How the Roman Catholic Church Sought to Brainwash Me
into Hating Women
When I was a child—barely six or seven—there existed a wooden fence with a knothole in one of its slats in the backyard of the apartment building (310 Devoe Street) my grandfather and his friends, refugees from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics the First, had built with their own hands in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, New York. At its base was a concrete wall, and on that I climbed up to sneak glimpses through the tiny aperture. On the other side, a parcel of land served as a recreational area for the sisters of the Dominican nun convent sited on the same property.
Even today the sight of these individuals under solemn vows of poverty, chastity and obedience is fixed solidly in my mind. The heads of the religious missies were without their white coifs, wimples, black veils and underveils, and therefore I could see that their scalps were shaven in such a way that when later in my life I viewed, in films and pictures, the crania of prisoners in German concentration camps, I came to think of the bald virgins, married to Jesus and with wedding rings on their left ring fingers—whom I had seen through my peephole—immediately.
One early summer afternoon, after school, I snapped off some mint growing in my grandmother's garden, then hopped up onto the parapet for a peep at the holy ladies I had anticipated would be frolicking in the June sunshine. At once, I saw a partially clothed five or six of them throwing a ball at one and other; and, at a picnic table, four elderly, properly dressed sisters were crocheting and knitting. One of these was Sister Charlotte, my teacher!
Two months had passed since Sister Charlotte had knuckled me on the head, with the middle finger of her right hand, for not keeping my math assignments in the order she had point-blankly instructed all of us in her class to do so. She had shattered all the confidence I had ever had in myself, and I was all the while suffering her humiliation—the first I had stomached outside the confines of my own home. I was depressed and angry with her; my feelings towards her were genuinely hostile. I knew not how to handle this, for me, dreadful tragedy. My mother just kept telling me to forget all about it. I could not.
It was not that I had been a pampered child. In fact, my upbringing was in the company of rather dominant female personalities—including my mother who was a no-nonsense OB/GYN nursing supervisor. A cousin of hers was the principal of a school, and when she attended my graduation from grammar school when I had finished only in the top 5% and not at the top of the tops, she head-to-toe'd me as if I had failed. Another cousin of my mother's, with a master's degree in public administration, worked in New York's City Hall, and was known to all of us for her sternness and “don't get mad, get even” business aplomb.
So there I was, at such a tender age, truckling in the tutelage of Dominican nuns dressed in black and white medieval garb, and trampled under foot by well-meaning Amazons—all of whom claimed they knew what was best for me. How could I miss the boat? There was a Board of Women Directresses planning my education, my diet, my free time, my spiritual life, my school time, my...my...future! Everything was being blueprinted for me. I was to join in the success of the wisdom of the Past passed down to me through these seeresses whose moral and incorporeal insights were to be promulgated for me by their forthrightness. I had all to do to keep myself from becoming confused—and I didn't. I think most of us have toleration fuses in our brains which help us to live our lives within the limits of propriety.
There was this other stimulus which was to have far-reaching effects on my life in the years to come: the theorizations of the Roman Catholic Church. Everyone with whom I had contact in my until then short life appeared to relinquish titanic and unspeakable impregnabilities to this church and they all, not just those religiously indoctrinated, kowtowed in such a natural way to “Holy Mother Church”; therefore, I just had to be brought up to come along for the ride and ape what was going on around me. If the ripened ones about me plunged in with a somberness that purlstitched them to the Roman Catholic Church and carried them to the edges of fanaticism, I, to boot, was not going to be omitted from the liturgical spectacle.
I “said” my first Mass at 310 Devoe Street when I was seven or eight years of age, and my next-door friend, Gerry (Jerry?), served as my altar boy. Later, we switched impersonations and he “said” his first Mass. We used a varied assortment of articles we saw the priests in our parish church employ when they “said” Mass. We made use of candy wafers as communion hosts which Gerry and I changed into the Body of Jesus Christ. A wine glass functioned as a chalice and Coca-Cola was transubstantiated into the Blood of Jesus Christ. My father's scarf (stole) was hung over my shoulders at the back of my neck to show that I could officiate. We utilized women's gowns and bathrobes (chasuble and alb). We made birettas out of black art paper...a dictionary was our missal...oil and vinegar utensils were our cruets...a saucer was our paten...one of mother's rings was our bishop's ring.... We laughed when we dismissed our imaginary congregation parodying the Latin phrase, Dominus vobiscum, with “Dominic, go frisk them!”
Other boys and girls played on the sidewalks or in the street in front of us, and we wished one day we might “hear” their confessions and save them from the red hot fires of an interminable Hell. I had no qualms about not being outside with those “ruffians” because it had been embedded in my brain that one day I would offer those sinners (“I hate, Lord, those who hate you”!) a service which would connect them to a higher and mightier afterlife full of happiness and reward in a Paradise made in the image of God Himself. If you have read Erich Fromm's psychoanalysis of Adolf Hitler, you, my dear reader, will see there that the German Chancellor and Führer had not reveled in the delusions of grandeur I had done when he had my age.
When I held the “host” in my hands and touched the chalice with Christ's “blood” in it, goose bumps popped out all over me. I could not wait to enter the seminary my mother and her outfit had chosen for me to attend when I reached the age of twelve. I wanted so fervently to change real hosts and real vin santo into the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ. I could only make believe, for now, that I was a priest. I spent long periods in the joy of knowing that I had been “patted on the shoulder by God” to minister to Him as one of His personal servants, and I took my vocation very seriously. And unlike Bertrand Russell, I did not contemplate killing myself at the crushable age of five because I could not see clear to believe in a Supreme Being. I was living in a Roman Catholic dream world that promised me a blissful, useful life and I was enjoying every minute of it.
I will never be able to know how many times the word “Catholic” formed on my lips, and I will never be able to count how many Roman Catholic people crossed the path of my life that I was following when I was a boy. I had been born in a Catholic hospital...I delivered to Catholic homes the Catholic newspaper, The Tablet...I sold a Catholic monthly magazine, The Catholic Digest, outside St. Nicholas Church—right next to my home—on Sunday mornings...I went to summer camps managed by Catholic members of the Catholic Youth Organization...my doctor was Catholic...my dentist was Catholic...John, the butcher, was Catholic and his sons went to Catholic schools...when I came home from a trip to my uncle's home in the suburbs (Clarendon Hills) of Chicago, my mother asked me right off if the friends I had met there were Catholics...I initialed “J.M.J.” (“Jesus, Mary, Joseph”) at the top of every page I wrote on in every Catholic school I attended...I watched Bishop Fulton J. Sheen's Catholic television program every Tuesday night not understanding ever what he was pontificating but always wishing to grow up to be like him...my mother and father's friends were Catholics and they talked about their Catholic friends...the sex manual in my parents' bedroom, where I sneaked to read it, was written by a Catholic psychiatrist who advocated a birth control method dependent on continence during the period of female ovulation...I ate fish on Fridays because I was a Catholic...I said a prayer for the dead and blessed myself when I passed a Catholic cemetery...I bought Catholic raffle tickets...all the books I read were Catholic and imprimatur and nihil obstat were stamped on their title pages...many of the Catholic authors' names were tagged with “S.J.” or “O.F.M.” or “O.P.”...Catholic priests and nuns dined at my home...my mother chauffeured Catholic nuns to their Catholic doctors and Catholic dentists...my scoutmaster was Catholic...drunken Catholic World War II veterans drank green beer in our kitchen in the early morning hours...my barber was Catholic...I would never have been given permission to work for Irish Catholic William F. Buckley, Jr.'s National Review had he been a Jew...my tonsils were extracted in a Catholic hospital and Catholic nuns nursed me...our 1953 green Chevrolet was blessed and sprinkled with Catholic holy water by a priest...the calender in our kitchen was decked with saints and their feast days...we had a poor box in our house to collect money for foreign missionaries...under the rear-view mirror of our Chevy a plastic Jesus, with a magnet under Him, stood firm and fast and His right hand was upped with His blessing...a St. Christopher's medal was attached to the sun visor...my father's boss was Catholic...when I left the seminary I was told I would attend a Catholic university—or else...I went to parties with Catholic boys and Catholic girls...my favorite baseball player was the Brooklyn Dodgers' first baseman, Gil Hodges, a Catholic...my parents dreamed of a trip to Europe to see the Pope and his cardinals...I went to Irish-Catholic wakes where everyone was drinking Irish whisky...we stopped at Catholic churches along the highway...when away in a hotel or motel, the first question my mother would ask the receptionist after registration was: “Where can we hear Mass on Sunday?”...no room in my three-story house did not possess a Catholic statue or Catholic crucifix or Catholic holy picture...my grandmother from the Soviet Union gave us sips of vodka from bottles blessed by her Orthodox Catholic parish priest...I carried wooden rosary beads, “blessed by the Pope,” wherever I went...I stopped what I was doing at high noon to say three Hail Marys at the Angelus...when I served Mass in real churches, I wished someday I would be able to say my own Masses, and I studied carefully the routines of all the priests...I confessed my sins at least once a week...I got my Catholic throat blessed every year on St. Blaise's Day...each Ash Wednesday, I went to school with a grey-black spot on my Catholic forehead...I worked cleaning altar rails and altar steps and bronze flower pots and other Catholic accruements in the sacristy and one day, when a nun dropped a 24-hour glass vigil candle on the floor and screamed “SHIT!!!,” I ran home, in a state of shock, anxious to tell my mother what the Dominican nun had blurted out in church...I filched unconsecrated hosts, ate them by the handfuls, and washed them down with what was left at the bottoms of discarded vin santo bottles...I said the Catholic “grace” before meals to thank God for what had been put on the plate before me...our insurance agent was Catholic...the man who mended my shoes was Catholic...I went on summer vacation to my relatives' homes scattered about the United States and went to their Catholic churches on Sundays...I went to see films only after checking out, in The Tablet, whether or not they were good for me to view...I took home Catholicly-blessed palms on Palm Sunday...I had sports shirts with the names of Catholic universities printed on them...when I served Catholic funeral Masses, I listened to the Dies Irae sung so sadly in the choir loft...I put extra charcoals in the thurible so that the church would fill up with billows of smoke from Catholicly-blessed incense...I knew well the smells of nuns and their freshly-starched Catholic habits and their soapy skins...I knew the sound of their huge black Catholic rosary beads rattling as they walked...I knew, too, the blackness of Catholic priests—their black cars, their black bags, their black socks and shoes, their black suits, their black pens, their black hats, their black pipes, their black luggage...I smiled when I saw “black” priests turned into “green” priests in the Army...I made three-day Catholic retreats far from my home...I bought Catholic birthday gifts for my friends...I collected holy pictures and could not wait to go to another wake and add to my collection—just as other kids collected baseball cards...when I watched basketball games on TV, I looked for those players who had attended Catholic universities...my mother always pointed out to me who the Catholic actors and actresses were on TV...books with Catholic themes were on our bookshelves at home...I wore something green on St. Patrick's Day every year...we had plastic holy water fonts posted near the entrances to our bedrooms...Catholic music, Catholic games, Catholic clubs, Catholic liquors, Catholic boxes for the poor, Catholic jokes, Catholic prayer books, Catholic bibles, Catholic policemen, Catholic firemen, Catholic mailmen and mailwomen, Catholic funeral parlours, Catholic plays, Catholic films...CATHOLIC! CATHOLIC!! CATHOLIC!!!
It was within this social setting that I germinated as far back as I could remember to the age of twelve when I would enter the Diocese of Brooklyn's preparatory seminary. During this spell I performed as a marionette and was manipulated above by three strings attached to me. The first force was a sensual, sexual one. It was a pining for emotional gratification in the arms of a woman, cuddled in her arms—something that had been denied me by overly stressed women who had said they loved me but had not manifested their affection for me physically. This unrequited cherishing pressed me to hanker for physical love the more. The second energy that tugged at me was the embodiment of womankind as an exacting, abstracted element proficient enough to be courageous—even despotic. And, thirdly, the Roman Catholic Church yanked itself at me by offering an inexhaustible reservoir of medieval chimeras that kept me excommunicated from a “normal” dayspring of life—for better, for worse. My role in this puppet show was more than passive. I believed everything; I believed nothing. I gloated over my new experiences. I kept my eyes on the bosoms of women, I was an indentured servant at the beck and call of the whims of assiduous females, and I could elude reality in the comfort of the rituals of a superannuated supremacy. My days of daydreaming were about to be torn asunder.
* * *
I had met the beautiful Denise two or three times on “The El” (elevated subway), and when we changed at the Eastern Parkway station to take another train, we walked together down a long series of flights of stairs the steps of which were made of iron—the escalator was almost always too crowded to wait to take—and when I exited at the Clinton-Washington station, D remained for her station which was farther on down the dark, damp tunneled line. I was very shy and cumbersome, shuffled my feet in D's presence, and I am sure she thought I was rather dull. I could not strike up an interestingly enough conversation to please her, or still better, impress her or even make her laugh; yet, for some reason I think she had taken a liking to me.
My soft spot for D was similar to an experience I was to duplicate with another woman, still more beautiful than D, later on in my life. I just could not imagine that she could have a romantic inclination towards me, and when I found out even more years on from a friend of hers who told me the lady was indeed very fond of me, I almost choked, and I wished I could have gone back in Time knowing very well I could not.
Another episode like these comes to mind: Having been such a pest for the United States Army when I served (1967-68) in Vietnam, I could not believe my eyes when I received a letter (26 October 1971) from the Department of Army, Office of the Adjutant General, United States Army Reserve Components Personnel and Administration Center, informing me that I had been selected for promotion to captain! For years after I thought someone in the Army had had an exaggerated sense of humor.
Two or three days after the last time I was ever to see or talk to D again, I was in some class when a message was given to my instructor who, in turn, announced to me that the rector of Cathedral Preparatory wanted to see me immediately in his office. I was stunned. Everyone in the room turned his head towards me astonished, too. To be summoned to the rector's office was one of the most unusual things that could befall a seminarian. I could not rhapsodize anything I had done mischievously, so I surmised that I was going to be chastised about my academic performance—which had not been brilliant—and then guessed at for what other reason I could have been sent for to the administrative hub of the seminary. My gut tensed.
The rector: He was called The Great White Father, Charles Mulrooney, very tall, grey-whitelike hair. I sang Gregorian chants with the other members of the Cathedral student body when Mulrooney was consecrated, at a later date, to the rank of auxiliary bishop of the Diocese of Brooklyn. He was a mythical character at Cathedral Preparatory and to the Roman Catholic colony in Brooklyn. Soft-spoken and unflinching, he reminded me of a general (was his name John Hughes?), deputy commanding general at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, when I graduated from the United States Artillery & Missile School in 1966.
Our graduating class had been invited to a formal dinner hosted by the general, and having a good view from one of the tables right up front and near the head table where the general and some of his staff had been positioned, I noticed the general signal to one of the servicemen, who was waiting tables, pointing his index finger to an empty wine glass in front of him. Then I watched a buck private scurry with a wine bottle, wrapped in a linen cloth, to fill the general's goblet. I was very impressed. Not a word had been spoken. Unutterable authority.
The Great White Father possessed this cold, silent sovereignty. He could snap his fingers to invoke the dominion that the Roman Catholic Church had possessed for centuries until the end of it at the end of the nineteenth century. Bishop Mulrooney walked in power and people kowtowed in his presence. Just as Carlos Andrés Pérez, once President of the Republic of Venezuela, was bowed to by his aides and honchos. I was speaking with a minister of the government of Venezuela in a reception hosted by the president when he pointed towards the two of us wanting to seek the attention of the minister with whom he wished to converse. When I told the minister he was being paged, he shoved his Old Parr Scotch in my hand and beat a direct path to the side of the president.
The Great White Father told me to shut the door behind me. During the eight years of Roman Catholic education I was to subscribe to under the rule of priests, this “close the door behind you” mantra was to become so frequent, I began to call, to myself, these priests “close the door behind you” priests. And the vast majority of them had Irish last names just as Bishop Mulrooney did.
There was a folder on the rector's desk and when I was seated he opened it. Have you ever observed the interrogation of a suspect in a police station? Father Mulrooney went right to the point—without any courteousness. He told me it had been reported to him that I had been seen talking to a girl on the subway on my way to the Clinton-Washington station. Was this true? Yes, I responded. What did you talk about? School. Books we had been studying. Sports programs. Do you know that you are not supposed to talk to women? No. If you are going to become a priest you must remember that you cannot have any type of a relationship with females. That includes social ties. Do you understand? I don't want to have to call you again into this office. Do you understand? You can go now. Yes, father. Out the door I went.
I slumped away in a stupor. I could not master my mind to wring from it an account of what had come about in the short, stabbing third degree in front of The Great White Father. I was gashed indelibly. I was amiss—culpable for something I could not fathom was considered shameful. I had no cerebral helping hand to give me the sturdiness to screen myself from contact with this devastating intrusion. I was incompetent to ascertain that my life had been excessively sheltered, that at the age of thirteen or fourteen I had no interior reserves to ward off, by myself, onslaughts from beyond; in fact, I was a piece of drift wood bobbing on the turbulent waves of a feisty sea. I had no friends to confide in. My mother, when I informed her of this ravaging adventure, told me to “obey the rector—he knows best!” I did not know what books to read to seek advice. If I was to confess, I could not think of the name of the sin I had committed. I did not even possess the good sense to realize that this horrible event would also pass one day into the nothingness that it really was. No comfort. No disentanglement. No hope. Only despair. I felt irrevocably alone. And from that moment on my emotional tone was inexplicably remolded.
* * *
After the seminary, I worked as a correspondence/circulation clerk with William F. Buckley, Jr.'s National Review magazine. This stint served as an hiatus between one Roman Catholic institute of learning, a seminary, and another, a university (St. Bonaventure University). NR instructed me in some of the nuts and bolts of adult life, inculcated in me a deference for excellence, and introduced me, somewhat, to the powers of politics. It did zilch, unfortunately, to train me for the animal farm from which I was to receive a Bachelor of Arts (scholastic philosophy) degree and a commission in the United States Army as a second lieutenant (Artillery) in June 1966.
During these four years of almost total obedience to an authoritarian regime-like Roman Catholic way of life, I came to the realization—very often in the most brutal way—that women were not objects of veneration in the minds of most males surrounding me, that women had to yield to the cruel shenanigans of immature, frequently drunk, sex-starved undergraduates, that these “men” turned up resigned to the fact that their lot was so and nothing could be done to antidote this tragic state of affairs. In a student body of about two-thousand men, only fifty or so women were registered as matriculates. My own impressions of women were not congruent with those of my fellows: this was a source of considerable conflict for me at the ripe age of seventeen years.
Some of the “turns in the air” The Boys perpetrated were these: If a “co-ed” (co-education) or a female religious person passed by one of the three all-men's dormitories on campus, the scholars would, in unison, go to the windows of their rooms and stick their bare rear ends out at the women (a practice called “mooning”); or, The Boys might throw paint—not water—balloons at the unsuspecting ladies; or, if women were invited to the huge all-men's dining hall (“the chow hall”), which they were on very rare occasions, they would be victimized by choruses of verbal cat calls The Boys never would have thought to utter in front of their mothers—all the while flinging to their hearts' content, at the females, off their knives, wedges of butter which had been placed on their bread plates; or, three or four hundred of the more rambunctious ones, many drunk after a night “gone drinking,” would “raid” the girls' dormitory in the early morning hours and run out with ladies' undergarments which, after, they would hang in their dorms' rooms as if they were some category of trophy. The priests would “boys will be boys” this and hardly ever came to the defence of the humiliated and deeply offended ladies all in search of being treated as normal human beings and dreaming of a respect they would never have there in their “university.”
The tenor of the priests' thinking was this: On the opening of my World History class one alcoholic Franciscan monk, nicknamed “The Spike” because he was regarded as some sort of tough guy, called the five ladies in our class to the front row before the forty-or-so rest of us who all had been seated alphabetically in order for “The Spike” to easily take attendance. (If you missed three of his classes [“cuts”] you were automatically failed.) When up front, “The Spike” told the girls, sarcastically, to cross their legs and shut the gates of Hell. There were gawks and snickers abounding in the classroom and the second sex, naturally, had to suck this intolerance in and just assume that the cutting remark was only another insult to be absorbed masochistically during a day of education in an almost all-male Roman Catholic university. Animal Farm?
Of course, priests not always swayed so arrogantly about. In the dining hall, for instance, two of them had to baby sit before the two-thousand-male throng—the pair standing and waiting to say the meal's grace to be amplified throughout the enormous assembly-mess hall through a microphone, after which all two-thousand together would scream bloody murder for the waiters to come and then scoop up, with their bare hands, the mashed potatoes and other foodstuff placed on huge trays carried to their tables. If The Boys were especially obstreperous and their starving stomachs growled for food inordinately, the two priests—if they dilly-dallied—just might be cajoled to hurry up a bit by a showering of volleys of flying butter slabs many of which reached the ceiling and stuck there until they fell down at another time. You truly never knew when a piece of butter might drop on your head in the dining hall.
* * *
It should not be necessary—but it is!—to say that the Roman Catholic Church is not the only tyranny of a majority that exists amidst us. There are many others. Political, nationalistic, social, economic and even philosophical ones exist. Throughout my life, I have seen women maltreated as farm animals and, depending on where I was, domesticated farm animals. In South Vietnam, in the south of the United States, in South America and in southern Europe. In these places, women have been dealt with, and are today, as subordinates in a scandalous tyranny of a majority. They are subject to being an unequal class regards their employment positions and salaries. In the overall schema of things, they must conform to being sexual underdogs. They must know their place.
Yet, perhaps the worst tyranny of a majority is marriage—an institution that draws upon religious and economic cognitive contents that have been with us for centuries. These somewhat tribal influences have set the tone for what is considered the word-perfect, moral standard that a couple have to conform to. The fact that an enormous number of marriages miscarry, this establishment is solidly in place because of the economic joinings that go with marriage and make it a profitable business for many who are involved in sustaining its continuance.
But what would happen if marriage lost its long-held status? That it was replaced by another system more intelligent, more flexible, more prone to make people respect themselves the more—a structure not burdened by the “foreverness” of the marriage vow?
The time has come for the marriage license. It could be a five-year document, for instance. One which might be renewed or not by the free-thinking decisions of both married individuals. Such an arrangement would eliminate the enormous stress that now exists and frustrates couples. Their licensed unions would, as a result, be all the more “blissful”—we might say.
And to add to the joy of the marriage determined by term (time periods), it would be still exceptionally more intelligent to afford a spouse, who is not an income producer in the coupling, but is a “worker” bringing up children, cleaning the house, doing the shopping, et cetera, an insurance policy which, for the spousal equivalent at home, would afford that individual just compensation for work performed during the licensed period. The insurance policy could be paid for by the working partner, that partner's employer, and state and/or federal subsidies. Such a planning would keep married people from seeking separation and divorce in courts where unscrupulous lawyers and judges connive to bring human beings, tired of each other, to the brink of violence and ill health caused by the ritual of divorce proceedings, and keep the medieval marriage institution from being modified to conform to modernity. It is time to make of marriage a pairing for loving people and not the deception it is for authoritative figureheads.
In conclusion, I return to the Roman Catholic Church and solicit all Catholics to reexamine their relation to this tyranny of a majority that conspires to influence, by psychological browbeating, the private lives of its members who are non-thinkingly glued to the RCC's despotic confidence game, medieval mythical monsters and its dictatorial bent on controlling the women within its orb.
Authored by Anthony St. John
1 July MMXII
* * *
Your text is too small for me to read even with my glasses. It is also very long. If I could suggest condensing your novel then you could also make the text larger
11 November MMXIV
Thank you so much for responding to my article.
It is always a pleasure for me to receive notice from individuals
interested in what I write. I tried to make the font larger, but had no success.
I hope you did not strain your eyes.
If you go to www.scribd.com/thewordwarrior, you will be able to read the article--and many others--concerning atheism and the Roman Catholic Church. There you can easily change the size of the font so that it adapts to your liking.
Concerning the length of the article, I can make this suggestion: Begin reading. When your eyes tire or if you feel you have read too much, stop there and mark the point where you have arrived in your reading. At another time, that is convenient for you, return to the article and make another attempt at finishing it.
I hope you and your family find good fortune and health in the new 2014.
Thank you again for your interest.
Thanks for your portrayal of ways in which that virulent mindware institutionalizes and spreads misogyny!
The small font size was difficult for me to read as well. It inspired me to do some quick geekery and strip out most of the formatting (some regexps on the HTML source) for the attached files. The plain-text TXT version loses the italics, which are important in a few places; but the other versions keep italics. All three should be readable on most computers.
[EDIT: I fixed the HTML version; it's attached to my reply below.]
(I couldn't find that particular article from a quick look at your scribd page.)
A better HTML version, without any "question mark" unknown characters...
12 January MMXIV
I just uploaded another discussion and it continues to have the same small font.
I don't know ho to correct this.
Also, a couple of my articles were not accepted because they were over the 100,000 word limit.
I wanted to add my picture and that was not accepted also.
12 January MMXIV
I'm sorry I'm such a goofball with computerism!