20 ICSA TODAY
Arts: Poetry
I
was born on April 12, 1981. The earliest memories I
have are of the church we belonged to and the people
who attended in Detroit, Michigan. Most of my young
life I spent inside the walls of various churches of the
same denomination. This encompassed my entire life as
more often than not my family was either in services or
the various functions of the church throughout the week.
This was church. This was God’s house. This was supposed
to be a place of refuge, a hospital for the spiritually sick.
There were good times. Fun times. The church was what it
was supposed to be. Then sometimes it wasn’t. Whether it
was the doctrine, my parent’s interpretation of the Bible,
the pressure of raising children in the city of Detroit, or
plain sociopathy, I can’t quite figure out. Yet, I feel like at
certain points in my childhood I was in the presence of
evil. Not the Hollywood version of it, not the Stephen King
version, maybe not even the King James Version, but a real
honest-to-goodness evil that was dark and unforgiving.
It amazes me sometimes how something that was meant
to be beautiful can turn dark and dangerous. The skies in
the early spring, especially in America’s breadbasket, can
change from robin’s egg blue to black and soupy green
in mere moments when the winds shift. Standing on the
shores of the ocean, one never knows what lurks in the
depths and when hurricanes rush from far-off regions
of the world and make landfall, the waters you bathed
in, fished in, built a sandcastle beside can rise like a great
beast.
Religion can be this way. Something so beautiful,
something meant to be above the fray can turn dark
and brutal when mixed or when someone or a group of
someones use it as a means to an end. Some people do
not see the evil engulfing them, like the foolish young
who, in places such as New Orleans, hold up signs on
Bourbon Street and drink to the health of a maelstrom.
Others caught by surprise and unable to flee are often like
the residents of Kansas or Iowa who, upon hearing the
warning sirens, gather their loved ones together to wait
out the storm in basements or tornado shelters. Afterward,
should they survive, they come crawling out of whatever
shelter they took and stare at the world around them
stunned by all that’s transpired in a very small amount of
time.
That’s what I felt like for many years. Stunned. Unsure
of what the hell happened. Knowing I had to get out
of where I was, but unsure of the direction I should go.
I was like those people who survive a mass disaster,
terrified to take a wrong step, stumbling over the debris
of life completely altered, not knowing yet the truth that
will settle in later once they are safe and away from the
physical threat, that life for them will forever be altered by
what they’ve gone through. They will know things others
don’t. They will feel things others can’t. They will dream
and wake to find themselves grasping at bedclothes or
pacing the floor of their bedrooms wringing their hands,
seemingly for no reason.
If I could sum up the effects of my time in this cultish
environment in a single word, it would be isolated. Cut off
from humanity, I moved in this circle and cycle of extreme
religious passion, abuse, secrets, and scandals. We were
a group within a group. Mostly ignored by outsiders, we
operated in our own little feudal world, which, looking
back upon it, seems patently absurd.
All it took was a small infraction by one of us, such as
submitting to “worldly” influences, be it books or music or
a shift in the wind, a little sociopathy, a little bit of anger
in the preacher, to bring hell down upon our heads. There,
battered and bruised, my world turned upside down,
I’d try to reassemble what little dignity I had left and
convince myself that was love. That was God. I was wrong.
They were right.
I was like those people who
survive a mass disaster,
terrified to take a wrong step,
stumbling over the debris of
life completely altered, not
knowing yet the truth that
will settle in later once they
are safe and away from the
physical threat, that life for
them will forever be altered by
what they’ve gone through.
Arts: Poetry
I
was born on April 12, 1981. The earliest memories I
have are of the church we belonged to and the people
who attended in Detroit, Michigan. Most of my young
life I spent inside the walls of various churches of the
same denomination. This encompassed my entire life as
more often than not my family was either in services or
the various functions of the church throughout the week.
This was church. This was God’s house. This was supposed
to be a place of refuge, a hospital for the spiritually sick.
There were good times. Fun times. The church was what it
was supposed to be. Then sometimes it wasn’t. Whether it
was the doctrine, my parent’s interpretation of the Bible,
the pressure of raising children in the city of Detroit, or
plain sociopathy, I can’t quite figure out. Yet, I feel like at
certain points in my childhood I was in the presence of
evil. Not the Hollywood version of it, not the Stephen King
version, maybe not even the King James Version, but a real
honest-to-goodness evil that was dark and unforgiving.
It amazes me sometimes how something that was meant
to be beautiful can turn dark and dangerous. The skies in
the early spring, especially in America’s breadbasket, can
change from robin’s egg blue to black and soupy green
in mere moments when the winds shift. Standing on the
shores of the ocean, one never knows what lurks in the
depths and when hurricanes rush from far-off regions
of the world and make landfall, the waters you bathed
in, fished in, built a sandcastle beside can rise like a great
beast.
Religion can be this way. Something so beautiful,
something meant to be above the fray can turn dark
and brutal when mixed or when someone or a group of
someones use it as a means to an end. Some people do
not see the evil engulfing them, like the foolish young
who, in places such as New Orleans, hold up signs on
Bourbon Street and drink to the health of a maelstrom.
Others caught by surprise and unable to flee are often like
the residents of Kansas or Iowa who, upon hearing the
warning sirens, gather their loved ones together to wait
out the storm in basements or tornado shelters. Afterward,
should they survive, they come crawling out of whatever
shelter they took and stare at the world around them
stunned by all that’s transpired in a very small amount of
time.
That’s what I felt like for many years. Stunned. Unsure
of what the hell happened. Knowing I had to get out
of where I was, but unsure of the direction I should go.
I was like those people who survive a mass disaster,
terrified to take a wrong step, stumbling over the debris
of life completely altered, not knowing yet the truth that
will settle in later once they are safe and away from the
physical threat, that life for them will forever be altered by
what they’ve gone through. They will know things others
don’t. They will feel things others can’t. They will dream
and wake to find themselves grasping at bedclothes or
pacing the floor of their bedrooms wringing their hands,
seemingly for no reason.
If I could sum up the effects of my time in this cultish
environment in a single word, it would be isolated. Cut off
from humanity, I moved in this circle and cycle of extreme
religious passion, abuse, secrets, and scandals. We were
a group within a group. Mostly ignored by outsiders, we
operated in our own little feudal world, which, looking
back upon it, seems patently absurd.
All it took was a small infraction by one of us, such as
submitting to “worldly” influences, be it books or music or
a shift in the wind, a little sociopathy, a little bit of anger
in the preacher, to bring hell down upon our heads. There,
battered and bruised, my world turned upside down,
I’d try to reassemble what little dignity I had left and
convince myself that was love. That was God. I was wrong.
They were right.
I was like those people who
survive a mass disaster,
terrified to take a wrong step,
stumbling over the debris of
life completely altered, not
knowing yet the truth that
will settle in later once they
are safe and away from the
physical threat, that life for
them will forever be altered by
what they’ve gone through.
