The Journey

[In writing this series, I quickly discovered that this issue is at the very heart of how and why I ended up in the positions, and the relationships, of my adulthood. In my attempt to unravel, understand and accept how all of it happened, Safety is a primary key.]

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In the Beginning…

All I wanted was to feel safe. All I can remember ever wanting was to feel safe. I’ve craved it like an alcoholic feens for their next drink. Any sense of safety I ever thought I acquired turned out to be a fleeting experience — something I could never get a true grasp on.

Any child who grows up with an alcoholic or abusive parent, an untreated borderline or a genuine narcissist knows the deep well of longing for a sense of safety because they never actually had it.

I clung to every safe moment and milked it to the very edge, right to the turning point, of which I became keenly, intuitively aware. I knew when the tide was turning. It could be minutes or it could be hours, but the energy in the atmosphere would shift and I would know that the safety doors were closing, that the vibe was shifting, that we would again be in choppy waters, imminently. I adjusted accordingly. I would “pipe down,” shrink myself in every way possible and make sure to be busy. Anything to avoid detection or causing provocation.

That was how I spent my earliest years and I have that early training to thank for an astute awareness of the energy of the people around me, those energetic “feelers” in me that never turn off. They’re feeling for safety. They’re hunting for protection. They’re trying to shield me in the process. Confrontational and punitive landmines abounded and I had to be wise and wary not to step on them.

At all times, I was on guard for emotional dangers. When the emotions of the adults around me were unsteady, it could lead to physical danger as well. Innocent child-like behavior could trigger anger resulting in disciplinary actions that were most commonly corporal in nature. In good ol’ southern religious tradition, my parents did not believe in “sparing the rod” (or hairbrush or belt or wooden spoon or what have you). I think worse than any physical pain (which could be great), was the emotional betrayal of a “caregiver’s” routine acts of violence in lieu of any real communication. Where a conversation could have served to yield equally effective corrective results, anger or abuse won out instead.

I remember one day riding in the old station wagon with my mother and sister. I can’t recall at all what the impetus was, but something minor had gone wrong and I flippantly said, “Shit!” I was in the first grade. My mother was horrified. My sister kept asking her what it meant. I wasn’t sure what it meant myself. A conversation could have gone a long way to explain things and to convey why it was not appropriate for me to use that word. Instead, a household item was weaponized to ensure I learned a lesson that I would never forget. For my “own good,” of course.

This is a minor example, as I always preferred the slightly more gentle punishment of my mother to the alternative. But even decades later, I continued to be just as baffled by how my innocent swearing could be interpreted as a crime deserving of corporal punishment versus a simple conversation. 8 times out of 10, however, the punisher was my father whom I learned to love with a fierce fear as the ultimate arbiter of corporal punishment. His belt swings lasted longer and landed harder.

As I grew older, into double digit numbers, the need for safety grew in proportion to the lack of it. No longer were the dangers just the physical and emotional pitfalls of unstable parental figures. Where many parents might instinctively shield their children from danger, my parents thrust me and my sister into it. I’ve learned that this is a common experience shared by children raised in cults and high-control groups. In the name of whatever religion, philosophy, or mission the group claims to promote, children are the greatest victims, commonly thrown to the wolves.

In my case, I was most commonly thrown to the streets. “The streets” were the centerfield of our groups’ missions and here, once again, my intuitive senses served greatly to shield and protect me from the surrounding dangers. The look in a stranger’s eyes along with the non-physical cues of predation and ill-intent were palpable warning signs which my internal radar innately detected and I did my best to take cover or provide distance, as necessary. And this wasn’t just found in the streets. Cult-like groups are often fraught with predators.

There were also the everyday dangers of dropping your children off in an inner city housing project with just one or two other mission-serving children and providing only the directive that we were to go door-to-door and disseminate the oh-so-wonderful message of Jesus’ love. I often found myself in these environments and these situations without any adult oversight or protection. Despite how commonplace it became, I can recall always feeling a little baffled. The inner turmoil of whether to avoid the distasteful mission or to avoid the dangers of defying my parental figure tore at me. Due to my early conditioning of fear and danger-avoidance, the choice to follow the instructions of the mission usually won out. (This would become a pivotal factor in how I ended up in, and functioned within, the cultic group of my adulthood.)

[For the sake of providing some context, and for a glimpse into these early experiences, here is a memory that has surfaced:]
I remember one such outing in which we were instructed to go knock on doors and invite the inhabitants to come attend a spontaneous prayer meeting that the Evangelist leaders intended to hold in the middle of the housing project. I, among my peers, did as I was told. We meekly approached the doors of these low-slung, housing structures. Paint peeled from the exterior beams which served to define a small front porch area. On approach, I could often hear a variety of noises emanating from the abode: screaming children, loud television sets, yelling adults. When they answered the door, wafts of food frying in oil or other strong household aromas would emerge. It was a disorienting and terrifying prospect to approach these strange doors, but scarier yet were the units from which no sound emerged.

When the inhabitants answered the door, they were often baffled by the sight of a short, blonde-haired white girl in t-shirt and shorts standing on their doorstep. This is by no means to imply that all the inhabitants were dark-skinned, as that certainly was not the case. But my presence there was distinctly foreign and it was clear that I did not belong. Yet, with time and repetition, I grew to feel relatively “at home” in these neighborhoods, to the degree that familiarity allows, and their children usually accepted us as their peers.

Sometimes the inhabitants immediately dismissed us with a cursory word or two, maybe an eye roll, and closed the door. It really depended on who happened to answer. Sometimes they listened to what we had to say and showed some interest in our invitation. Most often, the children were the ones who were interested in engaging with us. Either way, I performed my sovereign duty of handing them a tract (small, religious pamphlet) and inviting them to join us for the prayer meeting in the middle of the neighborhood.

Meanwhile, as the Evangelists began to bellow their message through the bullhorn from the makeshift park at the center of the project, they drew some attention and interest from the inhabitants, as well.

I remember so clearly the barrenness and desolation of these neighborhoods. The area that served as a “park” in the midst of this particular housing development in downtown Atlanta, GA was mostly dirt mottled with some withered, dry sprigs of grass. There wasn’t an ounce of shade to provide any relief from the oppressive mid-summer sun. It felt more like a desert. There was an overwhelming presence of hunger, but beyond that, a boredom and stagnation pervaded that bordered on hopelessness. Bleak is the word that was born from such a place.

A raucous in the midst of all this drabness seemed a welcome diversion for many tenants, so a crowd soon amassed in the dry, dirt park. The Evangelists offered their message of hope in Jesus and their services of prayer. Soon, neighbors were stepping forward to be blessed with prayer from the laying on of hands by an Evangelist, of which my father was one. Their fervent energy, combined with the excitement of the crowd, rapidly increased and the inhabitants who had gathered now ran to tell other neighbors that miracles were waiting to be doled out in the park. Soon, an excited hush fell as one young girl was wheeled up to the Evangelists in a wheelchair. Someone explained that she suffered the excruciating consequences of her mother’s crack addiction which prevailed throughout her pregnancy with this girl who was now nearly a teenager. Through no fault of her own, her limbs were twisted and speech severely debilitated, but she seemed cognizant of her surroundings all the same.

The Evangelists descended upon her like jackals, fervently seeking their own glory (masked as the “glory of God”) by willing the young girl out of her wheelchair. Like Jesus himself, they hoped to perform manifest miracles in the middle of that inner city park. Unlike Jesus, they lacked the spiritual depth and maturity to understand the metaphysical principles behind such an outcome. They believed that if they prayed hard enough and cast the demons out of the poor girl fiercely enough, they could prove God’s power (and their own) by witnessing this young girl’s full physical recovery unfold right there in the park before us.

This prayer circle went on for some time. I doubt that you’re surprised to learn that the young girl riddled with the effects of fetal crack addiction did not rise up out of her chair and walk. She had to be wheeled away through the dusty park just as she had been wheeled in. My heart breaks for her, even now. I don’t know how she felt or what she thought about her encounter with the “Men of God” preaching in that desolate land, but their failure was dismissed as “the will of God” who, as we know, “works in mysterious ways.” Of course, that girl’s “lack of faith” could also be used as a convenient scapegoat to blame for the spectacular failure of her immediate healing. It’s not bad enough that she is forced to live under such limiting circumstances as a result of someone else’s brazen disregard for her wellbeing, but now she must also bear some blame for her inability to be spontaneously healed from her condition. This was the gift doled out by those Men of God on that sizzling summer day.
[But I digress… Away from the Evangelists’ messages of untruth and back to the issue of safety, or the lack thereof.]

In addition to time spent in hobo camps under bridges, homeless shelters, and all along the outskirts of commonly accepted society, there was also the matter of being “on the streets” in the midst of infamous events of debauchery. In the eyes of the religious groups we trucked with, there was no better place to be than amidst “the sinners” in the height of their “sin.” Events like Mardi Gras in New Orleans and Fantasy Fest in Key West were hot-ticket affairs: the perfect place to prove our radicalness and just how “on fire” we were for the Lord.

“Outreaches” were the 4-to-6-day-long affairs that were planned around events such as these or which we just held annually in the inner city trenches of various cities. They required communal living: camping out on the floors of churches in sleeping bags, surrounded by strangers, and eating mass-prepared meals in the fellowship halls. Men and women were separated in terms of living quarters and bathroom time was severely limited due to the number of attendees. I recall these events as being uncomfortable and awkward on every level while wrapped in a heightened energy of fervor and zealotry.

Standing amid Bourbon street at midnight during the height of Mardi Gras, the Evangelists’ show was on! And to be sure, they competed and vied for top billing on the bullhorn next to the 10 foot cross they held erect amidst the fray. While the Evangelists preached, my sister and I were thrust out into the crowded street among the stumbling men and women with their slurred speech and licentious revelry. Beers were sloshed on us, second hand smoke was blown in our faces and urine was mindlessly tromped through as we approached each passer by with a religious pamphlet and a message of repentance. Endless hours of approaching strangers and attempting to force an awkward, unsolicited conversation about the state of their soul dragged on night after night.

I encountered every imaginable type of person all evenly leveled by the common themes of intoxication and the search for good times. Sometimes they wanted to debate me. Sometimes they were touched by my 12 year old presence in the midst of this den of sin. Sometimes they shook their heads in shame of their condition. Sometimes they professed their love of Jesus and appreciation for our presence there (while I had to explain Jesus’s lack of love and appreciation for their presence there). Sometimes they politely listened to my spiel. Sometimes they looked at me with pity. Oftentimes they ignored me altogether. (See my piece Confessions of a Twelve Year Old Street Preacher for an example of my own time spent behind the bullhorn.)

It was easy to get jumbled, turned around and caught up in the waves of party people. My sister and I would often attempt to stay together or near one another, but we were usually surrounded by strangers and sent out with other religious strangers. My father would be near the cross as one of the Evangelists and my mother rarely went out on the streets with us during these week-long outreach missions at all. She had the luxury of being a fundamental part of the basecamp kitchen crew which required her to work different hours during the outreach and to stay back at the church where we would be camping out for the week. All this is to say, there was no sense of safety or security to be found anywhere. We were entrenched in “enemy” (sinner) territory, and to be honest, we were most often on our own.

Outreach nights would drag on endlessly, just like the party itself, but without the fun. Evening turned to night and night turned to the wee hours of the morning. I was so often exhausted and many times freezing cold. I had no control over coming and going, no ability to leave, and no say in the matter. I recall these nights as absolute drudgery wrapped in expectant, feverish energy in which I had to remain alert for my surroundings and on guard at every second to fend for my own security and protection.

Many a cold, weary night did I stand on those street corners with back and feet aching, longing for sleep, for quiet, for warmth and for safety.