I Got (Sorta) Kidnapped Once

            I remember most everything.  I can describe in detail events from my childhood and teens, college and graduate school.  I can give you details such as who was there, what they said, even what they wore.  I remember minutiae that most people overlook or have long forgotten. 

            My junior year in college, I was working the front desk of the men’s dorm, Fraser Hall, at Mississippi University for Women and received a phone call from a friend of mine named Marcy.  Marcy told me there was a young lady, I truly can’t remember her name, who had supposedly met me at a party and wanted to go on a date.  I asked her to repeat the name and coming up blank, asked her to describe her.  When I still couldn’t remember, I asked which party (off-campus fraternity party), location (the home of my fraternity little brother’s biological big sister) and day of the week (Saturday) as there were many parties to attend in my very active social life.  Still, nothing.

Despite the fact that I was stone-cold sober at all frat parties (I was never one to drink anything stronger than Mello Yello), I was unable to recall this person in any detail.  However, as I was single, I was happy to accept this dating invitation by proxy.

On the night of the date, I was asked to pick up this young lady at her home.  When she opened the door, I had literally no recollection of having seen this person at any point in my life.  She wasn’t even someone I vaguely remembered as a peripheral person in one of my classes on campus.  I said 'Hello' with as much familiarity as is possible when talking to a total stranger.  I then met said stranger’s parents.

Not wanting the night to be awkward, I never mentioned that I had no idea who she was, but she apparently knew me in some detail.  She knew my fraternity, friends, activities, hang-outs, etc.  It was so flattering that I didn’t question the level of staler-esque detail she had about your dear narrator.  The date was as enjoyable as one can be between complete strangers and I took her home after dinner and a movie.  I don’t remember which one.  Sleeping with the Enemy, perhaps?

I didn’t call her after that as the date was weird and awkward.  As far as I was concerned, we were done as a couple.  About three days later, she called me and wanted to stop by the dorm to give me a surprise.  I was cautious but curious as she had mentioned homemade cookies.   

I met her in front of the dorm, where she invited me into her car to get the cookies.  Naively, I got into the car.  I mean, there were homemade cookies.  My stomach is stupidly trusting, y’all.    

So, yeah, she kidnapped me. 

I mean, I got away, but it was still weird. 

Oh, and the cookies were yummy.

Yes, I ate them.

What?  It was free cookies.

I have always had my priorities straight.  Just saying.

God, and Queen, may be skittish

               I grew up a Southern Baptist and an unabashed Anglophile.  These may sound like mutually exclusive interests but as I’ve been watching Season 2 of both The Crown and Victoria, I realized there are many commonalities amongst Baptists (in church) and British (in the Peerage), the most interesting being the apparent belief that God and royalty (be they King, Queen, Prince, Princess) are on edge and, therefore, one must not make sudden moves or appear to enjoy oneself in their house and/or presence.

                Southern Baptists, at least those of my youth and young adulthood, show no demonstrable joy while inside the church; no clapping, no movement other than mouths to sing, no hands lifted.  It felt somewhat somber, but more formal, as you are required to wear dark clothes, remember obscure rules concerning proper conduct and always nervous to have a misstep, as it could result in unbelievable and often creative punishments.  Not unlike being in a judicial court, except you had no lawyer in church unless you count the preacher as a sort of intermediary; an intercessor, if you will. 

Of course, Baptists believe we can talk to Jesus directly should we desire.  To be honest, I was always afraid I’d misspeak and the “Angry God” (introduced by British Colonial Theologian, Jonathan Edwards) would smite me.  At least Catholics are lucky enough to have the Mama of Jesus to request an intervention or whatever was deemed necessary.  As a note: Baptists are fond of, but do not pray to, Mary.   

Comedian Eddie Izzard is famous for talking about the Anglican Church, or the Church of England; a denomination created by Henry VIII, so he could divorce and marry another of the women unfortunate enough to have wandered into his orbit; an inauspicious origin to a church where Queen Elizabeth II is the head and the American arm (Episcopalians) are typically the well-to-do in the cities and towns where they congregate.   That is to say, it's a pretty sketchy start to a very fancy group.

In his routine, Mr. Izzard talks about the marked lack of happiness when singing songs of faith and miracles and hope.  Now, Southern Baptists aren’t mournful in church.  They are more reserved than anything else, especially when it comes to the practice of clapping.  Old Guard Southern Baptists do not clap at any point during the worship service, unless there are children who are singing in a special performance.  They, and only they, receive applause, and even then it is restrained to the point that the allotted “Amen” from the Chairman of the Deacons, could easily drown it out, depending on whether or not the battery in his hearing aid is working. 

Even though I have been singing in church pretty much since I broke forth into this world, I never received applause after a performance, between the ages of seven and twenty-nine.  The first time, as an adult, that people clapped after I sang, it caught me off-guard and I will admit that I flinched and looked confused; skittish, I suppose, if you had to assign a word.

When I was in high school, we attended a very small church outside a very small town in Mississippi.  There were 50-60 attendees on a regular Sunday, as many as 80 if there was a dinner on the grounds afterwards.  The youth group was small (my sister and two cousins comprising a good 40%) and the activities were few and far between.  I was resigned to this fate as we lived only a few miles from the church itself.  However, by my senior year, we had moved into town and lived only three blocks from the very large and very active First Baptist Church.

There were so many activities and so many young people in their youth group that I desperately wanted to be a part.  When I spoke to my mother about a trial run at the new church, if not for the whole family, at least maybe for me, I was told in no uncertain terms, “We are not shopping for a new church.”

                I responded, “But our church is boring…and small.  First Baptist is much more fun.”

                “We don’t go to church to have fun,” she replied in a very British way, except with a Southern accent, like if Queen Elizabeth had graduated from Ole Miss.  She couldn’t have sounded more Anglican if she had added, “It’s just not what we do; it's not who we are.”

                I attended my sister’s little Baptist Church in Texas over Christmas and I must tell you, the sense of déjà vu was strong.  The floor plan was so similar that I was able to find the restrooms without assistance, and even though I found a used adult diaper lying in the middle of the floor of the men’s room, which I then had to dispose of lest someone think it was mine, it didn’t dampen the nostalgia. 

                While I prefer the TV-version of Anglican services (morning coats, fascinators, the random minor royal), I did enjoy the comfortable familiarity of a Baptist service, with the men and boys wearing starched jeans, the women in their turquoise jewelry and outfits from Dillard’s and little girls with bows as big, if not bigger, than their heads.  Of course, the only difference between me as a teen and me as an adult was the fact that I was wearing plaid pants and sitting between my sister and my Filipino boyfriend.  As there were no strange looks or sharp intakes of breath when we entered, my guess is they assumed he was a foreign exchange student.

                And, true to form, we didn’t clap at any time during the Christmas service.  No need to startle Jesus on His birthday, I suppose.