When I daydream of life as a child I get that thrilled-almost-sour-stomach feeling of anticipation in getting caught. I never got "caught" at anything as a child because I never did anything worth catching. Well, there was that one time that my brother Chris and I snuck into the nighty drawer and found all of those bright shades of lace and the tuxedo shaped underwear protruding like a giraffe. We did that, and got caught.
Childhood was a time of impressing the rule makers for me. Whether they were at home or school or church or if they were the unknown unnamed authorities. I was obedient to the "they" of society. I would shined the shoes of the firemen just because they had a uniform. Authority and civil obedience was something that seemed easier than rebellion.
But when I dream of being a child, all I ever see in my mind's eye is the never performed acts of mischief (that I darned not do but so did desire). The most often dreamed dream is sneaking spaghetti from the kitchen at 6am; enjoying the savory when breakfast was usually the saccharine pop-tart. All the while looking for shadows coming round the doorway or clicks of doorknobs being twisted I will slurp the red sauce until it splatters on the once-white-now-cream-no-yellow gown. The slimy remains of fat from the non-drained ground meat on the roof of my mouth that others find disgusting--I run my tongue on it again and again. To this day I eat spaghetti furtively in my own kitchen every morning after such a dinner, and look at the door in fear that someone will catch me. This sounds like I was a suppressed child. The no-refrigerator rules were generated after all of the meat in the freezer thawed after us kids left it open searching for ice-cream. It was not from tyrannic, just pissed-off parents. But even though my preferred breakfast would have been eggs or chocolate milk or yogurt I would not violate the code of kitchen honor. Cabinet pressed pies destined for a toaster it was.
This kind of perfection in action spread into school performance. I was the valedictorian even as the 30 students with lower GPA's had greater intellect. I knew how to follow the rules, jump through the hoops, and make a teacher proud. Years of extra-credit and special exceptions to take courses at the local university translated into an astronomical average grade-point.
In the holy halls I knew only the right hand could touch the sacred supper. And I also knew that if someone used their left hand that social norms dictated that I would not sneer although every inch of me was appalled that they could take the body of God with the anciently defiled hand.
I guess this is the coming-of-age paragraph. For most it involves puffing in or on sheets with a beloved or belusted. For me, I became an adult the day that I heard the president of my religious university equate keeping the laws of the land with following God. He said it was a manifestation of faith to stand and watch for the blinky-walky-man at the crosswalk instead of jaunt across when the road was empty of all but birds and other people rushing off to their classes.
A day after this devotional message I went to the crosswalk and I looked for God all around. I looked for him in the sky, but it was covered in grey clouds with no linings. I looked for her in the trees, but they were dormant with winter. I looked for God in the yellow, electronic, metallic, tweeting pedestrian box; and I laughed. God? God is not here. God might be in the mountain slumbering in a cave, but within me is far-more immortal than any rule.
It was better than sex. The complete relief of I, Herculesa, dropping the world of law and laying it as an holy sacrifice on the mustard-striped cross-walk of University Avenue.
Childhood had fled.
Feeling the wind pick up and fresh air replace the stale exhaust of an inverted winter, I knew this was a shift of life; As I crossed the street, while the red-hand shone bright in the foot-traffic box I started singing a song. I don't know if it was Lennon's Free as a Bird or Gloria Estavan's olympic hymn If I Could Reach but it was a blatant song about freedom and defeating your own innards for that freedom. Then someone behind me joined in with the harmony. It was a deeper voice and I was thinking how the timing of meeting my one true love could not be better because I was at least momentarily willing and craving to break every law I had ever held high, chastity being the most enjoyable one to flaunt.
But she had red hair and a bright smile to match cello-voice accompaniment. And she was exactly what I needed to get me through a diagnosis of a disease that banned me from eating the Lord's Holy Supper (with my right hand) thanks to gluten intolerance and questioning the most fundamental magic within my faith, that of eternal families. She'elah was my new best friend.
Childhood was a time of impressing the rule makers for me. Whether they were at home or school or church or if they were the unknown unnamed authorities. I was obedient to the "they" of society. I would shined the shoes of the firemen just because they had a uniform. Authority and civil obedience was something that seemed easier than rebellion.
But when I dream of being a child, all I ever see in my mind's eye is the never performed acts of mischief (that I darned not do but so did desire). The most often dreamed dream is sneaking spaghetti from the kitchen at 6am; enjoying the savory when breakfast was usually the saccharine pop-tart. All the while looking for shadows coming round the doorway or clicks of doorknobs being twisted I will slurp the red sauce until it splatters on the once-white-now-cream-no-yellow gown. The slimy remains of fat from the non-drained ground meat on the roof of my mouth that others find disgusting--I run my tongue on it again and again. To this day I eat spaghetti furtively in my own kitchen every morning after such a dinner, and look at the door in fear that someone will catch me. This sounds like I was a suppressed child. The no-refrigerator rules were generated after all of the meat in the freezer thawed after us kids left it open searching for ice-cream. It was not from tyrannic, just pissed-off parents. But even though my preferred breakfast would have been eggs or chocolate milk or yogurt I would not violate the code of kitchen honor. Cabinet pressed pies destined for a toaster it was.
This kind of perfection in action spread into school performance. I was the valedictorian even as the 30 students with lower GPA's had greater intellect. I knew how to follow the rules, jump through the hoops, and make a teacher proud. Years of extra-credit and special exceptions to take courses at the local university translated into an astronomical average grade-point.
In the holy halls I knew only the right hand could touch the sacred supper. And I also knew that if someone used their left hand that social norms dictated that I would not sneer although every inch of me was appalled that they could take the body of God with the anciently defiled hand.
I guess this is the coming-of-age paragraph. For most it involves puffing in or on sheets with a beloved or belusted. For me, I became an adult the day that I heard the president of my religious university equate keeping the laws of the land with following God. He said it was a manifestation of faith to stand and watch for the blinky-walky-man at the crosswalk instead of jaunt across when the road was empty of all but birds and other people rushing off to their classes.
A day after this devotional message I went to the crosswalk and I looked for God all around. I looked for him in the sky, but it was covered in grey clouds with no linings. I looked for her in the trees, but they were dormant with winter. I looked for God in the yellow, electronic, metallic, tweeting pedestrian box; and I laughed. God? God is not here. God might be in the mountain slumbering in a cave, but within me is far-more immortal than any rule.
It was better than sex. The complete relief of I, Herculesa, dropping the world of law and laying it as an holy sacrifice on the mustard-striped cross-walk of University Avenue.
Childhood had fled.
Feeling the wind pick up and fresh air replace the stale exhaust of an inverted winter, I knew this was a shift of life; As I crossed the street, while the red-hand shone bright in the foot-traffic box I started singing a song. I don't know if it was Lennon's Free as a Bird or Gloria Estavan's olympic hymn If I Could Reach but it was a blatant song about freedom and defeating your own innards for that freedom. Then someone behind me joined in with the harmony. It was a deeper voice and I was thinking how the timing of meeting my one true love could not be better because I was at least momentarily willing and craving to break every law I had ever held high, chastity being the most enjoyable one to flaunt.
But she had red hair and a bright smile to match cello-voice accompaniment. And she was exactly what I needed to get me through a diagnosis of a disease that banned me from eating the Lord's Holy Supper (with my right hand) thanks to gluten intolerance and questioning the most fundamental magic within my faith, that of eternal families. She'elah was my new best friend.
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