Grape Kool-Aid

Religion is harmful. I constantly rage against christianity. This is a small incident in the life of one prisoner who was too young to know he was held captive.

             YOU GOT YOUR FAITH IN MY GRAPE KOOL-AID

     

     I grew up in a house with Jesus as the co-pilot. That is to say that  my early years were spent in a cult-like sect of the “assembly of god”  church. Those of you who know what this means or have survived a similar situation will identify with my feelings on this. Tambourines. Seizures. Speaking “in tongues”. If you’re reading this wondering what the hell I’m talking about, look up those freaky-deaky southern Baptists, the ones who wrangle poisonous snakes and roll around on the floor like retards on a bad acid trip. Those people, just like them, sans the snakes. Oh wait, did I say cult like?

     Lets start a bit further back. From as early as I can remember, my mom has been a god-fearing woman. She raised me from the start on the bible and its teachings. The first book I ever read was a children’s bible and I knew all the big stories by heart. Strangely enough, the story of Onan is left out of the children’s bible, maybe if I had read that as a kid it would have scared me away from being a chronic masturbator and I could pee in a straight line. That’s neither here nor there. The point is, I was by all accounts, well prepared for a life of humble servitude and devotion to the lord Jesus.  When I was five I wanted to be a preacher when I grew up.

     What went wrong? Why am I such an embittered enemy of Christianity and religion as a whole? When did I turn from the straight and narrow to pursue a life of sin, indulgence and addiction to cool gadgets with shiny buttons?  I’m not sure but here’s a couple key memories: When I was maybe three, being left  in a dark room at the Rock Church in Virginia beach. Being told by the church elders in the Ticonderoga assembly of god that I would never grow up to be an adult, because Satan would start his war on god in the next few years and we would be killed or taken up in the rapture. Then there was the time my mom, aunt Vicky, aunt Gayle and Sharron Wheeler decided to take us to Israel for the final battle between god and the devil. The dark room thing was probably just an overreaction  to being left in the church nursery. The “never growing up” thing was an ignorant story told by ignorant people. The pilgrimage to the holy land… 

     

     Remember Jonestown? No, seriously it was exactly like Jonestown.  What do you think would have happened when the holy warriors showed up for battle and Satan’s army called in sick?  

     The time leading up to the trip was a momentous time. Things were changing, God’s hand was moving on all of us and the promise of the kingdom of heaven was so close we could almost see the emerald  hills and crystal clear waters of paradise. On Sunday church service there was talk of another sign being revealed to Pastor Don Early, the ex-machine press operator who found god in the hospital after loosing all the fingers on his hand in a work related accident. On Wednesday  bible study night, Dolly or mom or Vicky or any of the other lonely, single mothers would share their visions and fall on the floor, writhing and screaming in unknown babble while someone else would stand and translate god’s words. All the other days of the week were spent at bible studies at other church members’ houses, usually  Sharron’s. 

     One of these all night “prayer” sessions  brought with it a revelation: Its time. “Time to go home” I remember being told. I remember being excited. Soon we would see heaven. All the fear and sorrows of this world would be shed like dirty rags. Satan’s armies would be left far below, the secular masses would burn in the ashes of this wicked world. We would never be afraid again.  

      Let me take a break in this rant to tell you about the sick little cat outside of the photographer’s studio where we got our passport photo’s taken. It was kind of blackish-calico if I remember right. I think it had been hit by a car or something, possibly mauled by a bigger animal. It was gangly, mangy and looked like it was sorry it had survived.  Through the whole ordeal I thought about the cat; what was going to happen to him when the world ended? Was he going to heaven?  In all the years since, I’ve remembered him and I don’t know why. Maybe its because he was the only sane creature I had contact with at the time and his lack of interest in the end of the world made enough of an impression on me that I remember him twenty-something years later as a grounding force in my life. Yah, its silly to you, reading this but to a six year old kid a cat can be a hero. Some part of me is still six, sitting there watching the cat hobble along to whatever end he finally met. 

    

     So where was I? God spoke, someone in the church heard and we were going to Israel. Tambourines, seizures and battle plans from the co-pilot. Sound about right? Good. So there we were, passports in hand, ready to go “overboard”. You see, I wasn’t the most eloquent speaker at six and I confused the words  abroad  with overboard. Even though I was constantly corrected, in retrospect I think I was correct. 

     So now we have a couple of cars full of religious zealots and their kids heading to the airport to fly out of the country. This can only end badly. The rest of the details on this are a bit fuzzy and I wasn’t there for a bit of it but, my mom had some sort of break down when we stopped to stay at a motel the first night, only hours into out pilgrimage to fight evil or whatever the f**k we were supposed to be doing. I remember a bunch of screaming and more of that speaking in tongues s**t and someone threw a chair. They pretty much kept me out of the room while all this was going on or maybe I blocked some of it out. Enough is remembered however. My mom spent a couple days in a psych ward and as far as I know was diagnosed schizophrenic: a condition which  she would be healed of years later when god whispered in her ear one day.  I remember I definitely peed the bed that night. That’s not something you really wanted to know but I thought I’d throw it in anyway. I was never really a bed wetter aside from that, unless vodka was somehow involved. 

     After that whole incident, not much was ever said about going to the holy land. There was still church or church functions seven days a week, but it was generally accepted that “that was not gods plan for us” or “god was testing our faith” no-one ever said “holy s**t, we’re f****n’ nuts” . I think maybe the co-pilot was on another flight for that one.  Thank Allah that ground control called the flight back before the stewardess started passing out the grape kool-aid.  

Author's Note

I find it hard to flesh out stories like this. I try to be vivid but don't have much to say beyond stating things as they happened and a few thoughts on the side, such as the cat.

Reviews

[Glen Yumang Manese]

You got me from the start of this narrative...
hell of an opening of a paragraph...
but yet the rest of the story...
just adds icing on the cake...
you took me as a reader on a roller coaster ride...
quite a ground breaking episode growing up...
and the way the lines are as vivid...
as if this was yesterday...