cinderfloof
Official Queen of Trash
Peppermint
My earliest memories were spent in a small, stuffy church house amongst Christian southerners. Uncomfortable frills and peppermint candies provided the linings of my childhood, just as it did my parents and their parents before them. It was simply a matter of tradition. Perhaps, too much tradition. It was the sort of church where pants made you promiscuous, the term bastard' mattered, and proclaiming yourself gay or a scientist was on par becoming a satanic priest. I, unfortunately, fell into the category of all four. I asked too many questions and spoke a bit too often, earning me the apparent distaste of the holy.
It wasn't like any child actually enjoyed being there. The services were four hours long and our only comfort was an oak bench, made doubly as grueling with the tulle from our dresses. Most had no idea what the pastor was speaking of and didn't truly care either. Peppermints served as pacifiers. Bad children had one stuffed into their mouths at all times, while the good could last a whole service with only one. They'd focus on the sharpness and stare off into nowhere. I couldn't manage such easy distraction. Much of what the pastor spoke didn't match with how I understood the world. Where did science and religion become interchangeable? The other children sucked on their peppermint, while I chewed them whole.
My questions were entertaining for a while. They saw it as simply curiosity, a devilish trait but one to be expected from someone young living in today's time. Then, it turned for the worst. A member of the church had been convicted of one of the most terrible sins, loving another man. The ensuing service was cold and stiff, even more than usual. Everyone lined up perfectly spaced and still, as quiet as emptiness. Each child received five peppermints to keep them distracted for the entire speech. I feared what that would mean. The guilty sat in the front of our church house twiddling his fingers and looking down, eyes filled with something far more painful than I could imagine. He was losing his family. He'd grown up within those walls. When our pastor finally began to speak, nothing but hatred spilled from his mouth. I grew equal parts horrified and confused. We were supposed to be like god. He would never call a group of people unworthy of basic human rights. This wasn't correct. Our culprit looked near tears. Impulsively, I shot a small hand up to catch his attention. My grandmother rushed to knock it down or tempt me with another candy, but it was too late. Our preacher reluctantly called me out. His glare made one thing clear, asking a question now would have heavy consequence later. I frankly couldn't bring myself to care.
"Why not let people love who they want to love? It's not hurting you."
I never got my answer. Quickly they rushed me outside and my family promptly left. My mother and grandmother chastise me even now, but my father had a different response. He congratulated me for honesty. Today we don't speak of the experience. I've never gone back to church, and neither has he, but we always make a point to chew our peppermint.
