What's in a Name? What's in a Religion?

[anirbas]

The time, was the late sixties, early seventies; specifically, 1967 to 1973. Not a along time ago, folks. Just yesterday, really; the near distant past.

News coverage of the day, included the ongoing Viet Nam War;the Cold War;Bobbie K's assasination, scant years after his brothers, JFK's; footage of feminist uprisings and college sit-ins; followed by the sad images of rampantly escalating violent images of race and desegragation riots.

The Reverend Billy Graham, filled America's spiritual needs, from their flickering television sets, and static blown radios. Americans hung onto the Rev. Graham's every word. Incorporating his gospel teachings, into their daily lives, as best they could.

And the one thing all religious denominations, including non-denominationals, agreed upon, and were eschewing-it was The End Times; Armageddon; "something wicked this way comes"; the "end of the world as we know it", to paraphrase a popular rock song. Upon everyone's lips seemed to be the questions: what's in a name? what's in a religion?

The Cold War, being in full congress, one never knew, who friend or foe, was. Russia and the United States, were politically crossed, at sword hilt distance.Both sides involved, in a costly game of espionage and secretive, vengeful, tit for tat, paybacks, upon one another.

The nation,itself was divided over it's participation, in the Viet Nam war; the so-called mutiny of women and housewives; along with that of college students. Artist of every ilk and stripe, were at the forefront of these historic, public events, staged by feminist, and "long-haired" college students. Recording and narrating, the times in art, poetry, prose, and song. As well as that of the loss of innocent lives, and America's honor, in the horrific days, of the race and desegragation riots. A battle that was being waged on the homefront, day to day, and minute by minute, side by side, with the Viet Nam War.

It was a time, when the murderous, egomaniacal Charles Manson, led his blighted cultic "family" on a bloody, crime spree. That astounded the nation, and left people shocked to their cores.

In short, Americans were afraid, paranoid, and divided politically, and religiously, on many issues. Much like these times.

To ease their worry and vexious tension, from mounting national and worldwide problems, Americans entertained themselves, watching a variety of television shows.

Reruns of 50's shows, such as I Love Lucy, My Favorite Martian, Mayberry R.F.D.,abounded. Spy dramas, including The Man From U.N.C.L.E., The Saint; and I Spy, with Richard Crenna and Bill Cosby. Such shows probably inspired by the paranoia generated,
due to the Cold War.

Americans loved a good western. These included Gunsmoke,Bonanza, and The Wild, Wild West.
Lighter fare included game shows, talk shows; the Brady Bunch, the Partridge Family; the World of Walt Disney. And who could ever forget, The Wild Kingdom? Science fiction offerings, of the day, were Star Trek, Time Tunnell, and Lost in Space.

Even lighter fare, for American's consumption, included Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie, for laughs and fantasy.
Josie and the Pussycats, Scooby-Doo, Charlie Brown and the Peanuts; Archie and his pals; and a spin-off, from that,about a teenaged witch, with an unusual name, were some of America's children, favorite cartoons.

[anirbas]

Into these turbelent, everchanging times, a girlchild came into the world, in the early 60's. Born on the cusp of the Boomer generation and Generation X, it seemed she always had a foot in both camps, in her adult life.

She was also born on the cusp, of Cancer and Leo, with Scorpio rising. Astrologically, she was a literal trifecta of beast, personality-wise; the Crab, Lion, and the Scorpion. An eccentric, eclectic mix to be sure. This was the 60's.And it was cool to know these things. And she had an aunt, who knew everything...

In the fall of 1967, this little girl, skipped her way happily to first grade. A sweet, dutiful child, with long, shining, chestnut hair, that fell down her back in waves. Her mother often curled the little girl's hair, into a lengthy mass of ringlets. This involved sitting in the floor, for an hour and a half, on a pillow, until the child's fanny turned numb. While her mother created pincurl, after pincurl, laboriously and patiently.

This little girl had no idea the oddity of her unusual name. Or that it was spread across national television, in a witchy spin-off, from an Archie's cartoon.

Her strange name, it's ties to a well liked kid's cartoon, and it's otherworldly connotations, made her popular,her first and second grade years of school. And reviled, scrouged, and abused her last four years of elementary school.

She didn't even know the cartoon existed, until she started school. The little girl's mother did not allow her children to watch cartoons. Purporting, they promoted mindless violence. In light of what happened to the little girl, later, her mother may have been on to something.

The little girl never saw Bewitched, or I Dream of Jeannie, until they were oft repeated, sydnicated re-runs. Her mother maintained, magic was of the devil. And therefore,Satan could find a way into your soul, through it.

The little girl wasn't quite sure who "the devil" was. Or why he wanted her soul. But she knew, if her mom wanted to protect it, her soul, it must be pretty important;something she really needed.

The girlchild worked hard at school to please her teacher. The same as she did at home, for her mother. To do otherwise, would be foolhardy, in her home. Anything less than an A, would require a spanking. The little girl's mother demanded perfection. And so, that is exactly what the little girl, tried to give her.

And succeeded at not only that, the first two years, of her school life, but thereafter. Inspite of the hardships she faced at school on a daily basis after third grade.

Due to her God-given cuteness, her extroverted friendly personality, and her odd, almost iconic name, the little girl enjoyed boundless popularity, those first two years.
Getting dressed up for the holiday parties, at school, was a gas. Back then, when there was a party, parents sent their children to school, all gussied up.

The little girl's mother, was no exception, at that time, and went all out on those special days. Wardrobing her daughter in rosebud pink taffeta, with ruffles and crinolines, beneathe, the skirt. White or black patent leather shoes, depending on the season; worn with lace edged thin socks, to complete the ensemble.

And then, she started on the little girl's long tresses. Pulling her hair into a high-crowned ponytail. Then sectioning it in one inch strips. Rolling these from the ends, with her fingers, back towards the rubberband, at the child's crown, and pinning it in place. Repeating this step,over and over,until she had created what was called, then, a "bubble" bun. Her mother's final touch, was to step back and throw silver glitter into her hair.

Which took the little girl, days, to wash from her scalp. Many times, leaving tiny knicks where she'd rubbed at her head, while lathering her hair.

She didn't mind. It was so much fun to skip to school, looking like a fairy princess. A perfectly wrapped Christmas gift, or a shoebox full of valentines, in her hands.

But those were her halcyon days, the calm before the storm, to coin a phrase. A preface of the dark clouds about to over run the horizon of her young world. And rip her life apart, like a dropped twister, for years to come.

[anirbas]

That summer vacation,after second grade, within a month,the little girl's quick mind was bored to the consistency of oatmeal. She began to look forward, to her third grade year, with the expectancy, of a young, unblooded knight, on his first quest.
Not knowing the winds of change stirring in and about her home, were loosening,unseen dust devils. That would writhe and coil, the little girl's family, on both sides, into endless debates, for years, to come.

The girlchild, being possessed of excellent hearing, would over hear snippets of conversation, between the adults, at family reunions, and get-togethers. As she would run fleetly past, with her boy cousins, playing chase, or tag, in the desulitory, humid summer heat.

"It's just not right...It's not Christian...How can you do that? How can you call God any other name? How can you do this to your children?"

All these, often irate questions, directed at her beautiful mother.
A few times, over the summer,the child wondered, what had her mother done, to make everyone, talk so angrily to her, like that?
Her family was no different, than any other's as far as the little girl could see. She had both her parents and a little sister.
The only thing different, the little girl could see, was now, her mommy took her daughters, and her to church. Where before, she hadn't.

And what was bad about that? She'd gotten to wear her party dress, one day a week, everyweek, this summer. What could be wrong with dressing up? It was so much fun!

The implications of her mother's "changing horses, in mid-stream," to use a little Texas vernacular, religiously, did not present themselves,until October, of her third grade year.

It became evident, when October rolled around, and the little girl's mother,informed her, they would no longer be participating in that satanic, paganistic holiday, in her home. It was of the devil...(the mother's viewpoint, not the narrator's)

Not only that, her child would no longer be allowed to participate, in such activities, as glorified satan's holiday, at school, either. No child of her's, was going to be touched by satan at school, and bring him in, to taint her home and herself.

The little girl wondered,what satan, whomever that was, would want with someone, as little as she? And why he'd want to follow her home from school, to taint her house and her mother? And taint? What did that mean? She would have to check the dictionary!

The following morning, the mother, firmly took her child's hand in her own, and marched the scant block, to the little girl's school with her. She took the child's teacher aside, and informed her, her daughter would no longer be allowed to participate in certain, school related, holiday activities, due to religious differences and preferences.

The little girl spent that October of third grade, reading a book given her by her teacher, in the far corner of the classroom. At least, anytime the class was making decorations commemorating Hallowe'en.

She didn't mind too much. The child was already an avid bookworm. Reading everything she could get her hands on.
She would sit quietly, in her own little world,occasionally looking up, to watch her classmates, to assure herself, she was still a part of their's.

A little wistfully she watched as they cut humpbacked cats, from black construction paper; or ghost from white; pumpkins from orange; and colored witches. She did miss cutting out the cats and kitties. How the child loved cats! And the ghosties, she liked them,too. She thought they were cute.

But the witches were scary looking. And she didn't like pumpkin pie, so she didn't miss cutting out pumpkins.

As any child, she had loved Hallowe'en for it's costumes, grease paint, masks, candy, pranks and hi-jinx. What wasn't to adore, for a child of eight?

And the questions the other children peppered her with, she couldn't answer, confused her. "Why caincha cut out black cats? How come, ya cain't color no pic-chures? Why'd your mommy change religions?"

She didn't know.She didn't know.She didn't know.

A windy day towards the end of October,as the little girl walked across the school parking lot, a ghost, twisted into her path,plastering itself to the tops of her shoes.

She looked down her street, adjacent to the school parking lot. Wary her mother might be watching. Satisfying herself, she wasn't, the little girl bent to retrieve the lost ghost, folded it quickly, and jammed it into her jeans pocket.

When she got home, the child went straight to her bedrooom. Hiding the purloined ghostie, in a treasure box, she kept hidden at the back of her closet. The first childish act of rebellion, she'd ever commited, in her young life.

Hallowe'en night,itself, turned out to be a nightmare. That evening, her mother met her costumed,candy seeking neighbors and school friends, at the little girl's door. Informing the confused children, Halloween was no longer practiced in their home. They'd get no candy, there;best to go next door, and on down the street.

Like the little girl, the children had no understanding of what her mother, had just told them. Some even booed and jeered her mother with catcalls. A few even threatened to be back later.
The child, wondered why they would want to come back later, if they were already told, there wasn't any candy, by her momma? Did they think her mom would change her mind, later? They didn't know her mother, very well!

Later, that night, the little girl's family slept. While she, still wakeful, listened as bands of renegade kids, pelted her house with eggs. Both rotten, and otherwise.

The following Hallowe'en, her mother turned all the lights, inside and outside her home, off. To give the impression no one was there. The little girl sat inside the dark house, with her smaller sister, listening to other kids banging raucously at their door. They were not allowed to speak, throughout the ordeal. It was rather frightening, sitting in the dark, that way.

However, the illusion, did not and never worked. Every Hallowe'en, it was the neighborhood tradition, to beslime the family's home, after hours, with eggs.

That first ruined holiday,was sweet compared to what came afterwards, at Christmas, and into January, to the little girl. And all the years following, til she left grade school and headed to junior high.

Christmas came, and once more the little girl,sat in a corner, quietly reading, as her other classmates participated in activities, she was now denied. Her teacher had brought her two cookies and a small dixie cup of punch. Tears in her eyes,she had handed the girlchild the refreshments. Tears in her own eyes, the little girl gratefully took them.

"I know your mother said not to give you food and drink from the party. But I just can't do that, to you, again. I've never told anyone to lie. But, I am now, sweetie. " Firmly, she added, "Don't tell her." Then her teacher turned her attention back to the majority of her classroom.

"Why caincha cut out snowmen? Uh? Why caincha cut out Santas? Uh? Why caincha cut out angels and make tree chains? Uh?"

She didn't know. She didn't know. She didn't know...

[anirbas]

The little girl, fast becoming introverted, enjoyed the respite, of her Christmas vacation, away from the prying eyes and questions of her pint-sized peers. For the rest of that year, and the three years to follow, the little girl's school life, became a warzone; fraught with anxiety, confusion, fear and pain.
Her conscious mind ruled by the fight or flight syndrome, on a daily basis. Especially, at recess.

Her first day back, from Christmas vacation, at recess, a large, hard-eyed group, of her classmates approached her. Led by the meanest bully of the playground. He started drilling her, in front of the others, about her mother's church, and why didn't they believe in Jesus?

As far as the little girl knew, they did. And she said as much.
The oversized thug boy replied, the words, that became her death knell. "Oh no, ya don't. My momma says anybody that doesn't believe in Christmas, don't believe in Jesus. She says they're satanist and witches! They drink blood and kill babies, at church! You're just a witch! Baby killer! Turn me into a frog! Before I hit you with a log!"

The little girl was horrified! She'd never seen anybody kill precious babies or drink icky blood at her mommy's church!
"My momma does not kill babies and drink blood! We are not satanist! I am not a witch! I am not!"

Truthfully, the little girl wasn't even sure, what a satanist or a witch was at eight. But she knew she wasn't one, if they did stuff like that!

The die was cast that day. The stage was set. For what was to come. Quote-"something wicked this way comes..."-unquote.

From that point on, the little girl was taunted, chased, harrassed and beaten on a daily basis. First one, then another, of the school yard bullies, followed by their retinue of twos and threes, would relentlessly prey upon her at recess.

When the midget-sized punks,decided the little girl was the prey of choice, her third grade year,it gave their former victim a break.
An emaciated, whey-faced, cornflower blue-eyed girl; whose parents had branded her bully fodder, when they had enrolled her in school, tatooed with "flowerchild", in stylized, flowing script, on her upper arm.

This child just cried, when the bullies backed her into a corner. Her tiny hands covering her face, as she whimpered, pathetically.
The other little girl, the alledged satan's pawn and witchchild, was more fun to mess with, from the get-go!

When the blood drinker was cornered, by knotted groups of boys, in twos and threes, she fought back, when they hit or kicked her! One way or another!

The times she managed,luckily, to get the best of them, (maybe all those babies, she alledgedly ate, empowered her) was a small victory. They would beat her down, pelting her about her head and body, with rocks!

She never cried. Something in her,wouldn't give them the pleasure of seeing her in tears. But every rock she could get her hand on, as she went down, before a teacher would save her, she threw back. And with dratted good aim, at that!
Though she never won, the little girl gave as good as she got...What choice did she have?

"Witch! Witch! Turn me into a frog, witch! Do ya like the taste of blood, witch? Hey you! What's a baby taste like, witch? Taste good, witch? Yeah, I bet you like it, witch!"

As a direct result of the rigid religious intolerance practiced at that time, by otherwise,well meaning Christians, in society; the little girl's given name, associatied so closely with witchery, thanks to television; and her long, dark hair, which only bolstered her witchey appearance at that time; this early period of the child's life was fraught with many school yard battles, as stated.

That third grade year, her mother's religious choice, had already begun to rock the child's home life.The issue debated hotly between her parent's, became a widening chasm, in a marriage already fraught, with fissures.

The little girl's experiences in elementary school, prepared her for the battles to come in her life; hardened her, gave her backbone. The will to survive, born strong in the girlchild's body, for whatever reasons.

Over the years, as first one thing, and then another happened in her life,as the little girl grew to a teenager, and then a woman;she sometimes wondered, what evil curse had been put upon her ancestors years ago? What dark gypsy, had one of her noble forebears, disdained?

What's in a name? That little girl would tell you. Nothing...

What's in a religion? That same little girl would tell you,
should be utmost tolerance! And utter respect for the children, who must live, haplessly, helplessly, with the choices their parents make, not them.

~*~

"That which does not kill you, makes you stronger."


"Land hard. Roll left."
-line from Iron Jawed Angels

"Life carries on and on and on..."
-Peter Gabriel, I Grieve

"God is my secret.
He knows I am his girl..."
-Robert Thomas, Foxfire.

~*~

Thanks ahead of time, for your time and consideration, with this piece. I would appreciate and welcome any feedback. It's an old essay I did a few years back, concerning the importance of what was in a name? As in, did it matter whom one called
their prophet, i.e., as in Jesus or Mohammad...And who was best, the "right" one...And what exactly was found or should be found in any given religion...This is pretty much the way I presented the piece to make my point to those in hot debate, in my opinion, there was nothing in a name and what should be in any given religion...Just explaining, not to bore you to death or tears, whichever come first, LOL, but so you understand the inspiration for penning the quirky thing in the first place...

-Sabrina

[bichsa]

Well you knew you had me right from the title,Wow ,I can relate too much in this piece ,which by the way is fabulous .I see my children in you ,but the difference I would allow my children ,when they were in public school to join in others traditions out of respect for them but in our times now ,I was allowed by the school dept.to share our tradition[as non religious as i could make it to the class] .
But as with you no matter how you try hard to blend or relate you stand out in a crowd eventually leaving me to home school or send them to private school when i could afford it.
One difference though with my kids I will never leave them not understanding They should question in fact they must challenge every bit .For ultimately we may raise our children by teaching our faith,as well as others but it is their Choice when they grow up.The pain of a child being picked on scars them for life weather they are different from race/religion/dirt poor.
I being the dirt poor one as a child became the Sabrina in your story . But as we grow with our pain of childhood it make us a stronger adult yes non trusting at first but all in all with all that pain I would not change a thing for as with you it is who you became from that struggle that made you a better person ,
Great !Great! story I wanted to read more. Much peace to you my Friend Sabrina!


your sister ,cheryl

[anirbas]

Cheryl! Wonderful to see a sister, here! Thanks for taking the time to read this odd essay. Fabulous? Thanks millions! I've always thought of it and the way I was inspired to write it, as weird, quirky...I had to disengage through the entire piece...
I was going to write it in first person singular and just couldn't make myself, keep saying I...Saying I, put me back there...
And I was pissed as a wet cat, all over again...Trying, third person omniscent, as narrator, didn't work either, as then I had to type my name...And yes, it was one of my many stories of me...

I thought of you and your children last night, when I was in here, working to copy and paste and bring this piece over...It is good to know, you are intelligent enough and empathetic enough, to allow your children to participate in school related "national" and commercialistic holidays, really no longer "religious" holidays...To be ostracized for any reason, is a very heavy load for any child to bear...It's good that you get, they can do these things and it not effect their home based religious beliefs! WAY TO GO, LADY!

I also wrote this piece, to allay the notion going around at the time, how religiously intolerant these times are...When in actuallity, we have come a long way tolerance wise, in America, since the sixties, religiously, at least...Though, the 85% "moral"majority is still Xtian based...One hundred years ago, that number was 99, if not 100%...So the times are changing for the better, and will keep changing...

I can only imagine, how after Nine Eleven, children of the Islamic faith may have been effected at school, for awhile...But, at the same time, I am proud America didn't descend into the hysteria it did in the forties and fifties, here, after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor...Which was my biggest fear beyond my own children's safety, is what would happen to the children and families in our nation of the Islamic culture and faith, in the aftermath of Nine Eleven...As America has blossomed into her "birthright", purporting to be founded on religious freedom and personal rights...We have become so many nations within one nation...That's a good thing...That's called societal evolution...LOL...A melting pot atmosphere...

I caught the poverty slur, too, sweets...And my parents
children, really didn't have to catch that slur, but we did...
But, that's another story...LOL...

It's sad in this gloriously, across the board rich world we are these days, children and their families in any country should go hungry, or without medical attention. Canada and the U.K., are light years ahead of America in that respect. Ah, but, those are other issues and I am digressing to the ninth degree...LOL...

Hope you have a blessedly beautiful and peaceful weekend, Cher.
I'm starting mine out, letting Ivy have a sleepover and babysitting Logan for about five hours this evening. Picking them all up from Ivy's school this afternoon. Ivy's friend is coming home with us and Logan is being dropped off to me there. Little tyke has been reeeeeeeally sick the past two weeks. He needs Grannygirl, LOL, to snuggle him up. And Grannygirl needs to snuggle him up...But, being Grannygirl, I'll be tearing my hair out by the time his parents pick him up! LOL...

Take care and blessed be you and yours, Cheryl! Sabrina.

[DavidMc]

A very moving autobiography ... It just makes it more amazing that such a humanist as you could flower from those seeds.

Love, and respect..

David

[anirbas]

Thank you, David.

For the love, respect and everything...

Love, Sabrina.

[Sam]

The world is full of savages......

Were they just born without a heart......


Sam

[anirbas]

No...Just unenlightened...Good to see you here, Sam...It just is...Sabrina.

[monicamack]

Dear Samantha:

Just now (plodding new member that I am) I came upon your riveting, deeply moving autobiographical sketches. What a catchy title: "What's in a Name? What's in a Religion?" PLENTY!

Although I'm grateful that Satan didn't enter into my own story, we (my older sister and I) learned early in life that names and religions matter a great deal to a host of benighted people, not just unlettered children, but adults with multiple university degrees. And it continued all my adult life thus far as well.

Ask my sister lying helpless, bruised and bleeding, on the fabled and supposedly meltingpot sidewalks of New York, having been kicked in the stomach by a bunch of bigger kids (whom she couldn't see because of poor vision). She refused to cry, and then they whispered in awe, backing away reverently: Oh, she's like Saint Teresa -- she isn't crying!

We also know the stigma that comes with being poor. We were on welfare when I was little -- strange, a family where both Mama and Daddy were professionals, and yet poor health dogged our family since Day One. I learned very early in life that, when the breadwinner of the family (the Dad, in our case) can't earn a living at his profession, which was a very dangerous one, entailing much traveling, wearing two guns, etc., and when the R.N. mother chooses to be with her family, including her ill husband and her two small daughters, one of them born with eyes 3/4-developed, rather than take on a nursing job far away that would result in no family members seeing her during critical daytime hours, and the result is "welfare," one gets it from all sides. Is it true you're on relief? Your father's a drunk, isn't he? he's dizzy when he walks! (In fact, he had difficulty walking, suffered from a heart condition, checked out as "real" by a physician before welfare was granted. He was anything but a drunk -- hated alcohol, couldn't even tolerate the smell of it, and had an aversion to the substance after he saw what had happened to his show-biz siblings. I remember, at the age of three (3), going for a walk with him in our alley, and he said: Oh, I can't go on -- hold my hand -- I'm dizzy! I must have been really little, because I looked up anxiously into his face, and he seemed tall to me and he was really dimunutive, especially since he had to be professionally such a tough guy. And, because Daddy was homebound and we had no car, and we couldn't get a barber to come to the house, we'd hear: Oh, your Dad must be a hippie; his hair goes down to his collar! When our mother would go to a barbershop (we were not allowed to have a phone; we were not allowed to have more than powdered milk!) and plead for a barber to come to cut the hair of her sick husband, the barbers would wink slyly at her, thinking her another hooker on the make. We lived in a rough (but very beloved) neighborhood. Yes, there are many ways of persecution, our name and our religion being only a couple of them.

Your eloquent Tale certainly hit home with me!

By the way, do you like Ray Bradbury as much as I do? I thought his Dandelion Wine (early book) was one of the best "poetry" books I've ever read though it's supposed to be prose.

Best regards,

Monica

[anirbas]

Monica, you're to cute...Because I'm such a teaser, I can't resist pointing out,
I'm Sabrina, not Samantha...LOL...Though, odd or not, I've been called Samantha by those who couldn't pronouce or remember Sabrina, by some of my friends over the years...

Childhoods can break or make us, sadly. Honored you shared your riveting childhood remembrances in this thread, Monica. Thank you. Sincerly, Sabrina.

[Sam]

Samantha?? Well, I never!!

Sam

[anirbas]

ggglgggl...