Chapter 3
Who Needs Kindness?
Preparing ourselves for church was a production that would inevitability bring out my mother’s worst qualities. Each week she got dangerously close to strangling each and every one of her four children who she claimed to love 6 days a week; on Sunday, we were my father’s. Ironically he was the one family member who was never part of the vigor. On any given Sunday morning you could see him sitting on our green leather couch. His face would be cradled in his hands and there would be an open bible resting on the ottoman in front of him. I used to think he was praying, that of course would deter my brothers and I from bothering him. Now that I’m older I truly believe he was sleeping.
I must give him the credit he deserves for such a cunning strategy. Not once did he have to turn the house upside-down looking for a pair of patent-leather mary-janes, a clip-on bow tie, or a pair of those ridiculous ruffle things that I had to wear under my dresses.
At exactly 9:05 every Sunday my younger brother William and I would dash to the light blue mini van, “calling” our seats as we ran. During the winter months my brother was always in a very puffy jacket, which altered his center of gravity. Not unlike Ralphie’s little brother in A Christmas Story. Those were the days when I would always get my choice seat because William was easily pushed over along the way. It wouldn’t hurt him or anything- he had padding. My mom would get quite irritated but she was a woman on a mission, and she was too busy to put any punishment into effect. We would get to church on time if it was the last thing we did. Sacrifices on the way?
Fine.
As long as we got there.
Rubbing the sleep sand out of my eyes, I walked into the box of a Sunday school room. Upon entrance, you were unfailingly attacked by the smell of mildew. No matter how much cleaning was done. It grows on you after awhile. A new “W.W.J.D” poster had taken up a small portion of the bland, eggshell white walls, and the long rectangular faux wood folding table was surrounded by my equally primped and tired peers. I took the seat next to Danielle that she had secured for me.
Both Danielle Ash and I were born into the Baptist society of gossip, casseroles, and gossiping while eating casseroles. The majority of our lives were spent filling up the backs of bulletins with commentary on the latest Mary-Kate and Ashley mystery movies. We spent so much time at church that Danielle even had her 5th birthday party in the fellowship hall. Where Barney arrived in his full-sized glory and scared the bee-jeezus out of me. I was always that little kid who went into hysterics when one of those 7 foot tall puppet monstrosities showed up. Oh, and I’ve always been jealous of Danielle’s naturally curly hair, it forms these perfect little spirals, I just want to chop it off.
Mr. Bachelle was our 4th grade Sunday school teacher. A weekly combination of varied brown polyester suits, straight from the 70’s, and cowboy boots, were only part of what made him eccentric.
He told at the head of the table, placed his hands like a steeple underneath his chin, and looked at us intently.
“You’ll be pairing up. Every week one pair will be performing a skit on a bible story to the rest of the class.”
I’m not sure if he was just lazy, but when he announced the project, I distinctly remember my first thought being, “why can’t he just teach it himself?” If we did well apparently we’d get munchkins and if we did bad, then well I’m sure our parents would hear about it and that would defiantly not equal the munchkiny goodness that we so desired. In addition, Ryan Vanderland had joined our class. Ryan Vanderland- object of my teeny-bopper desire. He had a lazy eye so Danielle and I could never quite tell who he was talking to, but man, when he learned to restrain his iguana-like tendencies, he was a cutie.
Next Sunday Danielle and I came equipped to perform the Good Samaritan. We schlepped into the classroom carrying plastic shopping bags full of costumes and Mcdonalds ketchup packets serving as fake blood. Danielle was going to be the injured man on the side of the road, and I would play everyone else.
Shes never been the daring one out of our pair, although I’ve won over her parents in the past decade, back then I was a “bad influence”. I’m not sure how much influence a 4th grader can have on another 4th grader, but studies show crack cocaine usage in the 2nd grade is up 15%. The Baptist church is like one 136 person game of telephone. It starts out with my mother saying,
“Oh, Jessica…she took a piece of gum from my purse.” Before the sermon is over I’m wanted in the tri-state area for robbing a candy store. The bottom line is that I wasn’t really a bad kid, however, the adjective “imaginative” was used in conjunction with my name often.
At any rate, when I showed Danielle her spot on the orange Berber carpet, she protested because (God forbid) she wrinkle her dress. There was no convincing her that a person who had just been robbed and beaten would not be sitting upright in a folding chair with her hands politely placed on her lap. I made the executive decision that I would be the injured guy. Danielle protested because she claimed that she didn’t know the lines. Which sounded quite ignorant to me at the time because what kind of ninny couldn’t just make up something? In the end we switched because I would have no such nonsense.
The skit started, Danielle grabbed the wiffleball bat, and headed towards me from the other side of the room, narrating as she approached. It hadn’t occurred to me that when Danielle came along to beat me up, she was going to spurt ketchup all over me. That Wednesday my Mom had taken me to the Limited Too, and bought me a new white dress. It was very twirly, most excellent I must say. When I had thought up the ketchup idea, I didn’t really care if I gobbed it up on Danielle, but her ruining my dress is an entirely different story altogether.
I tried to get her attention by waving my arms, anything short of smoke signals. She paid no heed. All I got was weird looks from Ryan, or maybe Danielle was getting weird looks, who really knows? As she came closer and closer I realized- man, she was going to cover me in ketchup.
Not Cool.
The whole moment went by very fast, it was like watching a car accident. In the end not only had my dress been ruined but she’d thought it would add a little something if she had put some ketchup in her had and smeared it on my face. Ketchup flowing through your respiratory system is never a pleasant experience. In a sporadic act of retaliation I smacked her in the face with a Bible. I didn’t think I’d hit her with much force, but she threw herself into hysterics claiming to need an ambulance, which made me want to hit her again because really, who says that?
Mr. Bachelle bounded from his chair, removed the Bible from my iron grip, and assured Danielle that no permanent damage had been done. He also tried to make some sort of joke regarding Marsha Brady but I didn’t think it was very funny at the time. We were both promptly exiled to the adult Sunday School class for the remaining time. This was unprecedented. Mr. Bachelle had threatened such a source of action, but there had never been a follow through.
The moment Danielle and I slipped into the adult Sunday school, every head turned in our direction. Depending on the individual we either got a smirk or a gasp of concern.We looked like we’d just Red Badge of Courage’d ourselves out of a war. Conveniently our parents were sitting next to each other, they covered their confusion with apathy as Danielle and I sat ourselves down into the cold metal folding chairs and exchanged looks.
How can you exchange a look with someone who you just smacked in the face with a Bible because she sprayed you with ketchup during the performance of the Good Samaritan…and not laugh.
We nearly got kicked out of the adult Sunday school class too.
That was the day my mother taught me the meaning of irony, and she suggested that I do the skit over. It wasn’t really a suggestion of course; the next Sunday the second performance went quite smoothly. Danielle and I were discussing “back in the day” on the way to blockbuster last week and Ryan Vanderland came into the conversation. How unfortunate that he moved to Texas not long after starting at Calvary Baptist, he was a military brat, so he wasn’t around for long.mainly I learned that physical abuse with a holy text is never the answer.
Preparing ourselves for church was a production that would inevitability bring out my mother’s worst qualities. Each week she got dangerously close to strangling each and every one of her four children who she claimed to love 6 days a week; on Sunday, we were my father’s. Ironically he was the one family member who was never part of the vigor. On any given Sunday morning you could see him sitting on our green leather couch. His face would be cradled in his hands and there would be an open bible resting on the ottoman in front of him. I used to think he was praying, that of course would deter my brothers and I from bothering him. Now that I’m older I truly believe he was sleeping.
I must give him the credit he deserves for such a cunning strategy. Not once did he have to turn the house upside-down looking for a pair of patent-leather mary-janes, a clip-on bow tie, or a pair of those ridiculous ruffle things that I had to wear under my dresses.
At exactly 9:05 every Sunday my younger brother William and I would dash to the light blue mini van, “calling” our seats as we ran. During the winter months my brother was always in a very puffy jacket, which altered his center of gravity. Not unlike Ralphie’s little brother in A Christmas Story. Those were the days when I would always get my choice seat because William was easily pushed over along the way. It wouldn’t hurt him or anything- he had padding. My mom would get quite irritated but she was a woman on a mission, and she was too busy to put any punishment into effect. We would get to church on time if it was the last thing we did. Sacrifices on the way?
Fine.
As long as we got there.
Rubbing the sleep sand out of my eyes, I walked into the box of a Sunday school room. Upon entrance, you were unfailingly attacked by the smell of mildew. No matter how much cleaning was done. It grows on you after awhile. A new “W.W.J.D” poster had taken up a small portion of the bland, eggshell white walls, and the long rectangular faux wood folding table was surrounded by my equally primped and tired peers. I took the seat next to Danielle that she had secured for me.
Both Danielle Ash and I were born into the Baptist society of gossip, casseroles, and gossiping while eating casseroles. The majority of our lives were spent filling up the backs of bulletins with commentary on the latest Mary-Kate and Ashley mystery movies. We spent so much time at church that Danielle even had her 5th birthday party in the fellowship hall. Where Barney arrived in his full-sized glory and scared the bee-jeezus out of me. I was always that little kid who went into hysterics when one of those 7 foot tall puppet monstrosities showed up. Oh, and I’ve always been jealous of Danielle’s naturally curly hair, it forms these perfect little spirals, I just want to chop it off.
Mr. Bachelle was our 4th grade Sunday school teacher. A weekly combination of varied brown polyester suits, straight from the 70’s, and cowboy boots, were only part of what made him eccentric.
He told at the head of the table, placed his hands like a steeple underneath his chin, and looked at us intently.
“You’ll be pairing up. Every week one pair will be performing a skit on a bible story to the rest of the class.”
I’m not sure if he was just lazy, but when he announced the project, I distinctly remember my first thought being, “why can’t he just teach it himself?” If we did well apparently we’d get munchkins and if we did bad, then well I’m sure our parents would hear about it and that would defiantly not equal the munchkiny goodness that we so desired. In addition, Ryan Vanderland had joined our class. Ryan Vanderland- object of my teeny-bopper desire. He had a lazy eye so Danielle and I could never quite tell who he was talking to, but man, when he learned to restrain his iguana-like tendencies, he was a cutie.
Next Sunday Danielle and I came equipped to perform the Good Samaritan. We schlepped into the classroom carrying plastic shopping bags full of costumes and Mcdonalds ketchup packets serving as fake blood. Danielle was going to be the injured man on the side of the road, and I would play everyone else.
Shes never been the daring one out of our pair, although I’ve won over her parents in the past decade, back then I was a “bad influence”. I’m not sure how much influence a 4th grader can have on another 4th grader, but studies show crack cocaine usage in the 2nd grade is up 15%. The Baptist church is like one 136 person game of telephone. It starts out with my mother saying,
“Oh, Jessica…she took a piece of gum from my purse.” Before the sermon is over I’m wanted in the tri-state area for robbing a candy store. The bottom line is that I wasn’t really a bad kid, however, the adjective “imaginative” was used in conjunction with my name often.
At any rate, when I showed Danielle her spot on the orange Berber carpet, she protested because (God forbid) she wrinkle her dress. There was no convincing her that a person who had just been robbed and beaten would not be sitting upright in a folding chair with her hands politely placed on her lap. I made the executive decision that I would be the injured guy. Danielle protested because she claimed that she didn’t know the lines. Which sounded quite ignorant to me at the time because what kind of ninny couldn’t just make up something? In the end we switched because I would have no such nonsense.
The skit started, Danielle grabbed the wiffleball bat, and headed towards me from the other side of the room, narrating as she approached. It hadn’t occurred to me that when Danielle came along to beat me up, she was going to spurt ketchup all over me. That Wednesday my Mom had taken me to the Limited Too, and bought me a new white dress. It was very twirly, most excellent I must say. When I had thought up the ketchup idea, I didn’t really care if I gobbed it up on Danielle, but her ruining my dress is an entirely different story altogether.
I tried to get her attention by waving my arms, anything short of smoke signals. She paid no heed. All I got was weird looks from Ryan, or maybe Danielle was getting weird looks, who really knows? As she came closer and closer I realized- man, she was going to cover me in ketchup.
Not Cool.
The whole moment went by very fast, it was like watching a car accident. In the end not only had my dress been ruined but she’d thought it would add a little something if she had put some ketchup in her had and smeared it on my face. Ketchup flowing through your respiratory system is never a pleasant experience. In a sporadic act of retaliation I smacked her in the face with a Bible. I didn’t think I’d hit her with much force, but she threw herself into hysterics claiming to need an ambulance, which made me want to hit her again because really, who says that?
Mr. Bachelle bounded from his chair, removed the Bible from my iron grip, and assured Danielle that no permanent damage had been done. He also tried to make some sort of joke regarding Marsha Brady but I didn’t think it was very funny at the time. We were both promptly exiled to the adult Sunday School class for the remaining time. This was unprecedented. Mr. Bachelle had threatened such a source of action, but there had never been a follow through.
The moment Danielle and I slipped into the adult Sunday school, every head turned in our direction. Depending on the individual we either got a smirk or a gasp of concern.We looked like we’d just Red Badge of Courage’d ourselves out of a war. Conveniently our parents were sitting next to each other, they covered their confusion with apathy as Danielle and I sat ourselves down into the cold metal folding chairs and exchanged looks.
How can you exchange a look with someone who you just smacked in the face with a Bible because she sprayed you with ketchup during the performance of the Good Samaritan…and not laugh.
We nearly got kicked out of the adult Sunday school class too.
That was the day my mother taught me the meaning of irony, and she suggested that I do the skit over. It wasn’t really a suggestion of course; the next Sunday the second performance went quite smoothly. Danielle and I were discussing “back in the day” on the way to blockbuster last week and Ryan Vanderland came into the conversation. How unfortunate that he moved to Texas not long after starting at Calvary Baptist, he was a military brat, so he wasn’t around for long.mainly I learned that physical abuse with a holy text is never the answer.
