Forward Little Boys and the Beginning of a Plague
Hey there. I succumbed to the summer hours, and went to the church my parents approve of. Apparently the ones down the street are heathens. But I won't get into that.
So about the *good* church. I was one of the first people there, because I wanted to talk to the pastor about his views on things, and where the congregation stood. But he was off with the youth group on a retreat somewhere, so there was no Communion to worry about anyway.
They have a nice building. I wonder what kinds of fights their building committee had when the thing was being constructed. I know too much church politics. They disgust me--they're more vicious than national politics, because these people are supposed to be brothers and sisters in Christ, where the democrats and republicans are supposed to hate each other and say nasty things about each other. I was very much looking forward to not having to be involved with anything other than attending. I can see this might not work. Let me explain.
The first people I met were these two old ladies, one of whom grabbed my arm at the elbow and wouldn't let go as they introduced themselves and grilled me for my personal information. What is your name? Where are you from? When did you move? Why? Are you a T-- student? What's your major? Oh, what do want to do with your life? Where are you living now? Come take this drug test. The last one is fake, but I swear they were leading up to it. The others are actual questions I was asked. I escaped the first line of defense and made my way to the inner sanctum, where I hoped to sign the book, grab a bulletin and pretend to be absorbed in reading it until service started. The man handing out bulletins leaned in real close as I was signing the book as though he was making sure I did it right, or that I wasn't from the wrong place. Then he handed me a bulletin with this weird, squinty expression on his face, and I went in.
Like I said, the building is beautiful. It's well lit, something that most churches aren't. It isn't all ornately decked out, but it isn't minimalist and run down. Everything is tastefully done and has a reserved quality about it. So for service atmosphere, this church is pretty good.
Since the pastor wasn't there, I will not take this service as any indication of services to come. It was led by an elder with one of those Texas accents that makes me cringe because it's so strong I can't understand what's being said. Everyone who spoke, in fact, had one of those accents. It was like the worst of Texas drawl had crawled into the building to ferment. I have lived in Texas for years now, but I have never heard accents that so assault my ears as these ones. Maybe it's that they all grew up listening to each other or something. There must be a reason.
In any case, it was the after service departure (or attempt at it) that scared me. I say scared. That probably isn't the right word, because I wasn't afraid, per say, just very uncomfortable. I prefer people to keep to their space and leave me to mine. This means I don't appreciate strangers reaching out from their huddle, grabbing me, and pulling me in to be introduced to their crowd. This happened. I didn't like it.
After answering their questions, one of them took me by the elbow (!) and steered me toward another little group, then proceeded to tell them all about me. They all stuck their hands out and one of them called another trio of folks over to meet me. I swear. Is there no such thing as privacy? Do these people think I enjoy being passed around like a lonely piece of meat, to be gossiped over and all that?
I finally escaped (I did a lot of that), and was about ten feet from the door when the usher who had given me the bulletin stepped in front of me with that same semi-suspicious look, and asked me if he had read correctly that I was from S--. I told him yes. He had. I was thinking about how ridiculous it was to be accosted by an usher over a possible misreading of your last place of residence. I didn't say anything like that, though. His face was only a little less forbidding after that, and he nodded and stepped aside.
Thinking my way clear, I headed again for the door. Only to be grabbed (!) by an old man who had heard I was from S--. Did I know his relatives there, they only went there for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and had a family reunion at such in such a place? I blinked. I tried in vain to recall any such names. I drew a blank. I told him so. There was a vast pause during which he seemed to be thinking of something to say to me. I told him to have a nice day. He (hard of hearing, I guess) asked me to repeat myself. I did, louder. He seemed confused by this statement, and returned it, unsure of what was going on. I told him thank you and ran for the door. Well, I walked, but I did so very quickly.
This is not going to be one of those churches where I can attend and go home. Everyone there wanted to know everything about me, and I think there must be a secret way out of the place for people who don't want to be sucked into the social time. I need to find it, because I don't want to spend my afternoon talking with these people. They're nice, but too nosy, too touchy feely, and too something else. Maybe the novelty of my presence will wear off and they'll ignore me.
You're probably wondering about the title. The plague should be obvious. That is the "fellowship" after church. One part of church I'd rather avoid, because I inevitably grow to know and dislike the people who push into my business and spread my personal life everywhere. Hermits like company, every once in a while. They like long distance company, or company that doesn't touch them. I am a hermit, more or less. When I go to classes or to school functions, I mingle and all that cool jazz. But at church, I go to mingle with God, not the other people there. I've maybe been turned off of fellowship by always being too informed about the nasty things these people do and say to and about their "friends," but I don't want to get to know them.
An aside note, before returning to the matter of church this morning. The people next door have decided to take up yodeling. That, and high-pitched yipping that I can only imagine is meant to imitate the screeching of tires on a sharp curve taken too quickly. They also yell/sing as though they were shrieking for joy at being in a fast car. I only insert this here because that is precisely what they are doing right now. Forget the children. Remove *those* peoples' vocal cords. Now.
As for the forward little boys. There was only one. While his mother was learning all about me from her friend the elbow grabber, the kid who was maybe preschool age, walked over to whisper something to me. He had both hands down the front of his pants and told me, in one of those kids' whispers that carry through the room, that the ants in his pants made his pee pee tingle. The mother's reaction was priceless. She turned red and grabbed his hands out of his pants (he promptly replaced them, as often as she removed them), and turned him around to give him a stern talking to.
So. I have read the Communist Manifesto, and all the other readings that Marx himself wrote. Now I have two articles to read from the other textbook, and theory will be finished! No, wait a minute. That's a lie. I also have a paper to write for it early this week so my last week of class isn't hell on earth. And I'm calling the Baptist church to ask if I can get an interview over there on Tuesday or something. The other one doesn't seem to be going through. Well, I had better go, then. End.
So about the *good* church. I was one of the first people there, because I wanted to talk to the pastor about his views on things, and where the congregation stood. But he was off with the youth group on a retreat somewhere, so there was no Communion to worry about anyway.
They have a nice building. I wonder what kinds of fights their building committee had when the thing was being constructed. I know too much church politics. They disgust me--they're more vicious than national politics, because these people are supposed to be brothers and sisters in Christ, where the democrats and republicans are supposed to hate each other and say nasty things about each other. I was very much looking forward to not having to be involved with anything other than attending. I can see this might not work. Let me explain.
The first people I met were these two old ladies, one of whom grabbed my arm at the elbow and wouldn't let go as they introduced themselves and grilled me for my personal information. What is your name? Where are you from? When did you move? Why? Are you a T-- student? What's your major? Oh, what do want to do with your life? Where are you living now? Come take this drug test. The last one is fake, but I swear they were leading up to it. The others are actual questions I was asked. I escaped the first line of defense and made my way to the inner sanctum, where I hoped to sign the book, grab a bulletin and pretend to be absorbed in reading it until service started. The man handing out bulletins leaned in real close as I was signing the book as though he was making sure I did it right, or that I wasn't from the wrong place. Then he handed me a bulletin with this weird, squinty expression on his face, and I went in.
Like I said, the building is beautiful. It's well lit, something that most churches aren't. It isn't all ornately decked out, but it isn't minimalist and run down. Everything is tastefully done and has a reserved quality about it. So for service atmosphere, this church is pretty good.
Since the pastor wasn't there, I will not take this service as any indication of services to come. It was led by an elder with one of those Texas accents that makes me cringe because it's so strong I can't understand what's being said. Everyone who spoke, in fact, had one of those accents. It was like the worst of Texas drawl had crawled into the building to ferment. I have lived in Texas for years now, but I have never heard accents that so assault my ears as these ones. Maybe it's that they all grew up listening to each other or something. There must be a reason.
In any case, it was the after service departure (or attempt at it) that scared me. I say scared. That probably isn't the right word, because I wasn't afraid, per say, just very uncomfortable. I prefer people to keep to their space and leave me to mine. This means I don't appreciate strangers reaching out from their huddle, grabbing me, and pulling me in to be introduced to their crowd. This happened. I didn't like it.
After answering their questions, one of them took me by the elbow (!) and steered me toward another little group, then proceeded to tell them all about me. They all stuck their hands out and one of them called another trio of folks over to meet me. I swear. Is there no such thing as privacy? Do these people think I enjoy being passed around like a lonely piece of meat, to be gossiped over and all that?
I finally escaped (I did a lot of that), and was about ten feet from the door when the usher who had given me the bulletin stepped in front of me with that same semi-suspicious look, and asked me if he had read correctly that I was from S--. I told him yes. He had. I was thinking about how ridiculous it was to be accosted by an usher over a possible misreading of your last place of residence. I didn't say anything like that, though. His face was only a little less forbidding after that, and he nodded and stepped aside.
Thinking my way clear, I headed again for the door. Only to be grabbed (!) by an old man who had heard I was from S--. Did I know his relatives there, they only went there for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and had a family reunion at such in such a place? I blinked. I tried in vain to recall any such names. I drew a blank. I told him so. There was a vast pause during which he seemed to be thinking of something to say to me. I told him to have a nice day. He (hard of hearing, I guess) asked me to repeat myself. I did, louder. He seemed confused by this statement, and returned it, unsure of what was going on. I told him thank you and ran for the door. Well, I walked, but I did so very quickly.
This is not going to be one of those churches where I can attend and go home. Everyone there wanted to know everything about me, and I think there must be a secret way out of the place for people who don't want to be sucked into the social time. I need to find it, because I don't want to spend my afternoon talking with these people. They're nice, but too nosy, too touchy feely, and too something else. Maybe the novelty of my presence will wear off and they'll ignore me.
You're probably wondering about the title. The plague should be obvious. That is the "fellowship" after church. One part of church I'd rather avoid, because I inevitably grow to know and dislike the people who push into my business and spread my personal life everywhere. Hermits like company, every once in a while. They like long distance company, or company that doesn't touch them. I am a hermit, more or less. When I go to classes or to school functions, I mingle and all that cool jazz. But at church, I go to mingle with God, not the other people there. I've maybe been turned off of fellowship by always being too informed about the nasty things these people do and say to and about their "friends," but I don't want to get to know them.
An aside note, before returning to the matter of church this morning. The people next door have decided to take up yodeling. That, and high-pitched yipping that I can only imagine is meant to imitate the screeching of tires on a sharp curve taken too quickly. They also yell/sing as though they were shrieking for joy at being in a fast car. I only insert this here because that is precisely what they are doing right now. Forget the children. Remove *those* peoples' vocal cords. Now.
As for the forward little boys. There was only one. While his mother was learning all about me from her friend the elbow grabber, the kid who was maybe preschool age, walked over to whisper something to me. He had both hands down the front of his pants and told me, in one of those kids' whispers that carry through the room, that the ants in his pants made his pee pee tingle. The mother's reaction was priceless. She turned red and grabbed his hands out of his pants (he promptly replaced them, as often as she removed them), and turned him around to give him a stern talking to.
So. I have read the Communist Manifesto, and all the other readings that Marx himself wrote. Now I have two articles to read from the other textbook, and theory will be finished! No, wait a minute. That's a lie. I also have a paper to write for it early this week so my last week of class isn't hell on earth. And I'm calling the Baptist church to ask if I can get an interview over there on Tuesday or something. The other one doesn't seem to be going through. Well, I had better go, then. End.
posted by Rehkmira @ 13:22
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