Take Me To Church

But the heel of my shoe raps against the politely polished tile, tap…tap…tap…it is incessant, a wave crashing time and time again against a shore, a bell striking three over and over…a bejewelled hand touches my knee so I stop. Mother knows best, if she thinks me a distraction then a distraction I am. So my gaze turns upwards, to the man in the black robes with the white-collar. The fat of his double chin erupts from its constraints, jiggling up and down as he moves his mouth. I tune into his words, they are colourful and burst to life, full of tune and melody, painting pictures from ancient worlds away. I hang onto every word, like a drooling, tail-wagging dog watching its owner hold its favourite treat. Sometimes it is the garden and the apple and the snake, other times it is the man and his pairs of animals and the gushing water. Most of the time, however, it is Him. Oh, yes, he saved us all, didn’t he? Although if I’m being completely honest, I don’t feel all that saved. No, I am just sitting here, twiddling my thumbs and hearing and wishing I could tap my foot. But mother says no, so I won’t.

After a time the words slow and fade away, and with them the bodies of the attendees, moving about, now their shoes do the clicking. Bobbing heads float between pews too polished to be truly all wood and I see an occasional nod. My mother grabs my hand, whispers something in my ear, formulating a question about…lunch? My father seems to be happy with it, his bowtie feels extra perky and my little sister’s chubby red cheeks just glow with joy. My family, what a wonderful snapshot of idealistic suburban life. After shaking a few hands and clapping a few backs, we exit the building, cross the carpark and slide in, closing the doors of our car behind us. Hands on the steering wheel my father drives us past countless other homes, containing within them families much like us: two parents, two children, and can’t forget the golden retriever. Waiting for us is our patch of neatly trimmed emerald blades, barricaded in by a white picket fence, and a driveway big enough for three cars but currently only containing one. Soon enough we are in the kitchen, as expected, and shove some sandwiches down our throats. Over a coca-cola, my father picks up the newspaper and prepares to voice his opinions on every story of the day. His voice fades in and out, I change my attention like a channel on a TV. One snapshot I get is a smaller headline discussing certain communities in San Francisco and New York, cities on the coasts that sandwich our lands. My father complains about the people, the…he calls them homosexuals. Later I take off my church suit and I go to bed.

The next morning I rise and brush my teeth. Shower…breakfast…bus…it is a blur of empty farewells and dull droning engines. I sympathise with all the others in this country who experience the same endless monotony for years, they are on my list for prayers because if it’s hell for me it’s surely hell for them. Right? They experience the same teasing, the same stares, the same grinding feeling in the pit of your stomach that you don’t belong. 

Usually, I keep my head down, but the words of yesterday inspire me to look up, at the flashing faces. Maybe someone will even smile at me. But all I get is a shoulder in mine, shoving me over and sending me stumbling nearly into a trash can. I clutch my lunch tray and keep moving down the hall, one foot in front of the other, it’s not long now before I take my seat. When I do I tuck my knees under the table and rest my head on my greased-up knuckles. Closing my eyes, I am taken back to a few weeks ago, to the words of the priest. I remember his advice and I pray for the strength to meet the eyes of my fellow classmates. Often though there is no fellowship, at least not for me, although today there seem to be more couples than usual. Maybe their presence is just more suffocating than usual, maybe all my mother’s recent poking about when are you going to find a nice girl and when am I getting some grandchildren is just getting to my head. Always my response to her is I am sixteen, I am a child but she only treats me like one when it suits her. Sometimes I must act like an adult to stay afloat. 

Truth is my age is not the only reason I have not found a girl. A cold, jarring fact of my life is that never in my sixteen years of existence have I been interested in a girl. I have tried so hard, so much. Wishing for this imaginary girl, maybe she has blonde hair, maybe brown eyes, maybe she wears a bow. She is in my dreams and I want her so badly to be real, she is on the top of my list of those who I pray for. If I could just see her, touch her, know that she is real and I am true. I-If…if she is not real I have no idea what to do. Must I settle for some Martha from my high school, maybe a sophomore like me, who barely looks in my way but understands that I get As and will get into a nice school and will buy her a nice diamond ring? So this imaginary girl stays imaginary. Because perhaps she is not a girl at all. 

I am sitting looking at my lunch and I want to scream. All around me they hurry to their friends, to their little cliques, but I am not included. No, I cannot even look at them, because if my gaze begins to wander it will not drift towards the girls as the boys in the locker rooms say it will. No, it goes to the other boys. If only my plastic butter knife was sharp enough to gouge my eyes out. 

Fists clenched I set aside my lunch tray and after a handful of lessons, I am home again. Homework, dinner, sleep. Day after day and I am sitting back in the pew alongside my mother. Foot taps and she stops me and we leave and suddenly we are home and eating dinner and I pray then sleep then the clock resets. Weeks pass and the leaves turn and my eyes are still in my head, still leaning to the same bodies and every time they do I think to myself when did I go wrong? My prayers grow louder, more desperate, no longer are they quiet mundane whisperings before bed but screams every second, every moment. My father pulls out the paper and more articles on them, the other, the variant city rabble. Sinners, he likes to say. Little does he know his son, his precious son, is the golden sinner. One day he will leave and he will shine the brightest.

Even the priest speaks on the topic, he warns us to stay away from areas because there is a sickness. Not just a spiritual metaphor, but word is spreading that they can contaminate you. He warns us to stay strong, and he prays. My breath catches, my heart beats faster because I realise maybe he does have some mercy after all. Maybe he truly will pray for those people. No, not those people. My people. Even miles away, I feel drawn to them. I want to go to them, despite the risks. But I can’t because I am here, now, and the priest is not praying for them but us. So far away and somehow he is worried about our safety. They could infiltrate, he says. I know he is talking about me, to me. My gasp dies in my throat and with it, all the prayers. If there is a God, I do not want him. I do not need him. Today I say my final prayer. To the God who does not love me, at least love them. Or learn to. Try. If you don't then I will be stuck in this pew forever, and others will be too. They will be glued to their seats, trapped. When the one thing you know you lack from others is love, embraces begin to feel like cages, and too many is a prison.