On Semi-colons and Jesus

Many friendships have a semi-colon moment; the point from which they shift and hurtle to an inevitable end.  For example, freshman year I was fast-friends with Laura, a 4’10” Jewess.  Laura was obsessed with Sex in the City and answered the phone with hurried comments like, “Can’t talk right now.  Cum in my hair.  Call you later?”  I thought Laura was a riot, so I overlooked her endless references to her poverty and debate concerning whether or not she should strip to fund her tuition.

“Fact is,” she would say, flicking her cigarette’s ash off our dorm’s tenth-story balcony, “I might have to show some tits to get this degree.   That is my reality.”

I was justifiably nervous, therefore, when I visited Laura’s home the following summer.  Would her family own a couch on which I could sleep?  Would we dine on donated Spam?  What if they didn’t have cable?  I prepped for the visit as one might prep for an extended stay in an African refugee camp, adding a few pounds of reserve weight and stocking up on bug spray.

My fears were assuaged when I pulled into Laura’s cobblestone driveway, the marble fountain in her yard nicely accenting the home’s three stories.  If this was poverty, I needed some of these food stamps.

I ultimately enjoyed my pampered stay, but Laura’s lies gnawed at me; if she had lied about her family’s wealth, could the cum in her hair have been a farce as well?  This doubt bore our friendship’s slow distancing, to the point during senior year when I spotted her at a concert and avoided eye contact by never looking down.

My first semi-colon moment occurred when I was seven.  Growing up in a rural Southern town, my friendships were akin to arranged marriages, except the lack of options, not parents, was the joining force.  I could befriend the slim few other boys with average intelligence or try to make it work with the cows.  I wanted to trade POGs and discuss the nuances of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, so the other boys it was.

Thad was my second grade best friend.  I remember two things about Thad.  First, he scarred his eyebrow one afternoon when he fell on a bookshelf en route to recess.  Second, Thad loved to rollerskate.  Luckily for Thad, he lived in a bona fide neighborhood with the modern amenity of pavement, unlike me, who lived on a gravel road further from town.  I had no opportunity to rollerskate and likewise did not share Thad’s passion.

I was predictably unenthused when Thad announced his birthday party would be rollerskating-themed.  Nevertheless, I accepted his invitation and piled into his family’s minivan with Thad one Saturday morning.

“Alright, boys, we’re headed over the mountain, so buckle up and get ready for a long ride,” Thad’s mother, Ann, chirped as we found our seats.  Our destination was another result of rural living:  fun necessitated crossing a mountain.

“No are-we-there-yet-whining fellas,” Thad’s father, Tim, added as he started the engine.  I liked Ann and Tim.  They were both upbeat and younger than my parents.  Ann had a severe bowl cut and twinkling eyes while Tim was tall and deep-voiced.  They were obsessed with their poodle, Miffy, who was surely 30, hairless and blind.  Miffy had one tiny hairless paw in the grave, but Ann and Tim were relentless in keeping her alive. I admired their doggedness.

As we backed out of the luxuriously paved driveway, Tim chucked a pack of Little Debbie Strawberry Shortcakes at us.  These were my favorite and my spirits rose.  Maybe this party wouldn’t be so bad after all.  I bit into the cake, my tastebuds delighting in the artificial strawberry sweetness.

My optimism was short lived. “I think we need some Jesus!” Ann said as we exited the neighborhood, her dainty hands loading a cassette into the tape player.

Thad’s face lit up.  “Play Our God Is An Awesome God!  I don’t think Alex has heard it.”  Thad looked at me with a raised scarred eyebrow. I knew Thad’s family was church-going, but was surprised they wanted to Jesus-talk outside of church, let alone during a so-called party.  I had a shortcake to appreciate.  Surely Jesus could wait?

I should note both my parents were raised Christian, but deliberately did not force God upon their children. They are like Switzerland when it comes to religion – neutral and uninvolved.  At seven, I personally mirrored my parent’s neutrality, but respected others that were more passionate.  This was not the norm in my conservative hometown, and it was suddenly apparent to me, as the shortcake’s sponginess slid down my throat, that my heathen ways were not only noticed, but unappreciated.

“We can teach him the words!” Thad continued as his request played over the speakers.  “There is thunder in His footsteps/And lightning in His fist,” Thad sang along while Ann provided a shrill harmony.

“The chorus is coming up, Alex,” Ann said, turning in her seat to face me, then mouthing along:

Our God is an awesome God

He reigns from heaven above

With wisdom power and love

Our God is an awesome God

By the second chorus, Tim joined the indoctrination, encouraging me to “sing louder” and “with more passion.”  I did my best to appease them, hoping the issue of my faith being resolved, they would move on to more interesting and secular topics, like penguins or our recently pregnant gym teacher.

Alas, the family’s zeal for my learning the choruses of Christian songs lasted long after Our God Is An Awesome God’s final climatic note.  Indeed, it wasn’t until we got over the mountain that the music ended.

“Prayer time!” Tim said, abruptly pulling the van to the side of the highway.  He parked suddenly, cars whizzing by us on our left, as Ann stopped the tape.  The family bowed their heads.

“Dear Lord, we thank you for this birthday party, for our Lord-loving son, Thad, and his dear friend, Alex, who is learning your ways on this very car ride.”  Tim’s voice filled the van.  “We pray that you grant us safe passage to the skating rink, and that you protect Miffy, our sweet poodle, as she waits for us at home.  Amen.”  Ann and Thad echoed “amen,” and I repeated them.

As the van started again, Ann played a new song, a delightful ditty titled I Believe In Jesus, How About You? which involved each person in the family literally pointing to themselves during the title’s first half and then pointing at me during the title’s question.  I felt so immoral and oddly hunted that I almost hurled my shortcake.

When we reached our destination, rollerskating was a welcome relief.  I quickly laced up my skates and charged onto the rink, eager to get escape the zealots.  As made circles again and again, I reconsidered bovine friendships.  A cow’s only religion is cud and I could handle that.  The monotony of skating soothed me and I easily accepted my short life’s very first friendship death; while I was (for the short-term) moving in a circle, the disastrous car ride had sent my friendship with Thad irrevocably downhill.