I Don’t Know Why I Remember
Goal: To pinpoint some previously unexplored material that remains “hot” for you in some important emotional way.
I don’t know why I remember standing at the end of my street, waiting for a school bus to take me to a church I had never been to before. Mrs. Anderson, my after-school teacher, had invited me to go that past Wednesday. “We would love to have you. We’ll come pick you up!” I accepted and at 8 AM that sunny and blue Sunday, I stood a short distance from our townhouse’s cement backyard and waited. I was six years old.
That year was a struggle for both my mother and me. Homer Lee Barnes, a rogue cop, murdered my father just two weeks after I turned six. A few months later, I had the mumps so bad that my doctor said it was the worst he had seen. I lay on the sofa for a month as the mumps took over my jaws—first the left side, then the right. As soon as I felt well enough to go outside, a motorcycle crashed into me while I was riding my bike.
I rarely tell the story of when I was six. Even though I’ve been told I have no filter on most subjects, I keep really painful parts of my life private. But when I trust someone enough, words fly out of me with the force of projectile vomit. I always mention that the first time I thought about suicide was waiting for a ride to church on a beautiful, sunny day. During that year, sadness constricted my throat even when I was having a good time with my friends. I thought maybe church would help me. Something inside me knew, (or prayed and hoped), there was something more to all this.
At the church that day, we kids walked single file to the Sunday school room. Brown particleboard tables, wooden chairs, a blackboard with chalk, and other children were present there. All the people were white, but I was used to that. The pastor’s wife handed down pages of a biblical coloring book and we spent the next hour coloring. Afterward, we joined the congregation for the end of the sermon. I said nothing to anyone, and that was the last time I went there.
