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I sat in church on some nameless Sunday, next to my grandmother, hands folded neatly in my lap. My hair had been crimped and curled and flattened three times over. The choir was a disaster: eleven elderly men and women with creaky, groaning voices, barely able to belt out a tune. They fumbled over the words to the songs and could never seem to find the beat. We arrived late, as we always did when father dropped us off and, of course, grandmother was upset. She sighed, embarassed as she slid slowly into her seat as the other parishioners smiled, delighted to see the punctual Marian B***** seven minutes late for service. My mother and father had had an argument that morning, so they decided not to come along with us, so I, the sole agnostic of our family, was left to sit alone with my grandmother.
The preacher was boring and silly. He only stated the obvious and always had a stupid little smirk on his face. Little white globs of his spit and sweat gathered in the corners of his mouth. I couldn't stand to look at him. My eyes wandered over to the pews. It was a sad sight, actually. There were no more than six people in a pew, every other row. The balcony was empty. Almost all of the parishioners were over seventy and they wore grand, conspicious hats that matched their grand, conspicious outfits. They did not speak quietly amongst themselves, they did not yell "Amen" or "Thank the Lord", nor did they get the Holy Ghost. Nope, no dancing in the aisles for these fine men and women. They had too much class. Every now and then, a baby would wail.
I rose when I was told, I sang when I was told. "How wonderful are Your ways, almighty God. How marvelous is your name, O Holy One." Please. I almost choked on my tongue. Lucky for me, the day that I had to go to church was the one day of the entire year that the Presbyterians gave Communion. Saltine crackers and grape juice. And, oh, how it burned as it went down.
After service, my dear grandmother, fragile and nearly senile, placed a death grip on me, cutting off my circulation, and began to parade me around the church (can you see me, carrying my cross, covered in blood and sweat, entertainment for the screaming masses?). She introduced me to the people that I have met a million times before in a million lifetimes. "This is Alia," she said. Then, craning her neck and yelling loudly, "My granddaughter" (for emphasis, as if they were too feeble-minded to understand such a concept). Finally, after what seemed like hours, we reached the doors of the chapel and waited outside for our ride. We waited for forty-five long minutes, my grandmother muttering and complaining the entire time.
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