God and Girl–Chapter 20

God and Girl is my first novel, written in 2015. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

“I have a special assignment for you.” Mr. Johnson said as the bell rang.

“I started this last year and believe it can be quite meaningful for you.  And, it is a good way for you to stretch your creativity.  I trust it will cause you to really think.

Here is an overview.  Also, in a few minutes I will hand out a sheet describing your assignment in more detail.  

I want you to assume that you have died and that you are still conscious.  You can imagine that you have gone to Heaven or to some other place.  Or, you can imagine that you are lying in your casket.  You think of someone.  It is the one special person you know and whom you have a unique relationship with here now in this life.  This can be a parent, a sibling, a cousin, a classmate, or a former or current friend.  You pick but take the time to think of the one person who you need to come back to and have one final talk.  Assume you yourself will not be able to come back, at least in bodily form, but that you will mail or otherwise transport your words back to that person.

Obviously, you are to create a poem.  You may follow any form you want. It most likely will be free form prose, but you can decide what you like most.  Your poem can be any length, but please no more than 10 pages.  I do have to read them all.

Your poems are due no later than the Wednesday before

Thanksgiving. Please submit your work to me through Blackboard.

Please spend the rest of the class in private contemplation of your assignment.  Please no talking.  This is a very individual assignment.  Try to make this as real as possible.  I believe this will greatly improve the quality of your work.

Joanie, would you give one of these to everyone?”  Mr. Johnson said handing her a stack of papers.  

I sat quietly across from Ellen and looked over at her.  Our eyes met, and we smiled but we didn’t say anything, just as Mr. Johnson had instructed.

He had a policy starting with the first-class last year.  If you are working here in class on an assignment, you can move to any empty seat in the room.  He knew that the fewer distractions around us, the better our ability to get in the poetry zone, he liked to call it.

I took my notepad and pen and went to the back of the room next to a large window.  I turned my chair around, so I could have the sun’s light warm my face, and maybe inspire me to where I needed to go with this interesting but somewhat troubling assignment.  I faced the window and the sun with my eyes closed.  I had closed my eyes, so I wouldn’t be distracted by all the outside activity.

The room was quiet, a little eerie. The sun was much warmer than I had thought it would be.  It was as though the rays coming through the window were being magnified. I even began to sweat just a little, which was unusual for me.  I removed my sweater, but I didn’t back away from the window.  I had learned that sometimes in pursuing my poetry I encountered life more intensely.  Maybe it was just me being more observant.  Either way, I liked using nature, or allowing nature to be itself, to reveal itself to me in new ways.  

It reminded me of the time I was at the City Park, in my secret spot.  It was a Sunday afternoon and I hiked up the steep hill that was behind me.  I had done this a million times before.  That day I was troubled about what my Mom had told me, how when she was young she had fallen in love with a guy and they had a sexual relationship.  Mom was very young, in the ninth grade—like me.  I was wanting to write about this because it was so dominating my thoughts.  That’s when I decided to take my little hike, hoping to spur my memory and my imagination.

As I started up the hill, I decided that I would go blind, that I would pretend I was blind.  I took the bandana that was around my neck and blindfolded myself.  I didn’t think I was being too risky because I knew this patch of woods.  I started back walking but was nearly overcome with a sense of newness, of almost being in another world.  And in fact, I was.  I was in a world, a dark world, where rocks and trees are moving, jumping here and there, of low hanging limbs crawling, and spider webs lunging at my nose and eyes. I had become unstable, unbalanced, so I stopped next to a tree that had reached out and touched my hand as I was feeling forward for something similar and substantial.  The tree was probably six or eight inches in diameter.  I didn’t know what type of tree it was, but it had mountains and valleys, pointed and steep.  These vertical grooves were always there, always when I had come before, without blindfold.  Maybe I had touched this tree a million times.  But never noticed how perfect the ridges.  It was as though the tree held itself out to the world as a straight and narrow tree with its skin, its bark, being much like the other trees around it, around it in its neighborhood.  I imagined this tree had some secrets down in one or more of its valleys.  I tried but my fingers were all too wide, too thick, to feel down between the bark ridges, down into the valleys.  But, I knew they were there.  What secrets did they hold?  Would the neighboring trees be shocked to learn of this tree’s secrets?

I couldn’t help but think again of Mom.  I even felt naive.  Why had I never learned this lesson before? The lesson that we really don’t know those around us very well at all.  Yes, we know she, speaking of mom, is kind, gentle, encouraging, loving, a great cook, a faithful wife, a committed and dedicated professional teacher.  I’ve heard serial killers have this side to them.  Gosh, I’m not thinking Mom is a serial killer.  What about Dad?  What would I be shocked to learn about him?  What about Ryan and Lisa and Sarah?  Oh my, what about Ellen?  Do I really, truly know my sweet Ellen?  My mind raced.  It seems to do that when it was put on a thought slide.  Is Ellen a serial killer?  Seriously, what is the most shocking secret that Ellen keeps locked down in her heart, way back in the dark dungeon, deeper than the chamber where little Ella enjoys her eternal sleep?

“Ruthie, Ruthie, it’s time to go.”  Ellen said as I returned from the hill above the City Park.  The sun had done its thing.  I was sweating as though I had hiked up and down that hillside a dozen times.  The sun’s inspiration had led me down a surprising path, not one that I would have guessed when I first sat down.  It seemed like I had wasted the last thirty minutes.  It seemed I had gotten off on a tangent.  I was disappointed that I hadn’t made any progress in finding a good direction to pursue my ‘After Death’ poem.

“You look like you’ve been running.”  Ellen said.  “Or, have you been dreaming of me?  I do have a way of getting you to sweat.  Ha, ha.”

I got up, walked over for my backpack, and walked out into the hall.  Ellen followed asking me what had gotten me so worked up.  “Later my love, remember Mr. Johnson’s instructions, this is a very private assignment.  At least for now.  Once it is complete, I suspect we will share our creations.  I know I will.  And, I hope you will too.  I must grab a book from my locker.  I’ll meet you at your car in a few minutes.” “Okay, I’ll be waiting.”  Ellen said.

I had to have a few minutes to myself.  I felt I had to put a bookend on what I was thinking when I was ‘awakened’ by Ellen.  The question I hadn’t posed but now had to, just as always when I am deep in thought.  What does this mean?  I was referring to my blindfolded walk, and more specifically, the tree’s secrets, Mom’s secrets, my question of Ellen’s secrets.  Is this what I am to draw from that walk?  Is this something I need to pursue in my ‘After Death’ poem?  I don’t really know yet, but I must engage with it in writing.  I never know for sure until I have written about it.  It’s like I don’t know what my thoughts truly are until I have played around with them on paper—just like Virginia Woolf I guess.

I grabbed my World History textbook from my locker and walked to Ellen’s car in the parking lot. 

“The usual?”  Ellen asked.

“Always and Forever.”  I said.  For several months, we had been going to Dairy Queen after school.  It had become a ritual, more like a tradition. A Butterfinger Blizzard was calling my name.

Ellen dropped me off at home a little before 5:00.  Dad was already home.  Early for a Thursday.

Mom had her usual great supper prepared.  And for me, a salad.  She didn’t much like me having my dessert before dinner, but she chose her battles carefully.

It has always been a requirement that whoever is home at meal times must eat together.  I sat down and poured a ‘quart’ of Ranch dressing over my salad while Mom passed the cheese-less broccoli to Dad.

“Honey, how was your meeting?” Mom asked Dad.

“Pretty standard.  I met with six pastors from Walton County, Georgia.  All but one of them was from Monroe, the county seat.  It is about half-way between Atlanta and Athens. The churches with the most interest were First Baptist, Grace, Faith, and Calvary Baptist churches. I laid out the entire ‘Take a Stand’ program.  They said they intended to encourage the Walton County Baptist Association to call a special meeting of all 110 churches to discuss adopting ‘Take a Stand.’  Dad said.

“Do you think your marches, literature distribution, talk show appearances, and social media blitzes are doing any good?”  I asked.

“I have to believe they are.  Certainly, we are raising awareness of the attack on our religious liberties.”  Dad said.

“From what I hear and see on the news, you are doing a good job of isolating the church, of building a wall between the church and the world.  It certainly seems the world is moving away from the church and towards less judging and more acceptance and love.”  I said.

“Sounds like you are getting more and more entrenched in the homosexuality philosophy and rejecting your faith.”  Dad said.

“No Dad, I’m searching for the truth.  And, the more I read and study, the less importance I find in holding on to the idea that stories such as Adam and Eve, and Noah’s Ark, in the Bible are historic facts.  What I see is that one group of people, the group that should know better, your group Dad, is creating a caste system.  You are saying that Christians have all knowledge and they, therefore are superior to homosexuals and anyone else who doesn’t believe like you do.”  I said.

“Honey, do you think the grouper is too spicy?” Mom said to throw a stick into the racing wheel that was spinning hotter and hotter.  “Truce you two.  I am setting down a new rule.  It is now off limits to discuss politics or religion or anything similar at meal times.  My food, as good as it is, is not enjoyed when we are disagreeing and arguing.  I’m serious.”  

“Okay, I agree.”  Dad said.  “But, when can Ruthie and I debate this world-changing issue?”

“On your own time.  The two of you need to spend more time together anyway.  You might find that there is some common ground between you, if you would both set aside your pride and truly listen to each other.”  Mom said like a true political science professor.

“Okay Mom.  I agree too.  I truly must go now.  I have school projects to attend to.  Dad, don’t worry. I still love you, even though you are a bigot.  Ha, ha.”

“Thanks darling.  I love you too.  As I always say, infidels need love too.”  Dad added.