Activity

Okay, folks, I decided this piece needed an extra set of eyeballs. This is a section of my current WIP revision – it’s supposed to be a flashback to explain why the main character of this section doesn’t like her current assignment for the school newspaper, which is to go interview the home-schooled Christian Timothy Taylor. A third character previous to this section wonders why Stacy doesn’t like Timothy, which prompts her to think of this story as she walks down the hallway to the robotics lab with her partner.

Any sort of feedback is welcome, but a couple of questions:

1. Previous feedback on my stories have indicated that visual descriptions are a weakness in my work. How might the visual descriptions and transitions be improved?

2. Do you think this works best as one whole flashback, or is it too long? Could this be cut down? Would this work better as a gradual reveal throughout the story as opposed to one long chapter?

And with that, here it be. Go forth and complain. 😛

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Stacy Gimli

The way it all started is my secret. It started with a friend. Her name was Rachel, and she looked like a Rachel, with long brown hair falling down past the waist of her lovely yellow dress. I always remember that about her. She loved that yellow dress.

I remember seeing her on the yard, playing with her dolls in that yellow dress. Before she moved away. But before that, she took me to church, and to her AWANA class on Wednesday nights. My parents weren’t “into all of that church stuff” but I went because they gave me candy, and I wanted to be with my friend. It was just another thing that the two of us did together – I enjoyed the games and the people and the coloring pages. It was much more fun than schoolwork.

Over time, I saw kids going to the AWANA store and buying things using AWANA money. There were more toys there than I had ever seen in my entire life, and I wanted them all. Then I learned that the kids passed sections in books to earn the money for those toys. I wanted the book, but my parents wouldn’t pay for it, so I raided my piggy bank to buy the book, and spent hours practicing in my room. I wanted those toys.

Even after Rachel left, I got on my bike and rode to the church every Wednesday and Sunday, and every so often I would come home with my loot and prizes of war. My family never had enough money, so I would hoard and cherish Timmy and Sally the Rabbits and Dave the Panda. Eventually I even bought Christmas gifts for my parents out of my AWANA hoard, hoping that it would convince my parents that what I was doing at church was a good idea.

Instead, what I got was a loaded question from my dad: “Where did you get the money to buy this?” he asked, looking in awe at the new pocket watch I had given him.

“I earned it at AWANA, daddy,” I explained.

“What?! Are they bribing the kids for converts now?” My dad was not impressed. He looked like he was ready to throw the gift I had given him through the wall.

“No, daddy, it’s not like that at all,” I said, “I earned it. I did some work for them.” I wasn’t sure why the fact that I could remember words and repeat them back to the handbook leaders was important, but as long as they kept paying me for it, I wasn’t overly worried.

But as time wore on, the words that they had me memorize haunted me. Words about God loving me and saving me. Words about the devil being your enemy and how it was important to obey your parents. Words that I thought were only words and that I dismissed as nonsense began to jump off the page and scare me, giving me thoughts that I didn’t want to think about. Is this God thing really real? I thought as I obeyed my parents’ command, just to see if that would get me favor from the divine. Am I going to hell? Every time I asked my parents they told me it wasn’t true.

“Dear, you should stop going to church,” my mom told me. “I know they give you things, but it isn’t worth it if you’re scared. Where did you let them put ideas into your head?”

At the same time, my business was growing. When I got tired of my toys, I sold them to kids who had real money from real jobs. I thought about getting one myself, but I was too young, so I was scared to quit church.

I remember the Wednesday night when I finally broke down.

* * *

I was in sixth grade, about to graduate from Truth and Training into the junior high school group. It was going to earn me an award, and I was really excited about that. But as I sat down on the couch with my book, the words swam on the page as my mind swam with questions. Finally I yelled “Why are we even doing this?”.

The words came from my lips before I could stop them. “Why do you tell us to respect our parents, and then tell us things that my parents don’t even believe in?” I said. “What am I supposed to do, listen to what they say and respect them, or believe that I’m going to hell?”

Gasps. Everyone stared at me from their positions on their couches or folding chairs. The group leader, a Ms. Brown, who incidentally had black curly hair instead of brown, guided me outside. Tears streamed down my face and dripped onto the concrete of the game circle.

“I didn’t know that your parents were unbelievers,” said Ms. Brown. Unbeliever. The word entered my mind like a harsh stab wound. According to the church people, the unbelievers were people who were going to hell and who opposed the Gospel truth. They were the enemies of the church world.

“My parents are good people!” I shouted back. “They aren’t unbelievers. They aren’t.”

“Stacey, just because someone is a good person doesn’t make them a believer,” said Ms. Brown. “You actually have to understand that the Gospel is true, in your heart.”

I want to yell at Ms. Brown, and tell her that’s brainwashing, that my parents believe that is brainwashing. But I look at Ms. Brown’s eyes, and I know that she won’t listen. She’s been brainwashed herself. There’s no hope for her. I’d read things about brainwashing, stories about it.

“You’re brainwashed,” I sob. “Everyone here is brainwashed and you’re trying to brainwash me too.”

“No, Stacey. Stacey, you’re one of our finest students. This isn’t like you.”

“This isn’t like me?” I said. “If my parents are unbelievers, then I guess I’m one too. And if I’m the enemy, I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore.”

“Unbelievers aren’t our enemies, Stacey,” said Ms. Brown. “They are people who we need to reach with the Gospel, to help them understand the truth. And you understand the truth, Stacey.”

She quoted verses at me then. Something about how Jesus didn’t come to bring peace but a sword, about foes being members of your household, and how about the verse about if you considered father or mother above Jesus, you were unworthy of him.

I yelled that they were lunatics who bribed kids with toys and brainwashed them. This apparently was enough for Ms. Brown, who called the AWANA commander, who called my parents.

My parents tried to simultaneously soothe and blame me for the whole thing in the way parents do, and they banned me from going back to church for a week. I was more than happy to obey their request. I wanted nothing to do with Christianity ever again.

* * *

Weeks passed, then months. Part of me wanted to go back to get my award, but I didn’t want to face Mrs. Brown again, or anyone who witnessed my outburst. So I hid.

At first, I clung to my toys, then I hated them. I hated them for what they were – smuck bait for brainwashing. The Christians in their perfect houses and perfect front lawns didn’t understand what it was like to live here in this run-down apartment and huddle with Dave and Tim to keep warm. They didn’t understand what it was like to be me.

But the words still haunted me. I had hoped that not going to church would let them fade away, but they gave me nightmares. I grew more and more scared of the church and their power and their tricks. I couldn’t even ride past the church in my parents’ car without feeling my heart race and my mouth go dry.

This got so bad that I went to a counselor at school to try to deal with how scared I was. The counselors’ name was Gary. Gary was a clean-cut man in his mid-forties that had a clean-cut shirt that smelled of aftershave. In response to me talking about my crisis, he asked me what I believed.

“I don’t know,” I said to Gary. “I mean, my parents believe that evolution is true, but these other people believe that God created the world and that he expects things from us because we rebelled against him. Also, if we don’t accept what he says, we all are going to hell.”

“Stacey,” Gary told me, “my parents are Hindu, and when I grew up, I decided that I didn’t want to be Hindu anymore. I wanted to believe in Buddism instead. Buddha’s teachings made more sense to me than the caste system and worshipping cows. I still respect my parents and what they told me – it’s all they knew and it’s how their parents raised them, I get it – I just believe in something different. What other people believe isn’t important, Stacey. What matters is what you believe.”

I stare at Gary. “But-but…” I stammer. Then I blurt out what my parents said about brainwashing.

Gary laughed. “That’s what your parents believe. But if you think you are being brainwashed, un-brainwash yourself.”

“How?” I asked.

“You find out what the Christians really believe, not the brainwashed version that they gave you,” Gary said. “You compare it with what your parents told you. And trust me, I’m not going to give you a panda for this. You’ll be okay. Dave won’t kill you – he’s a construct of stuffed fur. He can’t change what you believe.”

I stare at him.

“Sorry,” said Gary. “I didn’t get that from the Buddha, I got that from Plato. You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t feel much better. But maybe I could beat the brain-washers at their own game. Maybe I could win, once and for all.

* * *

For the next several months, I spent time at the local public library like I had been spending time at church. I ignored Gary’s advice and took Dave the Panda. The librarians looked at me a little strange from behind the wooden counter, hiding their displeasure behind their angular noses and thin gold-rimmed glasses. I couldn’t tell whether it was because of Dave or the books I passed across the counter, books with titles like Intelligent Design and the Case For Christ For Kids. I read books on evolution and tried to understand words like “Paleolithic Era” and “epoch”, words that I entertained Gary with on my next visit to his office.

“The Christians make everything easy to understand,” I explain to Gary. “The evolutionists make it really hard.”

“Have you tried reading the actual Bible, kid?” Gary said. “There’s some really hard stuff in there.”

I sighed. Gary quickly changed the subject back to dinosaurs and millions of years.

* * *

When I finally get to reading the Bible for myself, it’s on a camp trip with my parents. My parents had been largely indifferent to my research project, but I tried not to bring it up. It’s our first trip in a very long time – my parents have been saving up – and I try not to think about how much the fishing licenses we bought this morning cost. I also try not to think about the money I have stashed in the bank from my toy-selling business that could have paid for about three of these trips. I feel very lonely.

“Stacy, it’s going to be your thirteenth birthday soon,” my mom asked me. “How are you doing? I feel like I never see you anymore, and when I do, you’re always sad.”

“I’m okay.”

“Is Gary bothering you?”

“No, Mom, I’m good.” A fishing rod bobs, and I go to reel it in. My mom catches the fish in a net, and I stare at it as it helplessly wriggles, and I remember the evolutionist teaching that we evolved from fish. Is that me?

I shiver at the thought. I’m pretty sure when Jesus said that his disciples were to be “fishers of men”, he didn’t mean it that way. Or did he?

This question drove me back to my Bible, most specifically to the book of John. I had to make sense out of it.

* * *

This led to a bible reading campaign and study that lasted for a few weeks. I have to admit, at that point I liked Christianity better than evolution. God was a whole lot friendlier than an impersonal process of millions of years. But I had to do more than like Christianity in order to believe in it. I had to decide that it made sense, that it was true.

About that time, I was getting into archaeology, which made my decision easier and harder. What clinched it for me was learning that Christians believed in dinosaurs. With that, I became more and more convinced that they weren’t delusional after all, even as Steggy and Tim Robert Rex became my new stuffed animal companions. I learned that the stories of the Bible weren’t just stories – they were actual history, with proven evidence.

At the same time, I realized I wanted to be an archaeologist myself, and a lot of the archaeology textbooks I read talked about archaeology in terms of millions of years. My brain was wondering how on earth bones could last for millions of years. It now seemed insane.

I came to accept Jesus Christ at the age of 14. There was no historical reason to deny the Resurrection, and I wanted the God of the Bible to be in command of my life instead of me. I was tired of my doubts and questions and the fear of hell that kept me up at night. After I made my decision, I felt a sense of peace.

I worked up the courage to go back to church and apologize to Ms. Brown. I thought I’d ask her for forgiveness, something I’d learned about. I explained that I’d accepted Christ, and that I was sorry for what I’d said to her.

She accused me of lying and trying to indoctrinate the young people with evolution. I guess I didn’t make a good impression carrying Steggy with my now well-worn Bible and wearing my Jurassic Park T-shirt. Even after I told my testimony to the whole church and told them that I wanted to be an archaeologist, Ms. Brown looked away and shook her head. I tried not to look at her black sweater and gold hoop earrings as I entered the baptismal waters, but it was difficult and I barely closed my eyes in time. I must have looked like a freak with my neck and eyeballs moving about like that.

Which precisely explains why I don’t like Timothy Taylor that much. I try not to think about people who have been raised in the church, because they don’t understand my story. They don’t understand what it’s like to come home to a pair of parents who think you’ve been brainwashed by a bunch of violent lunatics.

For them, faith doesn’t come with consequences. Everything comes handed to them on a plate and they look down on people like me. They live their perfect, Girl, Interrupted and Linkin Park-free lives. I pretend that I’m smarter than them, but it doesn’t really work.

I grit my teeth and open the door to the robotics lab.