I grew up in a very large, very Catholic family, pre-pedophilic priest scandal, back when members of the faith did not question what they were told, and really embraced that whole sheep thing. At least my father did. He was a convert—they say these are the worst—and he marched us up to the front pew of our little parish church, where I’m sure the congregation seated behind us had a field day counting our heads (ELEVEN!) in astonishment. Besides being reminded regularly that God was punishing us for this or that—for instance, let’s say I punched my brother and then turned around a stubbed my toe, that would be God punishing me—we were also regularly reminded that we were going to hell. Very relaxing childhood, I’m telling yo more ›