December 2^nd, 2004

 

During my trip home for Thanksgiving, I spent more time with my parents than I have in the last five years, and I realized something… I wasn’t adopted.  Given the fact that they’re SOOOO different from me, I’ve always suspected that I was switched at birth, and that my biological parents were Harrison Ford and Hilary Clinton. 

 

Given the restraining orders, I’ve never been able to ask Harrison or Hilary point blank… but that’s okay, because now I know the truth.

 

I am my father’s son.  I am my mother’s “little Michael”.  Of course, growing up I thought God Damn It was my first name, and Michael Jr. was my last.  As in, “God damn it Michael Jr.!  Why is every light in the God damn house on?!?”  Or, “God damn it Michael Jr.!  Whose used condoms are these?!?”

 

No, I’m only kidding.

 

The two weeks I spent in Greenville Mississippi showed me that, while, yes, I am totally different from my parents, I have parts of both of them in me.  I have my father’s hands, his intolerance for bullshit, and whatever nobility and honor I possess.  From my mother I gained personality, passion, and an unwavering stubbornness that comes from knowing I’m right all the time.  As to my sense of humor, world view, and hatred for animals, well, the gods only know where they came from.

 

Regardless, we got along really well, and I couldn’t be happier about that.  Most notably, my father and I got to talk, actually talk, and that hasn’t happened since I was a child. 

 

If you ever read this, Dad, I’ve missed ya...

 

Crying yet?  Well stop it, because I’m about to make fun of ‘em. 

 

Because I recently quit my job working for Satan… in Hell… I’ve been strapped for cash lately, and Mom and Dad came through for me with generosity to spare.  Other than a few chores around the house, I had no real way to thank them, so I offered up the only Abraham sacrifice I could think of. 

 

Yes, I went to church.

 

(Insert ominous clap of thunder)

 

My parents actually weren’t gonna go to church that morning, (November 28^th), because they wanted to spend time with me, and because they knew that monkeys would fly out of my butt before I went under normal circumstances.  I knew this too, which is why I figured my attending morning worship would fill them with joy, just as they’d filled my pockets with cash.  Keep in mind, I was not asked to endure this torture.  I volunteered, and, again, because I had no other way to repay them.

 

So, after putting on some new “Sunday clothes” mom had bought for me, I got in the car and rode with my parents to Greenville’s only Lutheran Church.  It’s a relatively small building, but it holds special significance because my father helped raise the funds to build it.  No small feat, given that the congregation is very small, (there were twenty two people at the service I attended, and that’s COUNTING my parents and I).  There are usually more, (I was told), but it was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, so everybody else was sitting their fat asses at home eating turkey leftovers and watching football.

 

Pagans!  I bet Jesus never skipped out on church just because there was food in the fridge.

 

Anyway, we stroll up the walkway, enter the main lobby, and are immediately bombarded by people.  Naturally, Mom has to introduce me to everyone, and I find myself shaking hands and smiling politely with a cadre of old men and women.  Seriously, I think they need to change the name of the church to “God’s Waiting Room”, because my parents and I were the only people there under a hundred and six.

 

One of the first I met was this 70’s-porno-looking guy with a mustache, dark greasy hair, and glasses so thick I was sure he could see into the future.  He needed ‘em, apparently, because his eyes were crossed.  One of his eyes was looking at me, the other was looking FOR me.

 

Thankfully, I was saved by my two little cousins, who came racing in from the nearby youth room as soon as they saw me.  Now, I barely know these kids, but they love me- as do all children- and I used them as a buffer shield to keep the ancient geezers at bay.  The older one, Anna, is especially affectionate, and- even though she’s eleven- she agreed to do a dive roll and trip any white haired zombies who came my way.

 

Anna was soon overwhelmed, however, because one of ‘em managed to get through.  

 

Allow me to explain.

 

As soon as we entered the sanctuary proper, Mom brought me over to this bright-eyed little lady in her seventies for yet another introduction.  I was too horrified by what ensued to remember her name, so we’re just gonna call her, “Beatrice Grabmyass”.  Mom had warned me in the car that Beatrice had a thing for “young men”, and that, despite her age, she was still quite horny.

 

I remember laughing it off and saying something like, “No problem, Mom.  I’ll jack her one if she gets too close.” 

 

Nothing in my martial arts background could’ve prepared me for what happened next.

 

Mom: “Hey, Beatrice!  I’d like you to meet my son.”

 

Me: “I’m Mike,” I said, extending my hand with a smile, “Nice to meet you.”

 

Beatrice: (First frowning at my extended hand), “Is that all I get?  You come here to momma!”

 

* Ugh! *

 

I grunted in genuine astonishment as this five foot tall geriatric latched on to me like a lamprey.  I hesitantly hugged her back, but it wouldn’t have made a difference because our bodies couldn’t have gotten any closer.  She put her cheek against my chest and snuggled, actually snuggled, as if I’d just saved her from a burning building.  Also, it did not escape my notice that one of her hands, (which moved up and down my back), was trailing dangerously close to my ass.

 

Thirty minutes later, she let go and cupped my face in her hands.

 

“Oh, Linda!” she said to my mom, “You said he was handsome, but…  That’s it!  You’re coming home with me, young man!  You won’t have to do a thing for the rest of your life.  I just wanna look at you!  I just wanna put you up on my mantel!”

 

“What,” I thought, “Right next to your Oscar for best supporting actress in Titanic?”

 

As in the “Viva Las Gaygas” story, I had no idea how to deal with such an unexpected and unwanted sexual advance, so I elbowed her in the face and ran.

 

No, I’m only kidding.  I would’ve liked to put the old bag down with a Thai kick to the hip, but there were WAY too many witnesses, and I was sober.

 

Unable to do anything but smile, I resigned myself to waiting out her exploratory investigation of my body, eventually saved by the start of the service.  Using my ninja skills, I strategically placed myself behind Mom so that when we all sat down on the pew, I wouldn’t have to sit beside Beatrice. 

 

Alas, Mom fucked it all up by displaying her perpetual inability to know what scars and disturbs her children.

 

“Well, Beatrice,” she said as I made to sit down, “I KNOW you’re not gonna let me hog my son, so how ‘bout I move over here.”

 

“Absolutely!” Beatrice chimed, her face beaming with lottery winning delight.

 

If I’d had a harpoon on me, I would’ve stabbed Mom with it.  Alas, I’d left my weaponry back at the house, and I was condemned to plop down beside Beatrice: her on my right, Mom on my left.

 

Dad, who was sitting on the other side of Beatrice, seemed oblivious to my plight.  Even when I leaned over, thrust out my hand and screamed, “FAAATHEEER!!!” he just kept looking forward.

 

Immediately, the sexual harassment continued, as Beatrice tried to “cuddle” with me like we were on a date.  

 

“I’m just gonna hold on to you,” she gushed, wrapping her arm around mine, “Ooooo, your arm is so big!” 

 

I think she also reached for my hand, but I’d had enough.

 

“Yeah, um, right here is about good for me,” I replied, spreading my hands between her shoulder and mine to demonstrate that I required a good foot and a half of distance.  Regrettably, I actually had to be really stern with her, and while I might’ve hurt her feelings, Beatrice obligingly moved away.

 

“THIS IS THE HOUSE OF GOD, YOU SEXFIEND!!!  THAT MIGHT NOT MEAN ANYTHING TO ME, BUT IT SURE AS SHIT SHOULD MEAN SOMETHING TO YOU!!!  IF I WANTED TO GET HIT ON BY PEOPLE I FIND REPULSIVE, I’D GO TO A GAY BAR!!!”

 

Obviously, I didn’t say that, but my restraint wasn’t what pissed me off.  My Mom’s acceptance of this behavior pissed me off.  Remember, Mom had already warned me about Beatrice in the car, which meant that I wasn’t the first to have to endure this kind of harassment. 

 

Now, one may say, “Aw, Mike.  Give it a rest.  She’s an old lady.”

 

Hey!  No doubt.  But my body is my fucking body, and the only people who get to touch it, are me, guys I’m fighting, and hot chicks, (all of which happen a lot). 

 

The free reign Beatrice has obviously enjoyed is a testament to the Republican double standard that permeates Mississippi, and I would’ve appreciated Mom stepping in.  After all, if I was an employee, and Beatrice was my boss, I’d be suing her company, (Viagra, no doubt), for a hundred million dollars.

 

Moving on…

 

So the service begins with some chanting from the pastor, and then some group hymns, which I thought were being performed by a troop of Opera singers.  You see, my mom can sing- really sing- and since no one else in the church can, I think she feels the need to compensate.

 

While everybody else was mumbling to lines like, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” Mom was belting out a four hundred decibel rendition of the same song with enough volume to shatter every window in the place.

 

At one point, I looked up at a stained glass portrait of Jesus descending from heaven and thought, “You’re going DOWN, son of Yahweh!”

 

The colored glass held, unfortunately, but I’m not exaggerating about my mother’s voice.  She should’ve been a professional singer, (she puts Celine Dion to shame), and the musically challenged folks in that congregation are damn lucky to have her.  My only fear is that she’s going to kill one of the older members, because, well, HOW MUCH CAN ONE HEARINGAID TAKE?!?

 

The hymns eventually come to a close, and I realize that I’ve gone blind from standing so close to Mom.  Luckily, my vision returned just in time to hear the pastor begin his sermon. 

 

Now, I can’t remember this guy’s name, but, like Pastor Heller from the Heller Files hatemail, Mom once tried to “sik” him on me back when I was in graduate school.  The pastor in question, who we’re gonna call “Pastor Noname”, faired no better, (doubly so since he went up against me in person).  Nevertheless, he’s a nice guy, and a descent public speaker.

 

The “message” was about Noah, and how Christians never know the hour or the day when Christ will return- two totally unrelated concepts, in my opinion, since Jesus wasn’t even born when Noah and his family built a boat to survive the Great Flood, (which, it goes without saying, never happened according to geology and climatology).  Still, Pastor Noname fused the two by saying that the people in Noah’s time likewise did not know the hour or the day of God’s wrath, and were thusly vanquished.

 

Ya know, the story of Noah has always struck a cord with me, namely because it seems an odd play for a benevolent, loving, all-knowing God to make.  Think about it, God created humans in his own image, and- if he was/is all-knowing- he did so with full knowledge that Adam and Eve would sin, and that the rest of mankind would likewise be yoked with said “original” sin, and that the world would get so evil that he would have to completely destroy every living thing on it except for Noah and his family. 

 

As myths go, this is one of the sillier ones.  I mean, if you take this literally, God made such a huge mistake, that he had to murder millions to correct it and start again, (including countless land dwelling animals that had no knowledge of sin).  Either he created man KNOWING that he would have to do this, (because God knows past, present and future, right?), or he created man imperfectly, and thus DIDN’T know the future, and, again, had to clean up his mess.

 

Is religion stupid or what?  Don’t get me started.

 

As I listened to this, I kept wanting to shout out, to rebel with the most simplistic of logical arguments.  But then, logic plays no part in religion.  For example, even though all four Gospels quote Jesus as saying that he’d return in his apostles’ lifetimes, we’re STILL living in the “end times”.

 

It’s ridiculous!  Pastor Noname kept warning us that we do not know the hour or the day, but, CHRISTIANS DO!!!  Jesus gave us a timeframe, and it came and went nineteen hundred years ago.  As I’ve said before, I’m quite prepared for NOTHING to keep on happening, and this is why it’s so terrible for me to go to church.

 

The utter lack of critical thinking skills people give up for their religion is beyond intelligent reasoning. 

 

Still, I found solace in my little cousin Anna, who was sitting several rows up and to my left, (with her dad and younger brother).  Every time I thought I’d lose it, I’d see her looking at me, and- like Eric and I did fifteen years ago- I’d make her laugh with a funny face.  

 

Anna knows nothing of the wraith of God, or eternal damnation, or the holy murder of millions.  She’s just a child, and she experiences TRUE joy in things that have nothing to do with religion.  Anna sees me being goofy, and she laughs.  She’s happy. 

 

To me, THAT’S what it means to be human, to live a “good” life, to experience joy and spread it to others, maybe even righteously so.    

 

I wish there was a God.  I truly do.  And I wish he was everything the believers say he is.  But that’s not reality.  The reality is that the world is filled with simple-minded humans, humans like me, humans like my parents, and the only hope we have to get along is to try and understand our fellow earthlings, understand our differing perspectives.

 

My perspective is written above, but I do indeed understand where my parents are coming from, where their hymn mumbling congregation is coming from.  It doesn’t make it any easier to tolerate, but it DOES ALLOW ME TO ACCEPT IT!  

 

And so we’ve come full circle.  I will never agree with my mother, my father.  Yet, I can still love them, I can still see the parts of me that came from them, that came from all humanity.  This is one of the great secrets I’ve learned from life, and my only regret is that it took me thirty one years to learn it.