It wasn’t my business, I told myself. 

I didn’t put my hands on anything. 

And in my world, being a snitch got you far worse than staying silent. 

So I didn’t say a word. 

But the universe—or God, or karma, or just bad luck—wasn’t done with us. 

Later that day, someone found the wallet and turned it in. 

Empty, of course. 

And it didn’t take the Christian Brothers long to narrow it down to the class we were both in. 

That’s when the spiritual chastising began—heavy-handed, sermon-like lectures meant to guilt someone into confession. 

I remember sitting there stone-faced, quiet. 

I didn’t steal it. That was the truth. 

But I didn’t speak up either. 

And I had my reasons. 

Eventually, the pressure cracked the thief. 

He came clean and was pulled out of class. 

I thought that was the end of it. 

It wasn’t. 

Maybe thirty minutes later, I was summoned out of class. 

And just like that, I knew—he had told them I knew.

Of course he had. Misery loves company. If he was going down, he wasn’t going alone. 

But here’s where things got real twisted. 

He got forgiveness. 

After confession and a round of Hail Marys, he was welcomed back with open arms. 

His soul had been “cleansed.” 

His guilt washed away. 

Me? 

I was suspended. 

Not for stealing. 

Not for lying. 

But for not telling. 

And I couldn’t help but wonder: 

Was it because I didn’t confess—or because I wasn’t Catholic? 

Or worse… was it because I was Black? 

That moment did something to me. 

I was livid—not just at the school, not just at the Christian Brothers, but at the entire institution of religion. 

How could a system that claimed to be based on justice and mercy be this hypocritical? 

How could God—if He was even watching—let this be the outcome? 

I didn’t commit a sin by Catholic standards, but I also didn’t have the right spiritual credentials to earn their version of forgiveness.