I won?t pretend this will be as interesting as Little Toe?s or any of the other stories?this is just mine. I?ve told it in bits and pieces over the last year, with and without a few self-aggrandizing embellishments?so here goes:
Prelude: Badger Meets World
Birth (n): The first and direst of all human tragedies --Ambrose Beirce, The Devil?s Dictionary
March 30, 1973?A day that will live in infamy.
Me, the Badger, 6 pounds, 7 ounces, Stillwater, OK at 2:10 a.m.
I don?t remember a thing from years 0-3. For some reason, my first real memory was my fourth birthday. What?s more, I remember on THAT day having no idea what transpired in my life before it. I was told I was happy and mercurial, and bright.
Lord, was I bright. Too bright for my own good. Getting a 156 IQ at age 4 makes you a basket case, or, in a college town, a test case. Mom moved from town to town while I learned to read at a 6 th -grade level in second grade. I was playing soccer and had gotten a request to try out for a select team. It was starting well for a mere 4 th -grader, whose only fault was being bored senseless in school and becoming a budding geek.
I mention this because this would be a long source of friction among the witnesses for a long time. Under any other parent, no matter how patrician, suburban, inner city, rural or whatever, would have me prepping for college.
Then I made a mistake?I moved in with my dad. In the interests of fairness, I wanted to spend some time with him. But, unfortunately, he and his new wife had started to study.
Act I: Badger in the org.
If God had wanted us to spend our lives in church, he would have made our asses bigger and our brains smaller. ? P.J. O?Rourke
The hope that The Troof puts out sounds great. Think about it. It seems ludicrous now, yes, but the final pitch is unbelieveable. Live forever. In a garden. No war, crime, violence. You?ll be healthy and content. You?ll have everything you need and want, and you won?t want much because materialistic competition is a thing of the past. All those wild animals that either run off or eat you on sight will be as tame as house cats. Won?t get sick, won?t die. You?ll find your soul mate, have enjoyable work, and talk to all the great dead of the past: David, Alexander, Newton, Shakespeare, Jefferson, King, Ghandi, Marilyn. Screw harps and clouds?THAT sounded like heaven, especially to a 9-year-old.
So, great, in fact, that you ignore everything you have to put up with.
I did. First in small doses. ?You can?t play soccer, Badger?When will you go out in service??
I promised to go to Bethel when I was old enough, because that?s what my father kept pitching to me as the great hope for me. ?If I was a young man in your position, that?s what I would do,? he?d often say.
Even then, it wasn?t. I wanted to be a writer, chef or teacher. Anytime I brought up how much fun that would be, I was shouted down and intimidated. Any hobby I took part in was ridiculed, dismissed or just flat not allowed. ?You need to think about it,? I would be told if I ever took up any activity or plan that wasn?t in lockstep with what my parents wanted. Needless to say, taking their thoughts at face value wasn?t wise.
With such a lack of encouragement, not surprisingly I never was productive and looked forward to see my mother for the odd weekends. I loved school, but cared little about effort. I wanted to make friends in the congregation, but I ?knew too much?. I wanted friends at school (the kind who would appreciate me), but they were ?bad associations,? painted with a broad brush. I developed crushes on several, but never had the guts to do anything about it, for fear of bringing down the whole congregation on me. Summers were spent doing nothing?literally. I was cut off from contact from everyone while both of my parents worked and left me at home to do nothing at all. They did not give me a list of chores, but expected me to ?Come up with something useful.? I was chewed out royally if they returned to nothing done. Thus, I began to get petrified every time their car come down the driveway. Some life for ?a young person with so much potential??denied wishes, wasted chances, fear-filled days.
And all of this was possible because of the stifling and fascist environment encouraged by the organization. Don?t question your parents?if you do, you?ll die at Armageddon and have a miserable life until then. Disfellowshipped people were always portrayed a miserable losers and drug addicts (true, in my congregation, they often were, but that also had to do a bit with the surroundings of the area?I also went to school with a lot of people who wound up being meth-head screwups, without ever having been witnesses).
In light of all of this, I also forgave any abuse and bought all of their pleas for understanding. It was an endless cycle with my stepmother. I would mess up on something minor (not rinsing out a can before throwing it away or locking myself out of the house), which would lead to a half hour of screaming and beating, then two weeks of perfect behavior to get back in her good graces?until, that is, the inevitable error would start it all over again.
This was the first doubt planted about the witnesses?not so much the portrayal of a happy, blissful family life among all their members hiding abusive parents ? I had expected hypocrisy from most institutions ? but rather the whole concept of eternity. When comparing to Jehovah?s exacting standards to that of my stepmother, I knew that any hope I had for a paradise would be blown by me in a matter months, no matter how hard I tried.
I can?t join a school play, but my parents can shell me with all forms of abuse? I loathed double standards from that point as well.
I kept yearning for the most simple of worldly goals?a normal job. College. A month off from service. A career. I joined the academic team (quiz bowl, in some locales). I got to hang out with normal youths and talk about, well, all sorts of crap and be the part of a group I was having a grand time, thinking that I was really living on the edge. I had no clue that this was actually NORMAL to want to do.
Then, one meeting, an elder gave a talk that discouraged ANY extracurricular activities. It was pointed at me, since I was the only one in the congo in such a beast (In fact, being in school made me uncommon; Out of the 12 people at or near my age, I was only one of three to graduate high school). So, my father and stepmother, based on the comment of an out-of-work handyman who had five children, three disfellowshipped, took away my main reason for looking forward to Tuesdays.
I did manage to buck the trend in school just once, and it would later be a lifesaver?I took the SAT and the ACT tests out of my own pocket. My father was pissed, but I said I wanted to keep my options open. I scored a 1390 and 32, respectively. But then, I was given a offer I couldn?t refuse.
(to be continued?sorry)