Going to Church

The end of 4th grade, actually just before the end. Possibly March or April? It could have been either. Anyway, around then, after yet another fight with Mother (one that the belt and anything else would not get me to back down) I was sent to live with my father. I had been there for weekends most of my life, and now would be moving to this… not a town, a village? A hamlet.

New school, so much smaller than before, new faces, same people. Emily is my new idol. Daniel seems a lot like me, and different. He is an outcast too, I can smell it on him the first time I walk by. The thing I cannot tell is, why?

Changing schools has a routine. The first day is a freebie; the watching, interviewing, and judging go on to figure out to which box you belong. By early in the second day they had figured out that I don't fit, at all, not even with the other outcast, but that is as close to a 'fit's as I am likely to get. The "fag" label comes out again. I wonder if they even know what it means or are they just copying their parents. My father has learned of the "fag" label before the end of the third day. When I get into the truck, he is clearly angry. He doesn't take us home, instead, we go to church to meet the preacher.

He is shorter than my father and twice as wide with a fringe of grey hair around his head that leaves the crown bald. Sitting behind his desk, he looks very self important over steepled fingers. Father and Preacher are off into conversation. I tune out and it becomes the same as Charlie Brown's teacher, a series of complete unintelligible noises. Father ends my reprieve by hauling me to my feet by one arm. We leave the office and go down into a (mostly) unfinished basement. There is a large, open area, and a few small rooms on one side. The adults go into one of the rooms and leave me to look around at basically nothing. Eventually we leave. This time we do go home.

Two days later, right after school, we are back at the church. Father leads me directly to the basement and one of the small rooms.

Against one wall is what looks like an AV cart from school with a TV, VCR, and a shelf full of VHS tapes. In the middle of the room is a… thing. It looks kind of like a padded table, with the legs removed from one end. There are straps and buckles all over it. Behind and slightly to the side of the "table" is a padded office chair holding the preacher.

Father is talking. SHIT! I have no idea what he said. Reflexively, I duck as his hand passes through the space my head had occupied an instant before.

"Quit messin" around boy!" His tone is beyond irritated. "The preacher has been kind enough to offer you some help. You're damn well goin' to do what he says."

Preacher's tone is strained patience. "Take your clothes off, fold them neatly, and put them in the corner." He points.

This does not feel like a doctor's office. I look a question, a silent plea, at my father. His face contorts and hand raises to promise pain for not complying. Out of options, I move to the corner and begin to strip down. They are both watching. I can feel their eyes boring into my back. All of my focus is on the corner. I stare at it, nothing else exists.

"Get them skivies off too," there is another tone to the preacher's words.

Once more I look to my father, begging for help. As tears form, then overflow, his face goes from indifferent to disgusted. He pivots on one heal and strides away. I count the steps until there is silence.

"Well? Are you gonna get them skivies off, or do I need to help you?" Preacher sounded… different.

My briefs fall to the pile and the preacher's grip crushes my right shoulder as he turns me around saying, "get on the table."

Standing in front of the slanted form, I am not quite sure what he means. A meaty hand lands on the back of my head accompanied by, "move boy!"

I step onto the little… whatever it is, turn, and carefully lie back, keeping as modest as possible.

The preacher moves faster than I had thought he could. Straps are placed around my chest, arms, legs, and pelvis. I am no longer able to cover myself. Silent, scalding, acid tears pour from my eyes.

Cold bits of metal are attached to my calves, wrists, four on my head, and two… down there. Preacher holds up something "U" shaped in front of my eyes. It takes several seconds for me to recognize it as a mouthguard.

"Open."

I comply and he shoves the squishy plastic in my mouth.

He turns on the TV and can't get the tape to play. Preacher gives up and leaves the room. Naked, shivering, and restrained, it takes three lifetimes for him to return; with his WIFE! I can feel my body flush from toes to scalp. They get the VCR working and Mrs. Preacher leaves with an audible sniff in my direction. I want to melt away. Preacher, the asshole of few words says, "watch," and takes the chair behind me.

Bad music, an overhead view of children, maybe five to eight years old, playing on a large carpet divided neatly into pink and blue squares. All the boys wear some kind of uniform. There is a soldier, a police officer, a firefighter, a doctor, etc. The girls are also wearing uniforms of sorts. The nurse is easy enough to pick out in her crisp white and the red cross on her hat. Another was a flight attendant, maybe? Teachers had books or rules in their hands. Then there were the "mothers" carrying up to three baby dolls, feeding, changing, and all the other stuff of life.

Various toys were placed around the room in what first appeared to be a random, haphazard way, until one noticed that ALL of the "boy toys" were on blue squares, and ALL of the "girl toys" were on pink squares. The children interact without any sound. A soldier hands his rifle to a nurse and suddenly my jaw is clenched and a buzzing feeling runs up and down my arms. As soon as the nurse gives the gun back, the buzzing stops. I draw in a deep breath, unaware that I had not been breathing for some time. A cop scoops a baby off the floor. A sharp tingle through my arms and legs, on the edge of pain, is added to the… whatever it was that happened before.

This pattern repeats. Each iteration becomes more painful as the children step out of their assigned gender roles. When several cross the line at one time, the last two electrodes become activated. Yes, those two. White hot metal pours through my spine. I want to scream yet my jaw is locked closed. In searing agony, the world turns to white, then, blessedly, collapses into black as consciousness leaves me.

I come to with the preacher slapping my face, encouraging me to wake up. When my eyes open, he releases my wrists from the table and hands me a small towel.

"Clean yourself up."

There is a sticky dampness from my nose to my navel. That's blood. My blood! Preacher releases the last strap, the one around my chest. I try to move and have no control over my limbs yet. Gracelessly I pitch onto the concrete floor, turning just enough to land on my right shoulder. For a long minute I lie on the cold floor, focused on breathing.

I am still on the floor when Father walks in. Again he looks at me with disgust writ large upon his weathered face. Every bit of remaining energy goes into getting off the floor. Once moving, I don't dare stop so I dress as quickly as I can. I manage to follow my father up the stairs and out to the truck. Not a word is spoken on the way home.

This becomes the pattern until the end of the school year. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, right after school, I have to "go to church." There were lots of videos. Sometimes I was given the bite guard, sometimes I was not. Sometimes boys held hands. That wasn't so bad. Sometimes they kissed, and sometimes, well, I try not to remember those times.

Every secession saw my blood. Sometimes there was something else to clean up too. It wasn't until years later that I figured the other fluid was seaman for the preacher getting his rocks off while I was tortured. This was their effort to "help" me, to get be to "be a man" to conform.

My father died when I was 17. His body was cremated. One year later, in a very small, private ceremony, his ashes were scattered in a certain place in the mountains above our home. I was there, and I was the last to leave, waiting until I had some privacy to piss on as much of the ash as I could find.