Too be more specific, I am a product of Evangelical Christian education. Not the sexy Catholic school “naughty girls in plaid skirts” kind. I mean born-again, turn or burn, reading, writing, and repentance from 8 to 3:30. I survived four years in a hardcore private Baptist high school, followed by two years at a Christian college before making my escape. The details of said exit are still a matter of some debate. To say I got out with my sanity in-tact would be questionable. To say I got out with my faith in-tact would a lie. So how did that happen? How did I go from a crazy kid tightrope walking the margins of suburban public school, listening to metal and smoking cigarettes in the woods with my buddies to walking that razor-thin Bible wire? It’s sort of a long story, but I’ll try to condense it as best I can.
After 13 years as the rope in an endless tug of war game between my divorced parents, I went to live with my father in the great state of Wisconsin. I say great, as in vast, as in big. That’s about the best I can say for it. I now reside south of Wisconsin in Chicago, Illinois. Or as I call it, civilization. My dad found Jesus when I was about 6, shortly after he left my mother, brother, and I for the secretary in his office, 11 years his junior. For some reason, he came out of a pot and Shlitz-enduced haze long enough one evening to read about some huckster evangelist putting on a show in town. He convinced his new bride, my stepmother to go with him to check it out. That night they were convinced that Satan had lassoed their souls through the Marshall Tucker Band and Jethro Tull, and they’d better repent while there was still time. Apparently they went home straight away and chucked out their entire LP collection, turning their lives and their musical choices over to Jesus. For those under 30, I’ll explain what an LP was at the end of the book.
I found out of their conversion experience upon my next bi-weekly visit to Milwaukee with my brother. This, it turns out, would also prove to be one of my brother’s last bi-weekly visits. Ironically just as they’d found a new fantasy role-playing lifestyle, my brother, then a lost 12 year-old still reeling from our parents’ divorce, had found comfort in the scaly, leathery wings of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. They brought us to their latest apartment (as over what seems like a period of a couple years, they changed apartments numerous times) and my big brother was bursting to tell my dad about his new obsession. See, Dad had always been a big fan of The Hobbit and the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. So much so he wore an old totally 70’s tee featuring Bilbo Baggins smoking a pipe every Saturday. In fact he and his best friend back in Indiana used to call each other Bilbo and Frodo. (And people are surprised I’m a little weird!)
So when my brother discovered this game featuring dragons, trolls, elves, and rangers, he was certain the old man would muss his hair and say “there’s my chip off the old block.” Turns out, not so much. Their anti-rock and roll revival revealed to dad and step-mom not only was secular rock the tool of the Devil, AD&D was a one-way express ticket to Hell and damnation, shat from Beelezebub’s bunghole! And here I just thought it was lame. When my brother Tom pulled out his beginners set to show it off, with this look on his face seeking pride and acceptance, they leapt back as if he revealed a cat he’d recently slain. They immediately began to speak in tongues (don’t get me started on that bullshit) and rebuked him for bringing Satan’s mouse trap into their living room. This was Friday night.
As you can imagine, the rest of the weekend didn’t go so well. My brother was crestfallen. He thought he’d found a way for him and the old man to repair their bond and enjoy something fun together. Instead he was vilified, and all weekend told why it was evil and made to feel ashamed. When my brother got out of the car that Sunday afternoon it would be one of the last times he and dad would see each other for a long while. A rift was torn that lasts right up to the very moment I type this, nearly 30 years later.
This blog (started as a book) isn’t necessarily about the destruction of my father and brothers’ relationship, but I feel it is important for it to be known. As it was only the beginning of what would become a pattern in my life, living among the Christians.
At some point in the mid-Eighties, I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. I find multiple things funny about that statement. The first that Jesus was my personal savior. Narcissism just seeps off that sentence. The second is that I don’t even remember the exact date, or even how old I was when that momentous occasion occurred. What I can tell you with crystal clear memories is how it happened. Or more specifically, why it happened. I wasn’t brought to Jesus, or as they like to say, led to him. I was scared (and scared shitless) to Jesus.
"I was scared (and scared shitless) to Jesus." Between that and the AD&D story, I was actually holding my gut, laughing out loud. This is fantastic. I'll be back
ReplyDeleteThanks! If you like that, keep reading. And please feel free to send it around! Thinking about a book, but gauging the response/interest first!
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