Maria Pianelli Blair
Cryptids and Christenings
I probably shouldn’t wear my Jersey Devil t-shirt to church. Not like the hockey team. Like the monster, the thirteenth child of a witch. Unsightly, with a barbed tail and spiral horns, sharp as knives. Whose leathered wings cloak the Pine Barrens in a shroud of shadows. Whose cloven hooves clatter against its haunted labyrinths. A yellow-eyed terror born under a blood moon. Caprine snout. Wyvern body. Talons raised and ready.
I don’t believe in the Jersey Devil, but the shirt is flattering. Honey-colored cotton clings to my chest, swollen from breastfeeding. The collar is taut, not yet mangled by daughter’s grip, and the scent of screen printing lingers. Slimy red letters scream from the center, conjuring a ‘50s B-movie: “Curse of the Jersey Devil.” Below the text is the monster himself, a cartoon silhouette.
I doubt the rectory secretary is versed in regional folklore. And I don’t want her to think I’m a Satanist when trying to book my daughter’s Baptism.
Despite the t-shirt, despite late-night Internet rabbit holes, despite the gag gifts I’ve collected, I’m not a cryptozoologist. But until I had a baby, it was hard to envision myself back in church, either. A decade of Catholic school had taken its toll and, by the end of it, I had my qualms with congregations and organized religion. Then your five-month-old looks at you like you’re the sun, the moon, the entire universe, and suddenly heaven is worth reconsidering.
When it comes down to it, Christianity and cryptozoology have a lot in common. Both are built on unwavering faith. There’s something beautiful in believing, even amidst mockery. I want my daughter to subscribe to the unseen. I want her imagination to barrel out of control, unwavering and unapologetic. I hope she’s open to possibility in all its forms. If that means believing in a winged, goat-faced monster that lurks the Pines, then so be it.
Pregnancy made me paranoid, so I took to praying. I spent hours researching saints, rummaging through prayer books in bouts of mania. There were the usual suspects: patron saints of pregnancy, of childbirth, of motherhood. And there were those further reaching, well-versed in anxiety, miscarriages, neurological disorders. My daughter’s anatomy scan had gone haywire. And, weeks later, after we had received a clean bill of health, I refused to relent.
St. Anne, pray for us. St. Anthony, pray for us. St. Dymphna. St. Catherine.
Pray, pray, pray.
But now that she’s here, there are other demons to keep at bay.
It’s hard to sleep when headlines bare pedophiles and political strife. It’s hard not to conjure every worst-case scenario. I find my thoughts five, ten, eighteen years ahead, spiraling, worrying, wondering if she’ll be ok. How do you teach a child to stay alert, to stay safe, without shattering her innocence? How do you train a new mother to keep the intrusive thoughts away?
Sometimes monsters, the hairy sort with glowing eyes and bent knees, are better alternatives to the ghouls that lurk among us. I’d rather believe in the surreal than pay those monsters any mind.
I don’t believe in the Jersey Devil, and I’m still not fond of organized religion. But having a baby makes you consider all your options. It would be foolish not to cover my bases. If baptizing my baby means the intercession of hundreds of saints and God’s eternal grace, then who am I to take chances? A girl needs a little divine intervention every now and again. One day, I’ll wear my t-shirt to ribbons. Not today. I replace it with a starchy blouse and go on my way.
I don’t believe in the Jersey Devil, but the shirt is flattering. Honey-colored cotton clings to my chest, swollen from breastfeeding. The collar is taut, not yet mangled by daughter’s grip, and the scent of screen printing lingers. Slimy red letters scream from the center, conjuring a ‘50s B-movie: “Curse of the Jersey Devil.” Below the text is the monster himself, a cartoon silhouette.
I doubt the rectory secretary is versed in regional folklore. And I don’t want her to think I’m a Satanist when trying to book my daughter’s Baptism.
Despite the t-shirt, despite late-night Internet rabbit holes, despite the gag gifts I’ve collected, I’m not a cryptozoologist. But until I had a baby, it was hard to envision myself back in church, either. A decade of Catholic school had taken its toll and, by the end of it, I had my qualms with congregations and organized religion. Then your five-month-old looks at you like you’re the sun, the moon, the entire universe, and suddenly heaven is worth reconsidering.
When it comes down to it, Christianity and cryptozoology have a lot in common. Both are built on unwavering faith. There’s something beautiful in believing, even amidst mockery. I want my daughter to subscribe to the unseen. I want her imagination to barrel out of control, unwavering and unapologetic. I hope she’s open to possibility in all its forms. If that means believing in a winged, goat-faced monster that lurks the Pines, then so be it.
Pregnancy made me paranoid, so I took to praying. I spent hours researching saints, rummaging through prayer books in bouts of mania. There were the usual suspects: patron saints of pregnancy, of childbirth, of motherhood. And there were those further reaching, well-versed in anxiety, miscarriages, neurological disorders. My daughter’s anatomy scan had gone haywire. And, weeks later, after we had received a clean bill of health, I refused to relent.
St. Anne, pray for us. St. Anthony, pray for us. St. Dymphna. St. Catherine.
Pray, pray, pray.
But now that she’s here, there are other demons to keep at bay.
It’s hard to sleep when headlines bare pedophiles and political strife. It’s hard not to conjure every worst-case scenario. I find my thoughts five, ten, eighteen years ahead, spiraling, worrying, wondering if she’ll be ok. How do you teach a child to stay alert, to stay safe, without shattering her innocence? How do you train a new mother to keep the intrusive thoughts away?
Sometimes monsters, the hairy sort with glowing eyes and bent knees, are better alternatives to the ghouls that lurk among us. I’d rather believe in the surreal than pay those monsters any mind.
I don’t believe in the Jersey Devil, and I’m still not fond of organized religion. But having a baby makes you consider all your options. It would be foolish not to cover my bases. If baptizing my baby means the intercession of hundreds of saints and God’s eternal grace, then who am I to take chances? A girl needs a little divine intervention every now and again. One day, I’ll wear my t-shirt to ribbons. Not today. I replace it with a starchy blouse and go on my way.
Maria Pianelli Blair is an artist and writer based in New Jersey. Her prose have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Blood+Honey; Querencia Press; Rawhead Journal; Rat Bag Lit; Bleating Thing; and Lost Balloon, among other publications. Her collages have been nominated for the Best of the Net anthology and published widely.
Follow her on Instagram at @strange_sunsets or visit her at mpianelliblair.com.
Follow her on Instagram at @strange_sunsets or visit her at mpianelliblair.com.
