I DON’T BELIEVE in god. I don’t think I ever did. And that’s saying something considering I grew up spending my Sunday mornings in Sunday school, singing incredibly catchy songs and coloring Noah’s elephants green.I vividly remember this girl Vivian. She made it a habit to color her rainbows with 27 different crayons, that by the time she finished with them, they looked more like abstract paintings of Van Gough. They were hideous. I somehow found it amusing to keep teasing her about this sad fact that by the next coloring session, she seemed to finally have had enough of me. I wouldn’t anymore go into details, but know that after the (nasty) ordeal she put me through, clumps of my brown locks had ended up clutched in her little Crayola-smudged hands. Yeah. Talk about tantrum.Anyway, I once came across this study that said kids who admitted to not believing in a/any/their religion grew up in an environment where Jesus and his disciples were but likely another canvas in the dining room wall – meaning, an environment where the ‘rents basically don’t give a cent’s worth whether their children read today’s bible verse or not. That’s if they even give a damn what today’s bible verse is. Well, I say, bullshit. My folks are as devout Christians as the next couple in our old town. And that’s saying something as most all households in Grison go to church every Sunday. Ours, most certainly, included.
My mom would wake us all early each Sunday morning and always make a fuss about what we should wear that day, and telling us her kids to be like this and act like that. She liked that a lot, I tell you, giving instructions. And making up rules! Oh my, don’t even get me started on her rules! She was also particularly uptight with me since she’s sworn it her life’s sole duty to keep me prim and proper – her everyday form of drastic measure, I think, after that entire ruckus with "that nightmare of a child Vivian!" I honestly don’t know if I was better off in that Norfolk Juvenile Facility for Girls or at home.
Well anyway, this one Sunday, I was throwing death glares at my mom all the way to church after she made me wear a dress that I spurned like hell. I didn’t even like wearing dresses in the first place, and making me wear one that had great big flower prints and lace all over was just plain torture. I didn’t have a choice about the whole thing either, as she threatened to ground me for a week if I didn’t put the dress on. Mom then proceeded to knock herself out preaching about how girls should always dress strictly in skirts when entering the house of god. Freaking yeah, right. See how you’d hate her made up rules, too.
Inside the building, my brother Bertram was surreptitiously dozing off as Pastor Sheridan gave his sermon. You wouldn’t put it past Bertram either if you yourself heard the kind of speeches the old bard gave. You’d be bored shitless before you can even say "Amen". Anyway, it’s most certainly a mystery how he does it, but Bertram had always been good at getting away with sleeping in public places, ones where I wouldn’t try blinking a little longer than normal. I had to smirk however, when this time mom caught sight of his head lolling a little too obviously to the left. She’d have to be thick if she didn’t realize something was sticking out of her boundaries of pious ideals. I thought Bertram must perhaps have been up for the best part of the night. That – or he’s finally losing his touch, dear old Bertram.
"Bertram!" hissed my mom through the corner of her mouth. She liked that, too, hissing. Especially when it’s more instructions to fling out at someone.
When Bertram appeared to be just drooling some more on his jacket, "Bertram!" she said again, with a tad more force into the hiss, and immediately looked around to see if anyone was yet aware of what was happening. Only Jimmy do-Gooder, son of one of the town’s pastors, gave notice. But I knew Jimmy was too much of a do-gooder to blab about. Mom must have known, too, because she gave him a small (fake, I bet) smile.
Like the most faithful Stepford wife, my mom was direly afraid of public humiliation. How much of that would she suffer if people found out her son was "desecrating" the holy house of the lord? (Would you believe, she actually used that word, desecrating, when she gave Bertram a telling to that evening?) I bet a hundred bucks she was making up some more senseless rules in her mind that very moment. "Bertram!"
Bertram rolled his head to the right.
"Mathilde," she finally said, giving up on him, "go wake your brother this instant!"
I shot her another one of my death glares.
"Now!" I could definitely hear panic in her voice. Very faint, but still there.
"Fine," I said, rolling my eyes. I shook Bertram’s sleeve with the littlest enthusiasm and he woke up like he was never asleep. I found out later he really wasn’t. He only enjoyed giving Mom a fright and that "She should’ve known better calling me Bertram in public."
Bertram was two years younger than me, and at fourteen, he spent the better part of his life detesting his name, and claiming to most everyone he knew he really was called ‘Scott’. Although I haven’t the slightest idea how he came about picking ‘Scott’, I couldn’t blame him, the poor guy. If I produce a son myself someday, I would never for the love of all good christen him Bertram. And I’d most certainly not call him Mathilde either, if he were a she. Come to think of it, my older brother didn’t fare so well in the name department either, as he’s called Carlyle. God, were my parents awful in naming their kids. You’d think they weren’t from this universe or something.
