I was raised in the Christian church. Not just any Christian church, but a Baptist church. Not just any Baptist church, but a conservative-ass Baptist church in the heart of the deep red Central Valley of California. I know California is generally viewed as some kind of haven for liberal thought, but the valley is decidedly NOT a part of that vision. This is a region that, despite being less than 50% white (or perhaps because of it), believes itself to be made up largely of “cowboys” and other such symbols of white identity. A classmate of mine once rode to the bus stop on a horse – a friggin horse. I don’t remember what happened to the horse after that; I just know she was on the back of a horse when she arrived at the bus stop. That was the end of my involvement in that situation.
I hesitate to sound anti-religious… Just kidding. I have no hesitation in that stance whatsoever. I understand that many people – some of whom I consider my closest friends – genuinely find comfort in religion and use it to become better people. While I am of the opinion that they are good people to begin with and their concept of religion robs them of the credit for their best qualities, I do not have any problem with this kind of religion. As long as they aren’t using antiquated notions of morality to judge people or trying to convert me, we’re cool.
Unfortunately, this is not the kind of religion I was raised around. When I moved to Fresno at age 11, my mom began a search for a new church “home” and we visited a number of places on that tour. One was a large Presbyterian church that, to my mind, was big enough to allow for comfortable anonymity, which was a huge plus for me. We could sit at the back of the synagogue and largely go unnoticed. That was my kind of, well, anything. We also made one visit to an over-the-top Pentecostal church full of sweaty white people who were dancing and singing and shaking up and down the aisles. My mom still remembers the look of disdain on my face as I took this all in, before my sister and I escaped to the bathroom for a brief respite. To my great relief, shortly thereafter my mom and brother joined us in the bathroom to say we were leaving, as the sermon had started and it was entirely about giving money to the church.
Sadly, the church she eventually settled on proved to be worse, although it took a while for that to become obvious to me. First of all, this church was small – not just in terms of physical size but also in the number of congregants. This was, for me, an entirely unfavorable situation. I remember sitting there on one of our first Sundays there and feeling everyone’s eyes on me during the service. My mom, to her credit, always let us wear whatever we wanted to church. “God doesn’t care what you’re wearing” was her reasoning and I couldn’t disagree with that. I was a huge tomboy at this point in my life. I spent all my time playing or watching basketball, and I dressed accordingly. I usually wore jeans or basketball shorts, a T-shirt, and basketball shoes to church. Baseball hats were also a big thing for me, and I picked them out daily to match my outfit. It wasn’t unusual for me to wear one of these hats, often backwards (I know, what a rebel), and church was no exception. In contrast, the parents at this church liked to dress their kids like extras in Little House on the Prairie, which was a comparison my grandmother made to me at one point. They had strict ideas about how “proper” women and men should dress and behave, and I’m sure they had plenty of opinions on my mom being a doctor and the primary breadwinner in our house. Oh, and also about the fact that my dad didn’t come to church with us. He was not about that bullshit and my mom never bugged him about it.
The outside world was evil to these people. Flyers sent home from school announcing a Halloween parade were promoting the dark arts in their eyes. The pastor once told a story during his sermon about how he pulled his kid out of public school because he came home from kindergarten “proselytizing” about the benefits of recycling. I remember sitting in the service and trying to keep my face from displaying the confusion this elicited in me.
The congregation all nodded knowingly and smugly looked down at their home schooled angels who would never be exposed to such awful secularism.
And the kicker in all this hatred of the world outside the church walls was that popular music was anathema. I’m not talking about explicit hip hop or crude punk; I mean ALL popular music. Even newer Christian music was bad if it didn’t conform to the stylistic norms of the fucking 18th century. I still wonder if they ever saw the irony in being a group of conservative white people adhering faithfully to the subversive music of black slaves in the antebellum south. I doubt it, but either way, even the tamest of pop/rock Christian music was described as “trying to fit a square peg in a round hole.” And that was one of the nicer ways popular music was ever described in that church.
I remember covertly listening to Celine Dion with my only church friend while fully aware of how ridiculous this level of secrecy was. Even my grandparents couldn’t find anything to be offended by in the Titanic soundtrack, but these people would have shit a brick if they had caught us listening to it. This friend was the only thing that made church bearable, and our friendship was very much a cause for concern for his parents. It could have been because relationships between boys and girls of our age were inherently scary for them, but that seems doubtful given how hard they tried to push him to be closer with other, more appropriate girls instead of me. They were never mean to me directly, but they, along with virtually all the other adults in the church, clearly disapproved of my very existence. Not only was I not home schooled, but I also went to – gasp – public school. And not just any public school. My brother and sister and I all attended very diverse schools in what I’m sure they viewed as the “bad” side of town. Never mind that these were excellent schools that routinely lapped the other local schools academically. Never mind that I was the valedictorian of my graduating class and a huge nerd among my classmates. I was still the bad kid at this church and parents discouraged their kids from getting too close. Maybe they thought independent thought would rub off on them or something. Who knows.
Actually, I do know, because my one friend was smarter than most of the people there and thus stood out. This isn’t to say that the members of the church were idiots. They just actively discouraged any kind of thinking that would lead to questioning the core assumptions of their faith. Hence the home schooling of their kids and the shunning of popular music and movies. Blackballing me with their kids was just part and parcel of their whole schtick.
My friend – we’ll call him Jack, per his request – must have had a bit of a rebellious streak because he initially singled me out for friendship because of my fuck-you fashion sense. The way he told it, he spotted me rocking a Seattle Supersonics hat and Air Penny’s (way to date myself, right?) and knew I was someone he wanted to get to know. We tentatively felt each other out at first, not willing to “out” ourselves as too different from the herd right away, but eventually we realized that we were kindred spirits and bonded over our outsider status. I wore my black sheep mantle on my sleeve, like a badge of honor, but he came from a more traditional family that was important in the church, so he had to be more covert with it. I think he viewed me as his link to the real world, with which he was afforded little daily contact.
We spent afternoons discussing popular movies, fashion, trends, and music. Always music. Tame stuff like Brittney Spears and the Spice Girls, which were still risqué to his parents. Artists that were more my style, like Tupac and Biggie. I remember teaching him the lyrics to “Hypnotize” and blowing his mind. We talked about No Doubt and Foo Fighters and all the girl groups he was always a fan of. I’m sure neither of us ever uttered the words “it’s Brittney, bitch” inside the church, but it was definitely implied.
This friendship got me through years of this awful weekly ritual and, though Jack probably didn’t know it, helped restore some of my sense of self. Because, despite my tough exterior, I was really a sensitive little punk, and eventually all that side-eyed judgment really got to me. On more than one occasion, the youth pastor preached to the entire high school group some words of advice and admonishment that were clearly intended for me even if they didn’t mention me by name. I remember my cheeks burning in shame just as surely as I remember fuming silently when a different pastor referred to my own Native American ancestors as “demon worshippers” that he had worked with during his time as a missionary on the reservation. He didn’t know that that was my heritage – I look as white as the day is long and reap all the benefits of that – but I was raised to know about my lineage and to be proud of its customs and resistance to white American encroachment. That sermon was effectively the last straw for me. I had endured a lot of personal attacks and questionable beliefs being pushed on me, but the insane level of unfounded cultural superiority was the final nail in the coffin of my attempts to be a Christian.
I had indeed tried to find some way to make it all work, mostly out of respect for my mom and the power of her own belief. She was always my hero, and I desperately wanted to be the person she hoped I would be. But this ordeal was one that helped me realize that I could revere my mom and still be my own person with my own beliefs. And, fortunately for me, she eventually came around to understand and even agree with most of my beefs with Christianity, even if she couldn’t bring herself to abandon them all. What I can say in her defense was that she always supported me in being me, and never encouraged me to change who I was to appease the loonies at that church. That, along with the devil’s music and Jack, was what got me through those torturous Sundays (and often Wednesdays) when I endured the slings and arrows of narrow-minded Christianity. Although, seeing as this was supposed to be a quick write about loving popular music in the context of the church, clearly I still have resentment issues going on. I’ll give them up when they pry them from my cold, dead hands. And I won’t even give them that chance – I intend to be cremated.
