In Karen Maine’s Yes, God, Yes (2019), the protagonist, Alice (Natalia Dyer), receives a searing indictment from her best friend: “I am sick of being best friends with a pervy psycho.”
The film, set in the year 2000, follows high school junior Alice as she traverses the rocky waters of Catholic school in the Midwest. Early on, students and teachers begin to shun her after rumors circulate that she has “tossed the salad” of a classmate named Wade.
“I don’t even know what that means!” she yells, frustrated, while her friend eyes her suspiciously.
Trying to make peace with God, Alice chooses to join the school’s “Kirkos” Retreat, where students discuss Bible passages, play chaste games on a campground, and don bright orange sweaters.
While a freshman at an equally strict Catholic school, I also attended a one-day religious retreat, although faculty separated the boys and girls into separate sessions. Unlike Alice, I was forced to go. The event, to my deep chagrin, was mandatory. As I stepped onto the bus, shivering in the early Sunday air, all I could think about was the fact that I hadn’t started my research paper on Joan of Arc yet, even though it was due the next day.
During the weekend-long seminar, Alice attempts to tamp down her rebellious spirit and burgeoning sexual desire. But she remains fascinated by the social rituals that the boys and girls around her perform, studying the ways in which classmates pull each other in for hugs, whisper jokes in ears, pitch arms around each other’s shoulders. She doesn’t know how to flirt or read cues or kiss. Yet, despite her constant assertions to the contrary, she desperately wants to. Alice tries to pay attention to God, but she’s really much more interested in masturbation.
While the story occasionally lags, it maintained my attention for the majority of the film because Alice, to my delight, is a complete weirdo. She is confused, watching moments around her with eyes as wide as saucer cups. She succumbs to impulsive behavior that made me sit up on the couch, flabbergasted, working to understand her decisions. And, most importantly, she made me laugh.
Dyer imbues the awkward, slightly insane character with an endearing mix of gawkiness and wildly inappropriate chutzpah. When Alice realizes the exciting use of her vibrating phone, she begins to test it out, only to freeze at the sight of the crucifix hanging above her head. Later, one of the retreat leaders, a charming and friendly senior named Chris, converses with her by the river. He loves God and he wants Alice to love God, too. She responds by throwing herself at him, wrapping her legs around his waist, and kissing him. He kisses her back, then jumps away, hands over his pants, and runs away.
I laughed so much while watching this film.
The freshman retreat I went to revolved around chilly walks on the grounds, staring at statues, and an hour-long presentation about abstinence taught by our theology teacher who insisted he was “one of us” because he used to skateboard in California before prostrating himself before Jesus. We watched a short documentary that interviewed Catholic couples who had waited until marriage to have sex. Many of them stared forlornly at the camera, noticeably shifting from their partners, and noted that the build-up to “the moment” was largely overhyped. One woman sat alone, revealing that she divorced her husband after she realized they had only gotten married to have sex.
I was very, very confused by this documentary. Most of the participants looked like they were being held hostage by the filmmakers.
After the film, our theology teacher, Mr. Hanson,* strode to the front of the room, clapping his hands. Acting like a comedian, he issued jabs at the couples. One of the men had shared his reasoning for avoiding premarital sex, explaining his deep religious devotion.
“That guy?” Mr. Hanson joked about his “dorky” appearance. “It’s, like, no wonder he had to wait until marriage, am I right?”
My female classmates and I, sitting cross-legged and bleary-eyed on the gymnasium floor, chuckled uncertainly with our balding, middle-aged teacher.
We may have been fourteen, but we were also cynical teenagers able to spot a try-hard a mile away. Ad-hominem attacks about other Catholics were not going to immediately convert us into unsullied adherents of the Church. As Mr. Hanson finished his impromptu stand-up routine, I stared at my hands, counting down the hours until I could get home and start reading up on fifteenth-century France.
Some of us are dorks of our own making.
In Yes, God, Yes, Alice struggles through embarrassing interactions with the retreat director, Father Murphy, who watches her with wariness. He has heard the shocking rumors and he distrusts her presence. After Alice is caught with a contraband phone, he punishes her with cleaning duties at the camp facility. Alone, she sneaks into his office and logs onto an AOL chatroom on his computer. Determined to figure out what, exactly, her rumored transgression entails, she asks the chatroom what “tossing salad” means. Before she can read the answers, she hears Father Murphy approaching and scurries away.
Later, Father Murphy reveals the discovery of the explicit chat on his desktop. When he speaks again with Alice, he tries to get her to admit to engaging in sexual conduct with another boy. She insists she did nothing, but he refuses to believe her. In the kitchen, Alice finds Wade and points out his complicity in allowing the rumors to spread. He never denied the gossip, which only inflamed the allegations that, inevitably, targeted Alice, not him. Frustrated with the sexist double-standard, she pushes him to take responsibility for his actions, but he does not budge.
Overwhelmed and alienated, Alice runs away at night and finds refuge at a lesbian bar. One of the patrons clocks her as a Catholic retreat runaway right away. Sympathetic to the young girl’s plight, she confides in her that she also used to be religious and that she attended Catholic school for twelve years.
When Alice asks her why she no longer follows the faith, the woman smiles a little, “San Francisco, ‘70s. Sex, women.”
Soon, they bond over the many reasons they believed they were going to hell.
The woman tells her, “Cheating on my homework, for giving up sugar for Lent, and then eating a whole jar of gumdrops underneath my grandmother’s staircase. I literally thought I was going to hell for eating gumdrops.”
Alice smiles, relieved to hear someone else admit their fears. She confesses, “I thought I was going to go to hell…for rewinding Titanic back to the sex scene…three times.”
Here, she sits up straight, laughing, and marvels at the irrational nature of her worries. While in the retreat bubble, her peers and teachers only fed into her increasing shame, making her feel more and more alone. But at this bar, a kind stranger pokes the bubble. She takes a pin and deflates the quiet mortification that has been suffocating Alice for weeks. In the warm light of the bar, Alice finally sees the illogical logic of her dread. She brightens, the heavy burden falling off her shoulders.
Before returning Alice to the retreat, the female patron tells her, “You know, the truth is, nobody knows what they’re doing any more than the rest of us. We’re all just trying to figure out our shit.”
Back at the campgrounds, Alice watches her classmates with an open-hearted lens. She realizes that every single one of them is hiding secrets, even as some of them verbally flog her for her own rumored wrongdoings. At the final retreat meeting, she tells them that honesty and respect should supersede any desire to shame others. While it’s clear that not everyone “sees the light” after her passionate appeal, Alice leaves with more confidence and keen-eyed knowledge of her own mind.
Overall, the film tracks a broader look at female sexuality, referencing the often unhealthy entanglements with religious doctrine rooted in patriarchal control without explicitly creating a slash-and-burn narrative that digs into these sociocultural clashes. It has a lighter touch. It’s a coming-of-age story that good-naturedly teases and sympathizes with Alice and her plight. At the same time, it does demonstrate the ways in which the harsh judgement of her peers, as well as their utter denial of any and all sexuality, leaves an internal mark on Alice for most of the film. She feels like an alien. She feels like a freak. This, of course, only makes her want to become more like the girls who turn their backs on her.
Like Alice, I had seen girls at my Catholic school play the part of “Devil’s Advocate,” often voicing ideas and beliefs that were to their own detriment, because they believed it made them seem “rational.” It made the conservative teachers nod their heads in approval. It made many of the other students voice their support. When you are part of the group with the unpopular opinion, it can be overwhelming. It can be terribly lonely. Some days, you may indeed feel as if you are “crazy.” By aligning yourself with sexist norms and playing them off as “not sexist,” you can belong again. You have a false sense of control. If you decide that something is “not sexist,” then you are no longer a victim.
But pretending that your roof isn’t leaking does not solve your problem. You are not braver or stronger when you turn away from that leak, wipe your hands, and proclaim, “There is no leak in my roof.” Instead, the leak grows. It causes mold and rot. Eventually, the entire roof collapses—with you inside.
Internalized misogyny is powerful. It feeds shame and self-loathing. It makes girls seek out the approval of the very institutions that are tearing them down.
But the hard truth is you can’t fix a problem if you don’t talk about it. At the end of the film, Alice knows this deep in her gut. So she goes home and sticks her hand down her pants.
Also, I got a B on that research paper and I still blame that retreat at La Salette.
*Names have been changed to protect those who, honestly, don’t really need protection.
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