My father was there for Hollis when he needed advice. I would be willing to bet that he gave him the birds and the bees talk. I can’t imagine the man he would have become if his real father had any part in raising him. The world doesn’t need any more men like him. Hollis didn’t have any issues getting attention from girls, and his father would have simply thrown a box of condoms his way with a pat on the shoulder. He would have been lucky to get through high school without contracting at least one sexually transmitted disease.
The only time I recall his parents vocalizing their right as his parents was when he asked to attend church with us one Sunday. They were adamant that he not go because they did not believe in God, and they didn’t want him to be influenced by a church. I always wondered if they were mostly concerned that Hollis would learn all the ways they were morally wrong. As if he didn’t already have eyes and ears of his own to figure that out.
It wasn’t long after his tenth birthday that his parents got divorced. Lucky for us, his mother got the house in the settlement and we could remain neighbors. His father had an affair with a long-time mutual friend of theirs, and his mother made the mistake of returning home early from her yoga class. It wasn’t the first time his father had a strange woman over. Over the years, roughly half of our class ended up becoming a product of divorce. Those classmates always seemed to struggle. Some had regular visits with the school counselor or their family therapist. Not Hollis. He was thrilled. His mother was definitely negligent, but his father was always the negative energy in the house. Now that he was gone, he could breathe again. His mother went through numerous boyfriends, and even one fiancé, but she called that off. Now that she had her divorce settlement, she didn’t really need a man for anything but fun. She didn’t need a nanny for Hollis, either. She had my parents for that. I’m relieved that she didn’t make an effort to get to know us. It may have made it difficult after everything changed.
3
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A-Day
I was a freshman in high school when we were sent to our school auditorium, in lines by class. The echo of a couple thousand teenagers romping through the halls at maximum volume was irritating my third period social studies teacher more than usual. He was sweating through his button-up shirt and snapping at students who were not getting to their seats on the bleachers. Our principle, Mrs. Max, approached the podium and demanded everyone’s attention for an important announcement.
“Before I begin, you need to understand that these new rules are now federal law. The school has not made these decisions, but we must enforce them. As of today, no students will be allowed to practice prayer, speak of their religious beliefs or have possession of any religious property on school grounds. If any of these rules are broken, you will be sent home and any religious items will be confiscated and disposed of. We have placed large bins at the end of every hallway, so you can eliminate any items that are currently in your possession or stored in your lockers.”
There were some random bursts of laughter from a couple students who clearly thought this was a joke. They were shut down immediately. As she stepped down from the podium, the chatter picked up louder than before. I had nothing to say. All the commotion around me was drown out into a faint buzzing in both of my ears. I could see mouths moving, but all I could hear was buzzing. As the news began to sink in, most of my classmates could care less. They carried on with their normal gossip and making plans for their weekend. The few who would care appeared to be in the same daze I found myself in.
Typically, Hollis and I walked home together, but that day my mother was waiting for me when the bell rang. I loaded my bag into the car. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she casually says, “Keep a smile on your face, like everything is normal. Your father is waiting for us and we will all discuss this once we get home." I pasted on a fake smile and stared ahead in silence the rest of the ride home.
My father takes my bag as we walked through the door and asked that we take a seat in his den, so he can lay out our new ground rules. I cautiously take a seat on the sofa next to my mother and place my hands on my lap. He closes the blinds behind us and takes a seat.
"I have scoured the house and I can confirm that we have not been bugged. Other residents in our area were targeted as potential terrorists, and their homes were infested with them. We will not give up our faith, but we will be smart about the way we practice it. Moving forward, there will be some ground rules that we all need to abide by. If asked how we feel about the new laws, your response will always be that it was an adjustment, but we understand why our government felt the need to make these changes. You are not to pray aloud. Not outside of this house or in this house. Ever. We will continue to take time to pray, but it will be internally. When referring to prayer use the code word "meditate.” We cannot risk being recorded and taken into custody. Every Sunday, we will have brunch as a family, followed by a brief Bible study in the den. This will only be conducted by myself, and I will have our Bible encased with the same wood as our floor paneling. It will be placed under the floorboards in the den. I will perform a search of the house for any bugs prior to each weekend, since that is when we spend the most time at home.”
None of us cried. I thought he might be taking this all a little too seriously. Did we really need to worry about someone planting a bug in our house? I mean, how dangerous could a small suburban family like ours be? I didn’t have a clue how bad it would get. I was an ignorant, fifteen-year-old girl, and I couldn’t imagine it would result in such hateful violence. Later that week, we relay the rules to Hollis since he usually took part in our family gatherings. He understands that he can never repeat anything to his mother. Not that she would make meaningful conversation with him, but better safe than sorry.
At school, kids were being sent home for quietly saying a prayer. Any personal items with religious connection were confiscated and destroyed. There were riots throughout the city. People were running through the streets burning Bibles. Police force and Army troops were beating those standing in protest at church doors as they attempted to replace the stained glass with standard windows. Children were ripped from their parents' arms and placed into foster care. Their parents were hauled to prisons designated specifically for "religious criminals." There are rumors of the religious prisons exceeding the abuse endured in federal prisons, but no proof has surfaced. The borders were slammed with swarms of people fleeing the country, and others lining up to get in. Eventually, Immigration Customs put a freeze on the borders. Christmas Day became “Winter's Day.” The lights, snowmen, gingerbread cookies, and presents all stayed the same; as if to say, “Don’t worry everyone, we don’t have to miss out on all the fun, even though the meaning of the season is no longer a thing.”
It was three months in, and the riots finally started to die down. The Shepherd family lives two houses down from us in our cul-de-sac. Their daughter, Maggie, is four years younger than me. She is your typical, awkward preteen. We didn't know each other well since I am older, and decidedly too cool for her. Our parents were always friendly, and we had gone to the same church. I have just finished shoveling a pile of pancakes in my mouth and was racing out the door to meet up with Hollis when she comes bolting up our porch stairs. I nearly trample over her. Her whole body is trembling. Tears are streaming down her face. Her eyes look permanently pried open with terror. Two government officials restrain her before I can ask her what had happened. Her arms are stretching toward me, reaching for a lifeline. I just stare at her as they cart her off to their vehicle, surely to become a foster child with an agnostic family. Her mother is screaming so hard the veins in her neck were bulging. I’ll never forget their faces, and that I just stood there. I didn’t do anything. The next day, a for sale sign appeared in their front yard. A few months later, another family moved in. I keep Maggie in my prayers every day. I pray that her foster parents are kind to her.