My Parents' Religion

My parents’ religion is the story of my life. I grew up in a single-parent home. My Dad was a preacher. I lived with my mother. Being Reverend Stringfield’s daughter came with a high price! Spotlight! Spotlight! I was expected from a very early age to at least pretend as if I had it altogether. ‘Don’t wear that’. ‘Go to Bible study every Wednesday’. ‘Clear that one giant pimple off of your face. I don’t want anyone to see you like that’. These are all of the things my mother would say. All good things. But recently I discovered that the outward display of my religion may not necessarily equate into the correct practice of the religion itself.

A few days ago my mother chastised me for always watching television in the morning instead of reading the Bible. This is what she generally observes when she sees me. She does not know that I get up early in the morning or late at night to read the Bible. I do not want prying eyes to get in on my conversations with God. My quiet times are private and sometimes are not meant to be utilized for personal manipulation projected towards anyone.

I write about my personal quiet times because I’ve noticed that my decision to move to California for graduate school has been a point of contention between myself and other persons. These persons say that I’ve become too emotional and too focused on pop culture. They say that I have mental health issues that they do not have time to offer me support on. I am happy to say, however, that I am currently on a waiting list to see a counselor.

The truth is that I have needed to speak to a counselor since I was a teenager- someone that does not know me or my family. Forgiving my parents for the divorce or money issues or choosing to be around arrogant people has always been something that has festered in my heart. I was also very focused on surviving an American southeast coast cultural climate that always felt out-of-step to who I am as a person.

I’m not an LGBTQ person. My problem is that I always felt I lived in the wrong part of the United States. I always knew that there was some place that was better than what I knew. A place that was not perfect. A place where freedom of expression and the celebration of boundaries coexisted. I found that in California. I found the place I needed my entire life. I found the people that I needed my entire life.

The southern Bible Belt generation can sometimes be so focused on the outward displays of Christ that the inward spirit of a person is overlooked in order to encourage uniformity and ignorance of the obvious emotional pain of others. I do not need to listen to sermons everyday or attend church four times a week for people to know that I am a Christian. People do not always have to know when I engage in my Christian duties. I may not always let people see the basic evidence. But I am a Christian.