A NEW CROP OF BIGOTS

A blog on this gay marriage thing coming soon.  This will tell the tale of where I stand for now

Born Unplugged Pt. 3

(Click here for PART 2)

Ever since my old man kicked off, the one thing that picks at my brain is the question of whether or not he was an atheist.  I doubt he knew what the word meant, but he was never one to prattle on about god or how great he was or how thankful we should be.  The main thing that leads me to think he was a non-believer was the fact that he never went to church when everyone else in the house was required to go.  Even at a young age I knew my dad hated church for almost the same reasons I did: It was a waste of a Sunday and furthermore, a waste of financial resources.  I always wondered why he got to stay home.  Because he worked and needed rest? But it was church; he had to go, right? In any case, that was one of my main issues about these Sunday outings.  Why was it ok for him to stay home? Why wasn’t it ok for me? Why was it that he and I were the only ones that understood how this was sucking away our money, our time together, and causing so much static in the home?

It wasn’t until sometime last year, while my father was bedridden with a stroke; he and my mom had a pretty heated argument where the exchange was something along the lines of my father saying he would go to heaven when he died and she said “you ain’t goin' ta heaven 'cause ya don’t believe!”  I could tell by the way he got quiet, that had hurt him.  But it struck a nerve in me as well.  Like all interactions that parents have in front of their children, this one left its mark. Even at the age of thirty their arguing was a cause of agonizing emotional stress and those words just burrowed into my brain and stayed there right up until he died.  At this juncture of my life where I’ve recently become open about my atheism, I have spent the past few months wondering who else in my family believes as I do.  How many are positive that all the screaming and shouting and sheer guilt that they have to listen to every week is 100% bullshit. How many of them are either too uneducated or too ashamed to admit that they don’t know what the answers are, but those answers aren’t in the big pretty building, the preacher, or the book?  Do I have the balls ask? Again, this is perhaps the one question I regret not asking my father. I’m just happy I was able to answer the question for myself.

--R. S.

Shock and Awe: A Former Christian Ponders the Cosmos (HD)

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Born Unplugged Pt.2

(Click here for PART 1)

I used to think they called Sunday because it was, well, the sun.  On those Sundays where it was so sunny and I was forced into my Sunday suit it was especially hot.  Did it bother the congregation?  Nope, they stood in that heat outside that pinkish-beige stone church conversing and gossiping. It almost exclusively women and kids (maybe exclusive is the wrong word) with a few men sprinkled about, everyone with their fly suits, fancy dresses and big-as hats.  And did I mention their happy face; that false grin that black folks are so good at?  The kind that comes attached to phrases like “The lawd woke me up today.” The kind that developed during slavery as a kind of coping mechanism for really fucked up situations (that’s my take on it anyway). 

Church had always been a weird environment for me; it’s like Showtime at the Apollo and Dance Dance Revolution got together and had a baby.  The service would begin by marching through the door to mind-numbingly repetitive songs about suffering and weakness, songs that extoll how unworthy we humans are and how we would be nothing if not for clutching to these myths.  Another 20 to 30 minutes of chatter from the church officers, another jesus song, maybe two, and then the preacher would come up for the main sermon.  The whole time the children were made to sit down and shut up, especially the ones who thought to ask why or how? Or what does it mean?  Each time they were told in one way or another listen to the preacher, while adults and the elderly applauded the discourse from the pulpit with utterances of “Amen”, “That’s right”, or “Jesus” and so on.

About an hour later there would be another song, followed by the main or key sermon.  Eventually the tension and the drama of the minister’s voice would build until he began yelling and snorting like a wild hog (anyone who’s ever been to a black church, even once, know exactly what I’m talking about here).  I remember asking “Why doesn’t someone call an ambulance or at least have a doctor on here”, and my mother would say, “That’s just the preacher gittin’ the holy ghos’”.  All of the singing and yelling and praising would usually lead up to what I can only describe as a mass psychotic breakdown. The congregation would go into these fits; from jumping from their seats and convulsing to doing variations on a simple two-step.  I remember watching this chaos and thinking “They think this is a good thing?!” It wasn’t until I was older that I realized the cultural aspect behind what they called “shouting.”

(To be continued…)

Best Christopher Hitchens quotes

Born Unplugged Pt. 1

The few people that know I'm an atheist rarely bring it up. I like to think it’s because they know me and that my words and actions speak far greater volumes than whether or not I buy into a fairytale.  To be honest I hate talking about religion and when it comes up I tend to avoid it like a pro athlete dodging child support, either changing the subject or simply remaining silent, allowing  friends and family to indulge in their fancies and wish-thinking until the conversation moves on (or I do).  I decided to start up this blog for two reasons, the most practical being to inform anyone who cares to ask, and secondly, because these writings are my own meditation on where I stand.  This is the first time I have actually taken the time to think on this and put forth an effort to put it into words.

So why am I an atheist? How did I come to this point? No matter how the question is posed it is never a simple answer, but a long, partially biographical one.  I say partial because non-belief was never really that big a deal to me.  I always saw it as a matter of preference, like how lots of folks like ice cream; you have some like chocolate,  some like vanilla, other people who like other flavors and those who don’t like ice cream at all.  I finally realized there’s no easy answer to this question, and for some, no acceptable one.  So I’ll just have to tell this story as clearly as I possibly can and keep it moving. 

I remember being about 5 or 6 years old and my mother would read a children’s bible story book to me before bed.  It had all the classic tales, Adam and Eve, Moses, Jesus, yadda yadda yadda and even when she tried to transition me to the actual bible, these stories never came across as anything more than a bunch of long, boring narratives with no relevance to the world around me.  They never even had the basic elements, no thrills or frights, no hero’s journey.  Just a few bits that told us to be good, and being rather vague as to what happens when we’re not. Not even a happy ending. 

My mother used to take me to church at every given opportunity (and for the record, let’s not mistake the word take for an indication of my willingness).  She and my sisters would get up so early and after breakfast begin taking hot combs and curling irons to their hair amidst the squawking of the TV, the radio, and their own voices.  So much joy was taken in getting dolled up for their weekly fashion show  and with my father either working some manic weekend shift, or catching up on his sleep as a result of said shift, I was forced into a penguin suit and shuffled off Paterson, New Jersey’s “Highway Church of Christ” (My first bit of cognitive dissonance was that the building was not located anywhere on or even near a highway) where I would watch grown men and women playing dress up and partake in what I can describe as a weekly study in the application of  boredom….and hysteria .

(To be continued…)