When I was twelve, I wanted to feel god. I wanted to know god the way everyone around me seemed to know god: intimately, deeply. They talked about god like torch balladeers talked about great loves. I felt nothing of the holy ghost unless I was singing. I felt nothing unless I stole glances at the pretty church sister who lived around the corner from me. We took the bus home together from school, too. I was told to cling to her because it "made sense" to have a friend in both places. I didn't know I had a crush on her back then. I wanted to be around her because she was supposed to be a good, holy influence on me. I wanted to know god.
I remember going to some youth night thing. Church sister, we'll call her Belinda, was on the ministry outreach team. She was 4 years my senior and often looked out for me at school. I was an awkward and sad 7th grader, while she was a sophisticated high school junior. Our tiny K-12 school's uniforms shifted from an always itchy plaid skirt to a sleek, no wrinkle wine colored jumper. I always said I liked those jumpers and couldn't wait to get to 9th grade. In hindsight, I liked what I saw in them. I did not want to wear them. I didn't understand myself. I didn't know what made her damp palms and delicate, thickish fingers feel so alluring to me -- I thought it was the god I wanted to know. I was looking for god in her hands. God wasn't there. I felt guilty as I stood before the pulpit, being prayed into and over. I was anxious to have a transcendent experience. Would the fire of the holy ghost come find me, using Belinda as a conduit?
I closed my eyes. She embraced my face and began to speak. There was so much chatter around, so much noise. I could barely focus on anything after "heavenly father..." I felt nothing except the hot emptiness of desire, the rattling and echoes of loneliness. I wanted to know god. Could she take me to him? I sensed Belinda's cinnamon kissed breath, inhaled her perfumed aura of Luster's pink oil, Isoplus oil sheen, and her body spray of choice. I don't remember the clothes she had on, but I recall the weight of ritual in the fabric. She was dressed to tend to the unhealed and unsaved; her garments were of service to her mission. I should not notice the way her belt pulled the fabric under her bustline. I should not have wondered what it looked like if I followed those sheer stockings to their logical end. I wanted her to embrace me, usher me into my own holy place. I wanted to know god. I thought other people were the way. The praying stopped. I spoke sheepishly, "thank you, god bless you," and went back to my seat.
I wondered if church was my place. Maybe not that church. Definitely not those people. They never felt like home, like family. None of the fellowship was meaningful to me. I was a weird kind of sinner; I didn't do wild things. I simply didn't know the social rules of church. I had no encyclopedic knowledge of the bible with which to impress teachers and flex on my classmates. I had no need for promise rings, virginity pledges or whatever. I just knew I wouldn't have to worry about it boys for a long time, or ever. My body didn't belong to me; it belonged to expectations of heterosexuality and monogamy; it belonged to true holiness. I tried to make myself smaller to appease humans. It didn't matter to them. I tried everything I could. I wanted to know god.
I ended that school year knowing I wouldn't return for Belinda's senior year. She wanted me to come back and see her graduate in June of 1994. I said I would, knowing I wouldn't. I didn't know how to say no to her. I was flustered. I was nervous and nauseous, thinking of all the times she was physically close to me ... the way I held my breath without thinking about it. I reacted to her with equal parts curiosity and confusion. I didn't understand my feelings. I know better now. I had a crush on Belinda and I knew it wasn't socially acceptable, so I kept it all to myself. I googled her the other day. She's still fine. I'm still bashful about it.
Now, I wonder if she remembers what she prayed for me. I wonder if it's come to pass.
i waz missin somethin
somethin so important
somethin promised
a laying on of hands
fingers near my forehead
strong
cool
moving
makin me whole
sense pure
all the gods coming into me
laying me open to myself
i waz missin somethin
somethin promised
somethin free
a laying on of hands
i know bout/laying on bodies/laying outta man
bringin him all of my fleshy self & some of my pleasure
being taken full eager wet like i get sometimes
i waz missing somethin
a laying on of hands
not a man
laying on
not my mama laying/holdin me tight/sayin
i’m always gonna be her girl
not a laying on of bosom and womb
a laying on of hands
the holiness of myself released
i sat up one nite walking a boardin house
screamin/cryin/the ghost of another woman
who waz missin what i was missin
i wanted to jump up outta my bones
& be done with myself
leave me alone
& go on in the wind
it was too much
i fell into a numbness
til the only tree i cd see
took me up in her branches
held me in her breeze
made me dawn dew
that chill at daybreak
the sun wrapped me up swingin rose light everywhere
the sky laid over me like a million men
i waz cold/i waz burnin up/a child
& endlessly weavin garments for the moon
wit my tears
i found god in myself
& i loved her/i loved her fiercely
-- for colored girls who considered suicide when the rainbow was enuf
*cross posted from an August 26, 2021 post on my patreon site. please consider subscribing as I build my life around my covid recovery.