Chris Cross
Free Writing
My
father is a preacher.
So
was his father.
So
was his father’s father.
That’s
my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather—
all
preachers.
From
kindergarten till right now
everyone
has expected me to be ... what?
Better
than they are?
Better
than I am?
More
religious?
People
act surprised when I’m not any of it.
Once
in first grade I picked up a book and hit a kid,
for
no real reason that I can remember.
And
the teacher just stared at me,
and
the other kids just stared at me,
and
even the kid I hit,
who
was crying, just a little,
just
stared at me.
And
then he said,
that
kid I hit:
“You’re not supposed to do things like
that.”
And
the teacher said,
“That’s
right, Chris.
You’re
not supposed to do things like that.”
And
when I got home,
my
mother said the same thing,
and
then cried while Dad was hitting me.
There’s
a picture we have on a shelf at home.
It’s
a big picture, eight by ten.
It
shows this:
three
men and a little boy,
standing
in a row outside our white church.
All
four of them are wearing black suits
in
bright sunshine.
It
was hot that day,
hot
as Hell—
I
remember it perfectly,
even
though I was only five.
All
four are in the same position,
facing
the camera:
Great-grandpa
is holding a Bible,
Grandpa
is holding a Bible,
Dad
is holding a Bible,
and
I am holding a Bible.
It’s
heavy,
and
I had a hard time holding it
up
to my heart the way they wanted me to,
holding
it up there like the others were doing,
while
Mom took her slow old time taking the picture.
I’m
the only one who isn’t smiling.
I’m
squinting into the bright sun
and
wishing
it
was all over.
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