looked like he was doing his job.
    So I asked, “Why are you saying bad things about the man when you were stealing illegal fish?”
    Silence. The men all stared at me, bug-eyed. I had broken the mood. It was a total buzz kill.
    The men looked at my father, who obviously hadn’t raised me right. My father didn’t say anything else. We just left the party. When we were walking home, my father yelled at me, but in a whisper. It was loud, but still under his breath. Very strange.
    “I told you to keep your mouth shut! Don’t talk about the lobsters or the lapas to anyone!”
    My brother was silent, as always.
    I learned an important lesson in male etiquette that day. When men are all in a group attacking some figure of authority, it’s best to just keep your mouth shut.
Magical Clover
    1985, AGE 12
    Until recently, very few homes in Portugal had running water or toilets. We were forced to use outhouses, chamber pots, or just piss in the grass. One day, I decided to pee near the rainwater collection tank and I discovered a magical patch of clover growing nearby.
    This little patch of clover was full of four-leaf, five-leaf, and six-leaf clovers! I