It’s been a couple of weeks since I introduced my upcoming What I Believe And Why series. In that time I’ve been pretty busy with midterms, but, beyond that, have been spending a lot of time thinking about all of this so I can articulate things well. In this portion, I will be discussing my exposure to and interaction with religion in my early childhood, as well as major life events that have shaped who I am today. The format will be similar for parts two through four, and each post will likely have progressively more explicit views on religion, coinciding with my own awareness of my spirituality, culminating in the final “What I Believe” article which will address anything I might not have gotten an opportunity to address.

I was born a poor black child. (Whenever I start a sentence, “I was born…” I can’t help but finish it off with that quote from The Jerk. Apologies. haha) I was born in Orlando, Florida. My earliest memories of church and Christianity are instantly associated with my maternal grandparents. Who knows how old I am in these memories. I had to be younger than 6, though, because they include my grandfather. I remember spending at least one day a week at my grandparents while my mom and dad were at work. On these days, we would often spend time playing card games or other board games, but there was also a substantial amount of time spent reading and telling Bible stories. It was with my grandparents that I also attended “Awana” nights, which was basically another Sunday school during the week for elementary aged kids. Needless to say, I accepted Christ into my heart at an early age. No questions were asked because it was obvious — I loved and trusted my grandparents, and so if this was something that was important to them, it was important to me as well.

My dad never went to church, except on a couple of Easters and when my sister was dedicated. I always found this odd, and I might have even asked my dad about it. But I don’t recall his answer. I think I just thought that he liked sleeping in on the weekends after a long week at work. But, I do remember observing how uncomfortable he looked and acted sitting in the pew on the Sundays that he did come.

My grandfather died when I was 6, I believe. I remember that day well. I prided myself on not crying. I remember the lead up, I remember being told that he was sick and I remember being taught about death. But to say I understood it would be entirely false. Two things strike me more than anything else about that day. The first was my dad. It was the first time I saw him cry. His face was beet red and he could hardly speak. This was about when I probably decided I wasn’t going to cry. Probably because it looked like what dad was dealing with was painful. But that despair and sadness was contrasted by my grandmother, sitting in her rocking chair in that crowded house of my family and grandpa’s friends, with a soft smile on her face. I asked her why she wasn’t crying like everybody else and her response was simple, “Because he’s in a better place and isn’t in pain anymore.” I nodded and held her hand.

We moved to Seattle later that year or the year after. During the first year we were in Seattle, my mom and I did not attend church. Over the past several years, however, my mother had been handing me a series of books on sex — they built up from basic “when a mommy and daddy love each other very much…” to the real explanation of what happens to girls and boys when they hit puberty and what sex really is. That year was also the first time I heard people my age use the dreaded “f-word” at school. I remember becoming friends with a fifth grader and we made sexual jokes all the time that I would later feel extremely guilty for, and to some extent still do, even though it’s really nothing to be ashamed of … it’s just part of growing up.

But, towards the end of third grade, we moved to a house in the suburbs and in fourth grade I started school there and mom and I started going to church again. The order of events between the end of third grade and fifth grade become shaky. I do know that I went to several Vacation Bible Schools and fervently gave my life to Christ at each of them. I also know that at some point in my third grade class we were talking about evolution and watched documentaries on all the fossil records that prove this theory. I remember a Creationist came to church one day and I stood up (as an 8 year old, mind you) and challenged the man about the fossil records and the changes they show. He dismissed them by some train of logic I couldn’t follow. I remember going with my mom to look at a few Christian private schools. I was worried about not being taught real science, I remember because I asked my mom, “why does 7 days have to mean 7 literal days? why can’t they be just like…you know…a metaphor? why can’t evolution have occurred in those periods? why would god leave us all this evidence if it weren’t true?” I remember deciding that I wanted to be baptized.

In fifth grade, however, I witnessed the birth of my youngest sister firsthand, and by the end of that year my dad had left to live somewhere else. I remember before it happened, dad told me that mom was making him choose that night between being friends with this lady from work. The implication was that mom didn’t like dad being friends with her and was cruelly making him choose. I was angry and sided with my dad momentarily and waited outside the door of their room for several hours that night, trying to hear their conversation. He left that week and was gone for about a year.