Like Norma Rae, but in a Church Choir

                There is a time and a place to be a rebel, of course, truly it only works out in movies or TV.  Where it most certainly does not work out is a Baptist Church in Mississippi. 

                Feeling that life had dealt me an unfair hand, I was on the lookout for instances of unfairness (against me or others) and tried to fight them as best I could.  As I was desperate for acceptance by anyone and everyone, it wasn’t a true fight.  I never came to fisticuffs literally or figuratively; however, I did take a stand against what I thought was wrong and didn’t involve actually protesting or other forms of exercise.

                While in high school, we attended a small, country church on the outskirts of a small, country town, in a small, country (dry) county situated atop the toe of the (work) boot of Louisiana.  There were about 80 people who attended on a regular basis, so you knew just about everything about everyone, including the state of their salvation, which leaned heavily on attendance, and some sort of participation, at church.

                As a rule, I am nice to most people, whether I like them or not, at least at church.  If you’re going to be fake, that’s the best place to start; only God can see into your heart of hearts and He’s not going to tell anyone anything, no matter what those televangelists and snake-handlers say.  God will keep your secrets, y’all.  At least until the End Times, when everything will be shown to everyone on a big screen like those cineplexes with the reserved leather recliners.  You’ll need to be physically comfortable when everyone finally sees the sins you committed in the dark.  Am I right?

                The one person (or at least the one that I am discussing this time) was a man who I shall not name.  I will give you a small hint:  He shares his first and last name with a former Miss America.  Happy hunting, y’all.  Seriously, you will never figure it out, so stop trying.  Even though Evelyn (1954) is sometimes a man’s name in England, I can assure you there is no man in Mississippi that was ever named Vonda (1965), Kaye Lani Rae (1988) or Savvy (2017).

                This particular gentleman was our little church’s Director of Sunday School (or whatever the title may have been, I can’t remember as it was 1989 or so), but was often late to Sunday School, if he and his family came at all.  They had perfect attendance for what is called Big Church or The Worship Service or The Sermon (depending on how old you are).  As someone who was dragged out of bed each and every Sunday morning by the 5’2” inches of Jesus Shining known as my mother, whether I wanted to or not, I found it to be profoundly unfair for someone to be in a position of authority related to our education in the House of the Lord, who didn’t find Sunday School important enough to attend on a consistent basis.

                It irked me to no end and I mentioned it several times to my mother who told me to “Let it go, son” long before Elsa sang that song and created a house with her dramatic gesture.  As I am persnickety on a good day, I just couldn’t do that.  However, I am nothing if not quick on the uptake, so I stopped mentioning it and bided my time.  As the year rolled to a close, we had to elect new officers at our church.  Well, elect is not the correct word as most people were nominated for the same position every year until they declined and no one dared vote against them as that could be viewed as impudent and you must not be impudent with Jesus lest you feel all the wrath of God poured out on your heart that is apparently black with sin, or so we were told each and every Sunday and sometimes Wednesdays. 

Okay, maybe I’m going a little overboard, but Baptists really, really don’t like anyone to make waves; not even ripples that you make when you throw a rock into a puddle.  As we have discussed before, Baptists are under the impression that God is skittish and likes only smooth sailing as we are taught from the time we burst forth into life that one must never be bold in church or be loud in church or have a contrary opinion in church.

Well, I had a contrary opinion and since I was already resigned to being cast into the Lake of Fire because I was gay (closeted, but still), I felt it wouldn’t do much harm to vote my conscience.  When the time came for voting, I was sitting in the choir loft as I was a member of the choir; a Tenor, if that makes any difference.  Everyone would see how I voted, giving maximum visibility to my stance.  I was Reality TV before Reality TV was a thing, y’all.

The Chairman of the Deacons droned through the list of the same people as the year before, repeating the parliamentary phrasing of “All in favor say Aye.  All opposed same sign.  The Ayes have it” and I waited my turn.  When he got to the Sunday School Superintendent or whatever, he said, “All in favor say Aye” and almost everyone said, “Aye” even though I don’t think they realized that is how it is spelled.  When he said, “All opposed, same sign” I said, “Aye!”  A hush fell over the crowd.  Well, they were already hushed but the silence was more silent than before, as everyone froze and the more pious in the audience began to search throughout the Biblical information in their memories, trying to figure out which Commandment I had broken.  My mother, from the front row of the choir loft (she was an Alto) turned and gave me The Look.  My sister tried to give me the same Look as my mother, but I could tell she secretly thought it was funny.   

After what was probably only a few seconds, but seemed like an eternity, Mr. Chairman broke the silence by saying, “The Ayes have it” and giving me a look that must have been his version of The Look, which was inferior to my mother’s I can assure you.  I tried to look appropriately chastised, but my smile betrayed my sinner’s heart. 

It wasn’t much of a rebellion, but it happened in open forum and from that point on I knew I had to be true to myself.  For the first time, I think my family thought it might be in my best interests to finally take the plunge and switch to be a Methodist.  It was our (Baptist) understanding that Methodists could get away with more sin and still get into heaven.  And I truly wanted to ensure my name was on that “Roll Up Yonder.”  I currently attend a non-denominational church; which Baptists figure is a nice way to say I am in a cult.   But to quote Dolly Parton, as Truvie in Steel Magnolias, “God don’t care where you go to church, as long as you show up.” 

And show up I still do almost every Sunday and have for the last 30 years.  I know that needs an Amen, y’all.  All you Baptists on the back row, need to give one up!

Why Would Lionel Richie Want My Frito Pie?

              Now that Fall is back, my thoughts have naturally turned to an activity as much a part of me as the argyle sweater I asked for at Christmas (age 14) and finally, finally (Hallelujah!) received for my 15^th birthday.  That activity is MARCHING BAND, y’all.  I was a big ol’ band nerd from fifth grade through my sophomore year in college.  A trumpeter with a fair amount of talent, I was often chosen to play solos on the field.  I don’t say that to brag, I say that to set up a story about my band experiences that wouldn’t have been as interesting had I simply blended into the formations that changed every two weeks at my small, country high school in the Red River Valley of Texas.

                I had played in concert band for the previous four years but had never participated in marching band as you had to be in high school to do so, at least in that particular school –Rivercrest.  I had no frame of reference for marching bands other than my mother was a clarinet player in the Mississippi College marching band in 1963 and that was the reason she was in Mexico City (for the Fiesta Bowl) when JFK was assassinated.  She never shared any other specifics.  After being a member of the Rivercrest Rebel Marching Band for two years under the tutelage of Claire Jesse, my frame of reference was skewed to something I have still never experienced or even heard about.

                Mrs. Jesse created and taught us a different halftime show every two weeks.  Yes, you read that correctly.  We learned new songs and new marching formations for every home game and the subsequent away game.  We were not required to memorize the music, obviously, as we were taxing our brains to remember the very specific choreography that had to be exact, so the show would work as we only had like 35 members. There’s not a whole lot of designs you can make with that few people, a Blue Moon being one of the ones I remember.  Anything more complex than a circle or square would be interpreted as “People Randomly on a Field…in Big Hats…with Feathers”.  Minimalism doesn’t begin to describe it.  On top of that, we had to learn new songs for the pre-game ceremony at Homecoming.

                One of the upsides of being a talented trumpeter is getting to play a solo.  Trumpets are the coolest people in band, on par with the drum section, if you don’t count the bass drums or cymbals, no offense.  In the Fall of 1984, I was selected to play the solo at the pre-game Homecoming ceremonies.  The song was the timeless tune, Lionel Ritchie’s Truly.  If you’ve never played that melody on a trumpet, let me tell you it isn’t necessarily a difficult piece of music if you were to play it once.  However, repetitious playing can be taxing as there are very high notes which require you to tighten your lips on the mouthpiece to play them properly and I was going to excel at whatever I was doing.  For those who don’t remember, Homecoming 1984 was held on a very wet and extremely muddy football field.  It seemed like it had rained the previous 40 days and nights.  I promise you there were animals lined up in pairs in the parking lot of the football stadium, looking for an ark, people. 

                Cut to me standing in the same spot on the field to the left of the Homecoming Court who were walking very slowly on sunken red carpet, holding the skirts of their Scarlet O’Hara meets Barbie Birthday Cake formal gowns out of the mud, one of them wearing football cleats and another wearing cowboy boots, so as not to get, literally, stuck in the mud.  Because their walk across the field took about four times longer than we had practiced, I was forced to play a beautiful but difficult song four times as many times as I had planned.  It seemed like 64 times, but it was probably somewhere in the neighborhood of 16 times. 

                Anyone who has played a trumpet knows that your lips get tired after playing for a long time and you have to give them a rest.  Don’t say a word; it’s too easy.  I was used to tired lips (again, too easy) but this time when I finished, my lips wouldn’t work at all.  I literally could not form words; I could only make weird sounds. Imagine Charlie Brown’s teachers or a very sad Chewbacca. 

This shouldn’t have been a problem as most people who sat near me in the football stands would have loved to have a break from the wonder that are my stream-of-consciousness conversations, ranging from my unending need for a Frito Pie to my secretly coveting (but outwardly mocking) a certain band member (let’s just call her Jathy Cones) whose mother brought her iced tea in a mason jar. 

One thing I wasn’t aware was happening during my extended remix of a solo was that I was slowly sinking into the mud.  So much so, that when I turned to leave the field, my shoes got stuck and when I jerked my legs to remove them from the muck, my natural athleticism took over and I accidentally pulled both my feet out of my shoes, leaving the double-tied Kaepas peeking out of what was supposed to have been grass but was stock-show level muck, y’all.

As I was on the field, not the sidelines, I had to somehow get my shoes.  I didn’t want us to get a penalty and/or someone to trip over them causing us to lose the game and making me the local preppy non grata.   When I went back to get them, I was forced to get out of the way of my bandmates who were leaving the field behind me in a big hurry, as the pre-game had spilled over into the game time and we were in violation of something; I don’t remember what.  I played football not even half-heartedly (eighth-heartedly, maybe?  I mean I showed up to the games and that counts for something, right?) for two years but remember only that I hated it and every move I made was the wrong move.

One of the more observant cheerleaders saw I was trying to get something off the field and ran over to help (let’s call her Jonna Do Javis) as she was also a very kind person, with a heretofore unknown wicked streak.  She saw my shoes sticking out of the mud and extricated them in the nick of time.  I was thrilled that she had them.  Now I just needed to get them from her.  I smiled and motioned to her in a very subdued manner, like a Baptist sneaking a second helping at a potluck, to get her attention.  She smiled and waved the shoes at me and not in a subdued manner; more like a Pentecostal moved by The Spirit.  I don’t know if I knew where she went to church, but I’m sure in retrospect she had to have been back-slidden because what she did was downright Unchristian.

Jonna Do Javis held my shoes high in the air, like a trophy and walked slowly to the middle of the track surrounding the muddy field directly in front of the Homecoming Court and all the people in the stands.  I know you’re thinking ‘how many people could that possibly be in a tiny town?’  Well, it was Homecoming, so it was literally everyone who lived within a 20-mile radius, except the housebound or the infirm.  This was THE event of the Fall, on par with the Rodeo in the Summer, y’all.  I might as well have posted the video on YouTube.  Football games were the Facebook of the 1980s in the South.  The Dad even went to them and he left the house about as often as the Pope watches Pay-Per-View Wrestling. 

Once she made it to the spot she felt was most advantageous to maximum embarrassment, she wiggled the dirty shoes at me.  I tried to motion her over to keep from being publicly humiliated again (lest we not forget the time I accidentally tackled the opposing football team’s bench, but not any of their players and injured myself but no one else in the process).  I just wanted to go sit down and eat my Frito Pie once my lips started working again.  But no.  Jonna Do was not having it.  She thought it was hilarious to make me walk (muddy) sock-footed to get the shoes from her hands, in full view of the throng and I mean throng, y’all, for real.

If my lips had been working I would have given her the business but alas ‘twas not to be.  And I wasn’t the type to exact revenge on anyone, especially to the person who was the closest we had to Snow White in our school.  She literally had woodland creatures follow her around school.  Or maybe those were just the taxidermized specimens in the biology classroom.  Or maybe I’m misremembering her interrupting my speech on Koala Bears when I brought my stuffed animal as part of my presentation.  When she interrupted, my teacher didn’t stop the timer and she helped me get past the five-minute requirement from Mr. Lum, our teacher, saving my under-prepared butt and keeping my A+ average intact.  I was normally a conscientious student, but the night before the report was due, The Dad came home with a VCR he had bought from the trunk of a guy’s car in the parking lot of The Wal-Mart and somebody (I won’t say who) decided to watch Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles, four or five times.

I can’t believe I had forgotten about that almost-debacle.  Jonna Do, the saintly Disney Princess helped me maintain my academic reputation.  And here I had nursed a (relatively small) grudge all these years.  I apologize Jonna Do.  Mea Culpa.  Mea Culpa, indeed. 

Car Stories 2: Near Death Experiences with Ice Cream

                When I shared about the cars of my youth, I initially shared only those cars which caused embarrassment.  There were other cars both cool and quirky.  Anyone who has driven a used car (clunker or otherwise) knows that each mile you drive is a borrowed mile and eventually your car just stops working, unable to be resuscitated even by the most talented of shade tree mechanics. 

                Based on the slight uptick in the quality of the cars once we moved to Paris (in Texas, which I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you, but I guess you’re just not paying enough attention) the management of a motel seemed to be a reasonably consistent money-maker.  Whether acute embarrassment, engine failure or the incongruity of owning an Estate Wagon without said Estate around which to drive it, was the cause of us relinquishing ownership of the previously mentioned behemoth of a ’76 Caprice Classic, we quickly shifted gears and found ourselves the operators of a 1983 Mazda GLC Hatchback!

 It was red and very, very cool and had custom speakers that were encased inside little black wooden boxes that sat in the back window and would be flung into the back of the head of anyone sitting in the back seat if the hatch were opened or the brakes were slammed, or the car swerved suddenly.  You wouldn’t think these events would happen very often, but you would be wrong, especially the swerving.  My sister is not one to brake when necessary, she simply changes her route around the slowing object without reducing her speed, whether the new terrain is paved or not.

One of the things that my parents never knew was how dangerously this particular car was operated on the 60-mile round trip from Paris proper to the boons of Bogata to the 1A Rivercrest High School.  My sister, unlike me, was not a conscientious student and was prone to leave things like homework, book reports, and the like until the last minute, leaving her scrambling most every day.  Honor student that I have always been (sarcastic comments that I often made from the back row of my classes notwithstanding) I was never unprepared for each school day.  Other than monumentally impressive Farrah-hair that could withstand hurricane force winds, my sister was typically unprepared for most school days, especially book reports.

A fan of romance novels and Gone with the Wind, my sister was a voracious reader but only of the topics she chose.  Unfortunately for her, LaVyrle Spencer and Debbie Macomber were never part of the English curriculum of public schools in Texas.  This left my sister to either threaten or cajole me to read the book and write the report for her or read the book under duress and procrastinate on the writing of the book report in the hopes that some tragedy would befall our community and the school would be forced to close on that particular day.  Mind you, she didn’t actually pray for anyone to be hurt in order for her to avoid writing the report, but she was willing to deal with the psychological situation should someone’s sacrifice be required.

On those days, when the morning news did not carry any word on the destruction of the school, she would maneuver the car from within the parking lot of our home (at the motel) all the way to the outskirts of town, paying as much attention as one can when rocking out to Tears for Fears or (King) George Strait, with earrings large enough to serve up some chips and salsa, y’all.   

Once we hit the city limits and the traffic on Highway 271 reduced considerably, she would turn over the steering to me, while she wrote the book report in her notebook propped on the steering wheel.  Note that I didn’t mention that we had changed seats…because we had not.  I’ll let that sink in for a minute. 

Oh yes, dear readers, I steered from the passenger side of a little red hatchback while my sister wrote a book report in a notebook propped on the steering wheel of her car, speeding up and slowing down at my directions, including passing “pawpaws and mawmaws” and the occasional tractor, who committed the sin of enjoying their leisurely morning drive.  Where they were going is beyond me.  Didn’t they have chickens to feed or cows to milk? 

And that wasn’t the only thing that happened in that particular car that was nerve-wracking.  One time, on the way home from an away game during football season (we were both in band; I, a way-cool trumpet player, she the Captain of the flag corps), somewhere in the neighborhood of 11:00 pm, we ran out of gas before we made it home.  In those days, in that geographic area, there was no 24-hour anything, so finding late night petrol was an exercise in futility.  When we assessed our situation, stranded on an empty highway right in front of a cemetery, actually Meadowbrook Memorial Park as I believe it was called, with no cell phone and no inclination to walk the distance remaining to our home, we decided to sleep in the car until our parents and the search party they would have formed could find us. 

Mind you I got no sleep as I was awaiting death via stylized zombie dancing as Michael Jackson’s Thriller had invaded our world and embedded fear in anyone’s brain who had MTV.  We lived in a real town and, therefore, had cable.  We didn’t have to pay the rich guy in town to “steal” his satellite service like some people who shall remain unnamed. 

I had just closed my eyes, pretending to sleep after Shontyl had mocked my fear of an impending, albeit rhythmic, attack, when someone knocked on the window of the car.  We both screamed as loud as Drew Barrymore the first time she saw E.T.   The screams turned to joy, when we realized the face belonged to TJ, one of the residents of the motel who happened to be on her way home from a night of doing whatever you do when you are out late and smell of alcohol.  What?  I was Baptist and 13, my idea of nefarious nocturnal activities involved the secretive eating of pilfered food or trying to watch MTV after bedtime.  I made Mother Teresa seem like a wanton hussy, y’all.  Seriously.

On another occasion, we were tailgating an 18-wheeler (because that’s what yu do when your main goal in piloting a vehicle is to be “in the front”) and when he stopped suddenly, we almost hit him and Shontyl had to veer off the highway and into the grassy ditch.  Never one to allow a change of terrain to keep her from her goal of being “in the front”, she didn’t apply the brakes, even when we saw what appeared to be a six-foot long metal cylinder of acetylene.  As the offspring of a welder, we could identify these things quickly.  When it became clear we would hit it, my immediate thought was “I can’t die!  I’ve never met Madonna!”

Before you start rolling your eyes, remember this was 1986 and Madonna was white hot, people.  White hot!  And don’t act like you didn’t like her.  I didn’t single-handedly make her famous.  There were plenty of other people Material-girling across America.  I felt as strongly about Madonna as I did about my chances of being selected to appear on The Real World, Season 2, back in the early 90s.  Apparently my DUSTY:  THE BOXED SET wasn’t as clever (or desperate) as I thought.  Thank the Lord for small favors, y’all.  If I had ever been on TV I would be unemployable. Just sayin’.

Luckily the “acetylene tank” was actually one of those really long punching bags from a gym and we hit it, rolled right over it, got back on the road in front of the 18-wheeler and headed right on our way home.  Of course, we had to stop at Braum’s for a treat.  Nothing takes the edge off almost dying like chicken-fried steak sandwich with a two-scoop sundae on the side.  You wouldn’t think almost dying in a car was a frequent event, but you would be wrong.  I’m not saying going to Braum’s after every vehicular near-miss was the main reason I was chubby during my time at Rivercrest but it’s as good an excuse as anything else.  Am I right?