Bible School from Hell

As a child I had a wicker basket full of toys, but it wasn’t until I saw Toy Story that I began to look at them as more than play things and as a basis for a personality. Andy had Woody so he loved cowboys, watched cowboy movies, wore cowboy hats, had a cowboy bedspread, and really never shut up about cowboys. While others might have seen this hyperfixation as a desperate attempt to deflect from the implied divorce of Andy’s parents, I looked at this in envy. I wanted an item I could confuse people into thinking was my personality, too. 

So every night before bed I would line all my toys against the wall and systematically rank them based on unchangeable quirks and qualities. Harsh critique of immutable characteristics was something that came naturally to me, and is something I still enjoy to this day. However, even at a young age, I never considered my own opinions or interests; I always knew those were worthless. What was important were the opinions of older kids and my cousin Zack. I remember the slingshot monkey, for instance, stayed perched at the top of the pile purely because he said he had one. Had it not been for that, the rubber piece of crap would have been slungshot into a dumpster day-one. 

Later in life toys were replaced with half-assed attempts at skill. Rubix cubes led to cup stacking which led to magic tricks which led to a xylophone which ultimately led to limited closet space. Now, thanks to social media, I can forgo any physical indication of having a personality and just post photos that look like I do stuff.

All that to say, I was invested in my toys. To the point that the only thing I had going on besides scrutinizing action figures was going to church. My family was the type to attend three times a week and still have the gall to guilt me into playing my trombone in the “worship band”, a band consisting of an upright piano and a bongo drum. “Perk up” they’d say watching me lug my weight in brass down the stairs at seven in the morning. “You round it out so nicely.” 

We were a very involved family. My mom was in charge of the children’s service, a position she did not take lightly. She only had 25 minutes to conduct her class, but that didn’t seem to dim her determination to create highly complex lessons and activities. She believed a true theologian needs more than cut-out characters on a felt board; ancient scripture requires gag-cigarettes and shaving cream. Stabbing water balloons with pencils. Nevermind the connection to the story, that would figure itself out later. What’s important now is you understand how to reload a hot glue gun. 

One Sunday my mom outdid herself with what I refer to as her magnum opus. Magnum meaning “when she” and opus meaning “scarred me for life”. 

She had rearranged the room, pushed the tables against the walls, and placed the chairs in a circle around a mysterious garbage bag in the center. We sat down in wonder while my mom went on some tare about Jesus. We all sat and stared longingly at the bag. Once she was done yammering she flipped the bag and told us to “dig in”. Dumped before us was a giant heap of toys. But not just any toys: my toys. This lady ransacked my room, stuffed my most prized possessions into a garbage bag, and sat me down to watch 15 bible school kids, reduced to vultures, pillage through everything I had ever loved. 

“What kind of sick psychological experiment is this?” I wondered, jaw agape, eyes bugging out of my small, innocent head. I was later told that my sister, who at the time had the reputation of a Hitler youth, was asked to collect my old toys from the bottom of my basket. Impossible, I thought. I knew the hunks of shit I had buried down there: mangled slinkys, dirt covered silly puddy, parachute men with cables twisted in knots. Instead I was looking at spider mans, dolphins, and slingshot monkeys. She’s done no digging at all. This lady’d skimmed right off the top. 

The “big twist” of the activity (as if it wasn’t twisted enough already) was that we had to give our collection to the person beside us—another slap in the face. After a desperate and manic battle for everything I held dear, I had to hand it over to the freak sitting next to me. And whose pile do I get in return? The kid with the oxygen tank. “For the love of god” I thought, looking down at his pile. What is this? A yoyo? A book? No surprises here. “Listen tube face” I hissed, “next time I need you to get me something, I want you to hold your breath and fight for it.”

While the other kids were taught the value of giving and receiving, I was taught these people can’t be trusted. I tried to remember if my bedroom door had a lock as I sat in the circle and sobbed silently, seeing through my tears the open mouth laughter of the heartless savages surrounding me. 

Some kids gave me my stuff back, others pretended not to notice. I was told I was overreacting. Then that night at dinner the heartless goons I have for a family bullied me into bringing out my halloween candy, a stash I had been saving, so they could pillage through that too. 

What was my take away? Nothing’s sacred. Not family, not friends, not even bible school.