Book Burning and Exorcisms

"I was forced to burn books or face an exorcism," I said when it was my turn to speak. In that moment it became clear how different my childhood was to my coworkers. My coworkers were sitting around talking about childhood stories and I was asked what crazy thing I did in my youth. The only thing I could think of was this book burning incident.

Now that I think about it, perhaps the topic of exorcism was the shocker. Who burns books? Who threatens children with exorcisms? It was a strange time and a bizarre tale of mental and emotional abuse in the name of faith.

To understand what happened, one must also know when it happened. The incident occurred in the 1980's, a time when a hysteria was sweeping America - a hysteria known today as the Satanic Panic. Churches were fueled by a fear of satanism. People believed Satanism (as a faith and practice) was running rampant in America. Extreme religious groups believed these nefarious teachings were being marketed through music, and even table top role playing games (i.e. Dungeons & Dragons.) My local youth pastor was playing music backwards to find secret messages. Talk shows sensationalized the situation, making quick cash off fear mongering.

At the time I was mostly unaware of the hysteria. I was a teenager having problems with school bullies, difficult classes and dealing with depression. One outlet to my issues was playing role-playing games with friends. But it all changed one summer day when two visitors showed up to our house.

My father was out of town, and perhaps that was the reason the two relatives showed up that day. The husband and wife pair arrived that hot July day without warning. My mother was happily surprised, inviting the family in. One of the pair told me he came to visit me especially. He said we would go out for ice-cream. I was so excited.

The whole time I was out with this older relative, someone I looked up to as a child, he was friendly and kind. He wore a mask of genuine concern, asking as about my parents and how life was for me in that house, in that town. However, when we returned home the house had a strange feeling to it. His wife was sitting in the living room. An unhappy look etched into her face, as her hand aggressively highlighted passages in a book of mine. I noticed various books from my bedroom in a stack next to the chair where she sat. These works were all games inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien.

"You don't mind me highlighting passages from your book do you," she asked. Yet it didn't feel like a question.

The previously happy couple were now angry with me, but I couldn't understand why. I didn't do drugs. I didn't have any adult magazines. As far as I could tell the stack of books they were going through were fantasy related games and stories. Unsure of what I did wrong I didn't know what to ask. I was escorted to my room and told to remain there. That kind man was kind no longer.

A few hours later the once friendly man, the one who took me out for ice-cream, appeared with a new attitude. Now he was scowling at me, as though he was ashamed of me. He barked my name and told me to follow him into the living room. I couldn't understand how someone could change so rapidly.

Back in the living room a fire was now burning in the fireplace, which was strange for a hot July day. My mother was mentally checked out. Her back was to the room as she stared out our patio door ignoring my plight. I was forced into a seat in the center of the room as the two visitors began their accusations of witchcraft:

"Have you performed the spells in this game?"

"Are you aware the magic in this game is real?"

"I was once in the occult, so I know that this is real, it's witchcraft!"

"Do you know what the Bible says about witchcraft? 'Suffer not a witch to live!'"

The accusations seemed insane to me. My teenage angst burst with insolence shouting back, "you mean there's such a spell as 'magic missile?'" That remark got me in trouble. Obviously a jeer at their "occult experience," the husband stepped forward, leaning in saying, "I think it's time you burn those books."

Of course I wasn't going to burn any of my books. I objected. I even invoked my father's name mentioning how he bought those books for me. At this my mother perked up, jumping into agreement. They shouted us down saying that my father didn't know what he was buying. They said he was deceived. I witnessed how easily religious zeal can control a room as my mother melted back into her chair, once again turning her back on me. My own mother pretended to not hear my pleas as my accusers shouted now for an exorcism.

Their logic to prove the books evil had failed them. At thirteen years old I was destroying their "reason," so they resorted to the only thing left: brute force. "Burn the books," they said, "that will prove you're not possessed or oppressed by demons." I refused. These were precious to me. These games were my lifeline sanctuary from the daily abuse of schoolyard bullies. My refusal to burn my own books drew their ire, so they came to the conclusion that this was proof of my demonic oppression. From their perspective, only a demonic would refuse to burn a book, as it showed an unnatural attachment. "If you don't burn the books we'll have to perform an exorcism to make sure you're not possessed."

That statement sent a chill threw me. It just so happened in the year prior (when we first moved into our town) we heard of a family on trial for killing one of their children in an exorcism. I didn't know the details, only that a child had died as a result of an exorcism. Now, watching the ranting and illogical ravings of my own family, I could see how easily things could get out of control.

In that moment I imagined that they might hold my head under water. Or they might hold something hot (or heated) near my skin. An image of someone sitting on me, while another holds my hands down came into my mind. I had no idea what they were capable of. Already this situation was out of control and I didn't know how much more stress (or even pain) they might inflict upon me. I knew I wasn't demon possessed, so I figured if an exorcism failed they would push harder. How far would they go? Out of fear of what they might do to me, I agreed (although reluctantly) to burn my books.

Cheers from the visitors filled the living room as they stoked the fireplace. I was told to sit by the fire, as they tore pages out of the fantasy books, instructing me to toss them into the fire. I agreed. They shouted and hooted like sexually pent men at a topless bar.

"Look there! A demon! I see a demon!"

"They are jumping from the flames!"

Their comments had no merit. There were no demons jumping into or out of the flames. What they imagined must have been grand in their tiny, little lives of conspiratorial faith. It must have made them feel so good to force a child back on the path to God. After the books were completely destroyed they rejoiced, made lunch and celebrated. I pretended to go along with them, biding my time until my father would return home.

After they left (a day later), I told my father what had happened. He was outraged. Although he was a pentecostal minister (having his own strict values), he viewed book burning as a truly Nazi thing to engage in. World War II was fresh for him. He and his brothers served in the WWII, and the idea of his family book burning (forcing his son to burn his own books against his will) was outrageous. Even more outrageous was the threat of an exorcism. He was enraged with my mother who sat there doing nothing. He asked my mother why she didn't stop them. She stammered about, blaming one thing or another - taking no responsibility. He got on the phone, called up the visitors and chewed them out. Never did those family members ask for my forgivness. Ironically, it would turn out that they were themselves opressed by their inner demons - but those I'll leave for future stories.

For many years I kept quiet about this event. It's strange how the mind works. It isn't as though I "forgot about it," I just pushed it back. I was fully aware of what they did, I just didn't want to think about it. Perhaps I was embarrassed that I gave into a book burning. Maybe I was uncomfortable with the fear that such a close family member could inspire in me. Whatever the reason, I didn't address it. I ignored it until one day I told someone, and then another, and then more people. The more I tell my story, the more relief I get from the past.

Sometimes people think that I resent the incident. That I might hate the people who did this. I neither hate them nor resent the situation. That situation allowed me to see the reality of extremism. Extreme faith, politics, social reaction, it all comes down to control. I would witness similar situations in churches throughout my life. Not as extreme, but equally controlling. Today pastors scream at audiences, hooking into fear or desire, demanding they vote a certain way, give specific amounts of money or treat those who are different a certain way. It's the same manipulation I went through, and once you've been through it, you can spot it each and every time.