Zut
By Deirdre Heavey, Spring 2021
Zut: /zyt/
a. (interjection) damn
The smell of freshly mowed grass and painted field lines permeate my nose as I move my right foot over the soccer ball in a circular motion then, quickly, push it to the side with the outside of my right foot. I look back at the defender rushing to catch up with me after my latest fake, basking in my glory for a moment too long.
“Zut!” I yell.
Another defender swoops in and takes the ball from my feet; it’s already halfway back across the field. I speed back to reverse the process, hopefully this time with more luck and less pretension.
In a similar pattern of overconfidence resulting in inconsequential chaos of some kind–dropping some papers or writing the wrong word on the chalkboard–the French slur slips from Madam Friedman’s lips like a secret itching to be told. After incessant pleading from the class to define this unique expression, Madame explains its function as the French “God damn it!”
Between mid-class anxiety attacks in the Counseling Center and almost failing out of the course, Zut was my French mantra–the acceptable way to swear on a team that prays to God before every game, my subtle fuck you to my coach who doubled as a Spanish professor, and the silly slogan that would one day become my grace.
b. (noun) a godlike presence that transcends every aspect of nature, humankind, and the universe
My dad parks his 2011 black F-150 behind the no man’s land horse stables—past the City and County limit of San Francisco, unprotected by Daly City Public Parks, and perfectly positioned on the cliff of the Pacific Coast. I open my door as Cowboy, the blue-eyed Australian shepherd and love of my life, runs around in a pendulum circle as if there were sheep scattered throughout the succulents at his feet.
Dad Chuck-Its a bright orange ball across Cowboy’s field, toward the steep path down to Fort Funston Beach—tucked away from the raw eye. Cowboy leads the way, using the taste and smell of saltwater as a reminder to take the first right past the tree trunk fort and straight down through the eroding cliff.
I pull off my Doc Marten Sandals and run onto the damp sand, stopping where the shore begins and the sand ends. The swirling of the waves echoes through my eardrums, swishing their way through every inch of my body.
c. (noun) moments of grace
After school on the days I didn’t have soccer practice, I would run from my house, up the concrete stairs and sidewalks, and over to my natural solace. One minute I was dodging Honda Civics, the next I was alone with my thoughts and the sound of birds chirping through the foggy Karl trees.
I found myself grounded at the peak of Mount Davidson—feet hanging from the cliff, pen and journal in hand, a panoramic view of San Francisco in front of my eyes, and a majestic cross memorializing the Armenian Genocide at my back. Happily alone, I left my worries and sorrows back on the city streets.
A few weeks ago, I spent 3 days camping and climbing to the highest peak in the Adirondacks—Mount Marcy. 22.2 miles of unadulterated love, struggle, and presence. Willing ourselves up the mountain, we pushed each other forward, past the artificial stressors of the city down below and into the organic lobotomy that healed our minds and souls.
When we reached our peak, there was not a soul present on that sharp slope. Just four goofy kids, blissfully present as we gazed into the rolling hills of the Adirondacks. We cheersed to mini Snickers bars as we held one another close—in comfort and against the cold—the sun setting past the forest green cloud mountains as the stars revealed themselves to us.
How To Find Zut: (Results May Vary)
1. Indoctrination
Mrs. Courtright leads a single-file line of first graders through the back door of St. Gabriel Church like a mother hen leading her chicks to the light. It’s our first all-school Mass, and we’re buzzing to share a space with second through eighth graders. Mrs. Courtright had spent the last few weeks of religion class preparing us for this moment–the first opportunity to demonstrate our understanding of the Catholic Mass to our elders.
With the chords of One Bread, One Body, bouncing off the organ and into the congregation, all heads turn to the center of the Church as Father John Ryan processes down the aisle behind two pre-pubescent altar boys carrying large crosses. Father, holding a green bible in the air like Rafiki raising a baby Simba, assumes his elevated position on a throne fit for God himself and invites us to take our seats in our cold wooden pews.
Following a loud, collective rumble, of 450 students staggering to their seats, I find myself spewing out the proper responses to Father’s addresses without my brain’s knowledge. As I listen around for my classmates, I notice their delayed speech–likely fueled by their little exposure to the nuances of St. Gabriel Mass. While this was my first St. Gabriel School Mass, I had already been to upward of 300 St. Gabriel Masses in my six-year lifetime; every Sunday at 8 AM since birth. It showed.
As I sing to every song with a level of gusto only obtainable to me these days when screaming Meg Thee Stallion at karaoke, my confidence in my knowledge of the Mass radiates through the surrounding pews like the Holy Spirit of gluttony. The words flood from me with more precision than the National Anthem in the school yard after the daily morning bell. I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth. I can’t quite fathom what these beliefs mean, who God is, or how He created it all, but I’m better at this than the girl to my right and that’s all that seems to matter.
***
I bite into a piece of cardboard paper, looking down to see the unconsecrated Body of Christ between my lips. At the final dress rehearsal before the biggest day of our little lives, we take turns processing down the aisle, cupping our hands for the Eucharist, sipping the Blood, and adding Amen or the Sign of the Cross when necessary. My mind is on the white dress and crowned veil ironed and laid out perfectly on my bed back at home, which I’m yearning for so I can sneak a piece of Irish candy from Poppy in replacement of the cardboard paper still swishing around in the back of my mouth.
When I wake up in the morning on the day of my First Holy Communion, there’s an excitement about the house–something I couldn’t quite grasp at the time, but I don’t ask questions. All eyes are on me, and that’s all that matters. The significance of the day is made clear by the presence of all four of my Irish-Catholic grandparents, who are basking in the beauty of their youngest grandchild’s official admission into their beloved faith.
My mom spends hours curling my thick hair into the perfect loose curls, polishing off the look with the regal veil and a heart-shaped gold locket with a thin cross engraved in the center–a Communion gift from my parents. With a bottle of hair spray in hand, we make our way to St. Gabriel Library–transformed to resemble the set of Jesus Christ Superstar–for my holy headshots. I head to the back of the Church to meet my girlfriends and compare our child bride gowns before the big procession down the aisle.
When the moment finally comes, I am pleasantly surprised with the more-edible flavor of the now-consecrated Body of Christ. He still tastes like cardboard paper, but this new holiness transcendence resembles the difference in taste between Tostitos scoops and hint of lime.
Back at home, we have a huge party with all of our neighbors and friends. I stuff my face with cake as friends of friends hand me envelopes of money and Rosary beads. I still can’t comprehend why Jesus tastes like a hint of lime piece of cardboard paper, but everyone’s celebrating me, so I’m feeling pretty fabulous.
***
We sit around the fifth-grade classroom as we wait for Ms. De Leon to read the cast list for the annual reenactment of the Stations of the Cross. The roles, not earned for acting capability, but for supposed merit and understood favorability, were hand-picked by the fifth-grade teachers–as they are each year. One by one, students are assigned a role: Sarah Quigley as Mary Magdalene, Joey Murphy as Jesus, and Bridget Conway as Veronica. When my name is called, I walk to the front of the classroom as Ms. De Leon announces my status as the Virgin Mary, Mother of God. Bow down bitches.
2. Disillusionment
As I begin to broaden my circle, increase my sphere of influence, and explore the diverse city of San Francisco in my backyard, I start to unleash myself from the restraint of the ruler smacked against my wrist. Entering the Jesuit community of St. Ignatius College Prep as an indoctrinated product of Catholic Grammar School, the open-ended take on spirituality provides my first moment to catch a breath of atheist air.
With this new-found freedom of religion encouraged by my liberal professors, I consider the question itching at me from early days at St. Gabriel–Do I actually believe in God? I certainly believe in something, but I don’t know about this Catholicism or hell bullshit. Considering my priorities are scoring goals and kissing boys, I denounce all religion for the time being. No more 8 AM masses with Grandma Bridie and Papa, no more calling myself a Catholic, and certainly no Confirmation.
***
My mom is driving me home from school when she announces that St. Gabriel’s Confirmation registration deadline is approaching. Unbothered with my new lack of Catholic guilt, I tell her I don’t intend to receive my Confirmation; thank you very much. Her foot slams on the break as we jolt to a stop and her head turns toward mine in shotgun.
“What do you mean you’re not getting Confirmed?”
“I mean, I’m not getting Confirmed.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to. I’m too busy with soccer, and I don’t know if I even believe in God!”
“That’s just an excuse. You just don’t want to go to the weekly meetings. What would your grandmother say? You don’t have a choice; you are getting confirmed whether you like it or not.”
I cry and scream about the importance of my right to my own decisions and the indoctrinating nature of Catholicism as my mother turns up the music to drown out my laundry list of reasons for not wanting to be confirmed. Needless to say, I was forced to receive the sacred sacrament of Confirmation.
***
On the last day of our Confirmation retreat, my friends and I break away from Bible studies and confessions to take selfies by the creek. For the first time in three days, I can feel the presence of a certain something–or someone, or Zut–encompassing our space with each gush of wind and dip into the water. We laugh and share stories from our new high schools as we cherish the moments away from our tyrant of a Confirmation leader.
After struggling to find the proper path up the treacherous hill, we make it back to the chapel about 45 minutes later than expected. Upon our arrival, our Confirmation leader is standing outside the chapel with her arms crossed and lips pursed. She scolds us about our lack of respect for her time, and the time of everyone else.
When the rest of the soon-to-be Confirmed head out for an extra recess awarded to them for their lack of being us, we laugh to one other across the room as we write conduct reflections about our little escapade.
***
In my atheist years, soccer is the closest thing I have to a religion. At the peak of my so-called religious devotion, my parents take turns driving me to soccer tournaments in Santa Cruz at least once a month. For an hour and thirty minutes, I have the opportunity to sit with Mom or Dad–both of them on the better days–filling them in on all of the parent-appropriate shenanigans I have been getting myself into, and listen to their life lesson lectures. In Catholic terms, these drives become the act of communion, confession, and a lengthy homily all tied into one.
Driving up Highway 1, I look back at the white capped waves crashing into the rigged cliffs of the Pacific Coast as the car glides through the one-lane winding road. Cowboy peeks his head out of the window in the back seat, his tongue removed from his mouth and his eyes blue like the waves. My stinky soccer feet are up on the dash as Mom nags at me to put them down. Still drenched in sweat from the 90-minute game in 90-degree heat, I’m chugging a blue Gatorade and bodying a bag of Flavor-Blasted Goldfish that my Dad grabbed for me during post-game reflections with the team.
From the threat of Hank the Hermit, the monster invented by my Dad as a way to keep us kids in check, lurking just past the cliffs to the routine stop at Upper Crust Pizza after my brothers and I rode every rollercoaster at Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, Zut has long-lived on Highway 1. These days, we find Zut on the Pay What You Will Commune just off the highway, our new traditional stop for strawberry shortcakes and Fairtrade coffee.
3. Reclaiming
My contacts still readjusting to the light hitting my tired eyes, I step off the bus and enter the chapel to bid our farewells to the four-day Kairos retreat. As my head turns the corner, I’m suddenly wide awake with utter shock as my eyes catch the sight of my parents, best friends, teammates, classmates, and everyone in between standing, cheering for the group of seniors entering the space. After reading the letters sent by so many of these sweet souls, my heart is overwhelmingly beating. My eyes are no longer dry from my bus ride nap, but flooding with bittersweet tears.
Everyone is invited to walk up to the podium, one by one, to speak about their favorite part of the Kairos retreat. I run up here, tears still in my eyes, and tell the audience of my appreciation for this very moment, one fueled by a sense of love and community.
After four days of difficult conversations about trauma, fear, and pain, I am in awe at the vulnerability presented both by my peers and myself. I am uplifted by those who showed up to support my journey. I am humbled by my confrontation with authenticity, as well as my new-found commitment to it.
A godlike presence ruminates my heart, beating quickly through my bloodline, raising the hairs on my arms, bringing a smile to my face, and tears to my eyes. I know this feeling, and I welcome it–despite my precariousness.
***
We walk into my dad’s favorite place in the world: St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City. It’s been the first time all five members of the Heavey clan (Mom, Dad, Dermot, Aidan, and Deirdre) have been together for over a year. We’ll be going our separate ways after Mass today; none of us certain the next time we’ll have this opportunity. In this moment, we have one another and we have Mass.
I absolutely despise St. Patrick’s Cathedral for its commercialized, monetized nature. As I look up at Cardinal Dolan, the beloved New York City priest, my mind goes to his money laundering and complacency with sexual assault lawsuits. I wonder again where a women’s place in this Church lies. I can’t listen to the sermon, or any of the Mass for that matter; my mind is fixed on my disagreements with my family’s beloved institution. When it comes time for the Apostles Creed, I keep my mouth closed; not for a lack of recalling the words, but for a lack of believing them. I don’t believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth.
When the Sign of Peace comes around, my anger subsides to the back of my mind. I embrace each member of my family with a fondness for their presence in this so-called holy place. Despite everything, Zut will always be here in this Church held between the hands of the Heavey clan.
***
As we travel via the bed of red truck taxis to the radiant Buddhist temples of northern Thailand, I listen to my expat friends question the origins of Buddhism. Assuming they know the history of Siddhartha Gautama, I try not to jump down their throats with a monologue about the intricacies of finding enlightenment and abandoning all worldly belongings. I must have spent a week learning about world religions every other year of my Catholic education, so as to remind us why the Roman Catholic Church reigns superior.
We have just finished our seventh week in Thailand as a part of the eight week Asia Internship Program; each of us here to check another box on our resume and experience a new culture before we sell ourselves to the nine-to-five lifestyle in just a few years. Each one of us understands the Buddhist temple dress code–pants past our ankles and scarves to cover up our shoulders, even in the scorching heat–but no one seems to understand Buddhism itself.
Upon the request of my friends, I provide a Wikipedia explanation of Buddhism, Siddhartha Gautama, and Enlightenment. This explanation sparks a conversation about our varying religious beliefs; that of a raised Jew, a raised Catholic, a Christian, and an atheist. Each of us with our own view of organized religion, questioning what role religion will play in our lives, and in awe at the sheer beauty of these Buddhist temples.
Our red truck taxi pulls into the gravel driveway of the Rai Chern Tawan Meditation Center, with its colorful giant baby Buddhas, welcoming wooden temple, and hundreds of monks draped in white garments circling the grounds. We make our way around the perimeter of the prayer center, stopping to meditate periodically in our own spaces as we lookout onto the creek in spiritual moments of contemplation. I sit down on a chipped rocking chair overlooking the moshy forest terrain, open my blue and white Moleskin notebook which contains stories of my travels, and begin writing a letter to Zut.
