My biological parents were raised religious. My father’s family was good ol’ Irish Catholics. My mother’s family was stereotypical English Protestants – Presbyterians to be exact. And the kind of Presbyterians where the particular strain mattered. Apparently there were “good” Presbyterians and “bad” Presbyterians. Bad meaning way more liberal.
I remember visiting my mother’s father’s church. The kind where I better wear pantyhose and even a slip. That’s what I remember being so important. Make sure you’re dressed up and polite. Look the part.
There was a choir. And my grandfather had something to do with counting the monetary donations.
My father’s father died before I was born. But his mother was very religious. And I always remember it being a thing. We weren’t good enough with either side. Not Presbyterian enough. And not Catholic enough. Always a point of contention. As long as I can remember. The fact that my parents were married at all meant someone was always disappointed in us. The story goes that my grandfather wouldn’t give my father his blessing to marry my mother unless he converted. Just say the magic words and suddenly you’re a good candidate for marriage because you switched up your religious allegiance.
If only all it took were magic words.
Suffice to say from the start my parents were oil and water. In more ways than one.
But somewhere along the line they ended up in the Baptist denomination. That I remember well. I was being prayed for before I ever left the womb. A baby book proved it – what sounded like little ol’ church ladies saying prayers for me before I was even born. That’s how early my indoctrination goes back. I can’t ever remember a time where I didn’t know of God. And also consider myself Christian.
Even before my father led me through the “sinner’s prayer” in urgency one day while we lived in Germany. In my heart I already knew I belonged. But here was an authoritative adult very seriously sitting me down in front of other people. And telling me that I’d go to hell if I didn’t make a confession of allegiance to God the formal way. Okay, nothing lost – fine. I did it. Then some Sunday went and got dunked in front of everyone in a tub. Baptized. No sweat off my brow. I meant it for sure. But deep down I knew all the confessions and baptisms were performative. I inherently knew that what mattered was what was in your heart. And your actions.
If only I remembered the rest of my life.
I think we were part of what people refer to at least now as fundamentalists. Maybe fundamentalist Baptists to be more specific. All I know is there were endless rules and fear.
Somehow my parents ended up in Lynchburg Virginia – where I was born. I remember hearing the name Jerry Falwell. I remember hearing the name Lester Roloff. I was so young that I don’t remember specifics. But when people talk about the Bill Gothard and the Institute of Basic Life Principles, I can relate to almost everything they say. My mother homeschooled me on the A Beka curriculum and the tenets of our faith were drilled into me all day every day from the time I can remember.
The Bible was considered the literal Word of God. And as such, it was perfect. Or as they referred to it: inerrant. It was the authority
I remember being put into a church school when I was really little. Like probably before first grade. In the United States. Some kind of school where I had to wear a uniform to school. A little white blouse with a blue romper-esque dress over top. I think I had to wear little socks and saddleback shoes. My hair in barrettes.
I hated going to that school. Because my mother just dropped me off one day and I didn’t know anyone. I was so little. I was scared to death. I know it was the times back then so I don’t blame my mother. But these days that thought horrifies me. Just dropping my child off with complete strangers. For hours. I mean maybe she knew them, but I certainly didn’t. I just remember being terrified. Sucking my fingers and just hoping to hide. Counting down the minutes that I had to be there.
This has always been a problem for me. No roots. None. What little I had was taken from me. Always the new kid. Always trying to figure out what is going on. Always trying to figure out where I fit in.
Just because people say they are Christians, does not mean they are vetted enough to just trust your very small children with. Not in an ideal community. An ideal life.
I was born in Virginia. My parents took me to Corpus Christi, Texas. And then at some point my dad, probably pressured by my mother – in order to provide more money and financial stability, joined the Army. And somehow we ended up near Boston. That’s where my brother was born. I think before he was born my mother, my father, and I took a trip to New York City to visit my mother’s aunt. She was or had been a missionary to Ethiopia. Quite a long way and very far removed from the United States back then compared to now. Quite the “accomplishment”. At least in my book.
Sarah Nyhan 
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