Power Of God

Michelle, er--SaxyGal requested a story like this, so I gave it a shot.

1981 was a horrible year for me.

Somewhere around the end of May, all my friends decided they hated me and would no longer speak to me. They maintained their silence until December or longer. It was probably December, because that's when I decided I was sick of people fucking with me. Their silence no longer had power over me, so they ended it.

So there I was, 13 years old, had braces, had to cut off all my hair because I was given a bad perm and literally couldn't comb through my hair. Well, it was maybe 2 inches long, but it was a "cute" haircut. I hate cute hair. Don't ever tell me my hair is cute; I will take it as an insult and tell you so.

Then my grandma died suddenly. I didn't have any friends to call and talk about it.

So from May until December of 1981, my life was once continual craptacular, except for ONE thing: I got my braces off and my teeth looked great. But, once again, I had no one to tell.

That December was really cold and really empty; facing your first Christmas without Grandma when you're 13 is depressing, and not in any way that anyone can help you. It sucks, it's going to continue sucking, until one day it doesn't, which as I recall was somewhere around 1983.

You'd think our family would have--being God-fearin' Minnesotans--taken comfort in our church and the fellowship it offered. You could think that, and you'd be wrong.

That December, on an average week I spent two hours every Sunday morning, two hours every Wednesday afternoon and one every Wednesday evening, and three hours on Saturday for the Sunday School Christmas Program rehearsal. Plus there was the Program itself, and the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day church services. That's a grand total of...43 hours, give or take, during December 1981, when I was in church. And I felt the presence of God...um, maybe for an hour on Christmas Eve. The rest, I just felt the presence of a bunch of busybodies and an arrogant pastor.

I did, however, feel the power of God for a short while. This is the moment when I decided I was sick of people fucking with me.

We were at rehearsal for the Sunday School Christmas Program. It was maybe the second week of December. It was probably our second rehearsal.

These programs were always a case of too many cooks in the kitchen. The pastor wrote it. This woman named Betty tried to direct it, though I don't know if that was even her job. Carol was the organist, and she was the only one who had any competence and the wisdom to shut up.

Another thing about these programs is that there's only one story to tell, right? It's always the same story, however it gets told. But the pastor would always write a new script. It usually rhymed. I don't know why; maybe it was cute. And we all know how I feel about "cute." For some reason, no less that FOUR times, four separate years, guess who got to be the FIRST PERSON TO SPEAK? Um, yeah, me. You'd think, being there were at times as many as 30 kids in this Sunday School (and it was a tiny little church) that perhaps ONCE I would get stuck with that job? But four? FOUR???? It was a conspiracy. I truly believe that.

So, since I was first, they would spend a stupidly long time evaluating my performance.

"Okay, read your line."

They would realize no one had turned on the mike. So they'd turn it on, too loud.

"Okay, read your line."

AHHHH FEEDBACK!

Plus, being short, the damn microphone was always to high for me, and they would alternate between telling me to adjust it for myself, and telling me to NOT TOUCH THE MIC!

And then, the thing I heard the most:

"Speak up. SPEAK UP! WE CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

I will now point out--I was shy. I had a quiet voice. And I didn't WANT to be speaking AT ALL. All of which, added together, means yelling "Speak up!" at me from 10 feet away (it was a TINY church) did not have the desired effect. Then they'd complain that they couldn't understand me through the speakers in the back because my words were mumbled.

I asked my mother, and later my Sunday school teacher, and even the Pastor, why I had to be first? Their answer????

"Because you have such a good speaking voice!"

WHAT.THE.FUCK.

Anyway, After spending 10 or 15 minutes on just me, they'd remember they had 29 other kids with parts to read, whom they would spend a much more reasonable amount of time, each, rehearsing their lines. Which rhymed.

So, as happened on that fateful Saturday, that Second Rehearsal Of Four Of The Year, we struggled through all the speakers. We struggled through the logistics of how to handle the microphone. We struggled through the props, and we even suffered through the Pastor's daughter's singing solo.

The child had a horrible voice. She didn't even ATTEND our Sunday School--she went to the pastor's other church in town. And yet she had a fucking SOLO in OUR program? Yeah, even the worst of the church ladies thought THAT was fucked up.

We'd been through the whole thing, we rehearsed the recessional. We'd been there since 9am, missing the Laff-A-Lympics and American Bandstand, waiting for noon so we could go home and get on with our lives.

It was 11:55.

Then Betty, the "director" said, "Okay, that was great. Let's go through it again!"

I thought, what? What about lunch? The whole program that just took us three hours, she wants to do in 5 minutes? And here's the deal: no one objected. No one said anything to contradict her!

She turned to me. "Janice, you're first! Come up and read your line!"

Dumbstruck, I lined up, my classmates behind me. I stepped up to the mic, looked out at the pews, opened my mouth, and began, "W..."

I choked. I was about to cry. I was going to cry in front of the whole Sunday School because of that bitch! And I realized it was wrong. Just.Wrong.

I also realized that God probably agreed with me. He would NOT strike me down for doing what had to be done. If I acted, everyone else would have to follow.

So I dropped my script, and I walked out of the church. I went into the basement. All churches in Minnesota have basements. By this time I was freaking out, because though I knew God wouldn't punish me, Mom still had that option. So I sat down and started to cry. I didn't get far though, because just as I sat down, my Mom walked into the basement, carrying my jacket along with her own, and her purse. And here's the cool part: she was followed by the parents--that is, all the parents who were not currently teaching Sunday School.

They all thought Director Betty was as fucked up as I did.

"I have a hotdish in the oven that's going to be done in ten minutes," my mom said loud enough for the other moms to hear. A lot of them said they did too.

("Hotdish" is Minnesotan for "casserole.")

A couple of minutes later the rest of the Sunday School was released from servitude by Dictator Betty. Mom let me go out to the car ahead of them, so I could finish crying.

Oppression upsets me, okay?

But that one time, I got to smite oppression, with the Power of God behind me. And the Power of Mom, too.