Christian Fundamentalists Have Better Morals Than Everyone Else, Right?

Remembering the good old days of P-O-T-A-T-O-E

The red upholstery on the church pews signified the blood of Christ. I used to run my fingernail along the crosshatch of the fabric, counting threads when the pastors started screaming about “this world” and “those Jezebels and hussies” and “the sweet coming of the Lord Jesus Christ.” Now I know this was a dissociation technique but in 1992 I thought of it as my way to get through uncomfortable moments at church. Stare. Focus. Keep your head down. Trace the same letter in your notes over and over and over. Doodle. Sermons lasted about forty-five minutes; this would be over soon.

I graduated high school in ‘92. My dad bought me my first car—a white Dodge Horizon I called Gladys (because she made me glad.) I worked at a day care and saw movies with my friend Michael. In this memory, we’d recently seen Aladdin, gushing over how transportive the animation had been, especially on the magic carpet rides. Now I know how innocent and naive we were at 18 but in 1992 I thought we were on the cusp of art and sophistication. Take classes at the community college. Obsess over each bite of food consumed. Listen to DC Talk with friends from church but in the car blast Alanis Morissette.

In ‘92 I was beginning to get interested in politics. George H. Bush was our patriotic favorite at church, and I liked Barbara and her pearls.