A/N: This is more of a rant rather than a story, but I just had to get a few things off of my chest. Enjoy!
Every summer in July, my stepmom, dad, my brother, and I go to a week-long overnight summer camp. For christians. We’ve been going for three- or four- years. But since, the last time we’d come, I’d realized something. I didn’t believe in God. I’d never been big on church, I’d hated it, actually. Every Sunday that I was with my dad, we would wake up early (though I’d always been a morning person and a night owl. I was basically raised on no sleep, but it never affected me), take showers, and get dressed in our stiff suits or, for me, a ruffly, soft pastel dress. I’d dreaded the long hours sitting in the uncomfortable chair, listening to the preacher warble on about the lord. I’d enjoyed four things about church: the food (on Wednesdays), my friends (we would always play in the hallway when the church band practiced – my dad was the drummer – and we would steal coffee creamers and sugar packets from the kitchen when the cooks weren’t looking), the music (I might’ve had a small crush on the lead singer of the band. What? I was, like five!), and the grape juice (wine for the adults) and bread at every service. Other than that, I wanted nothing to do with church.
I’d never been a really spiritual kid, either. I said my “Now I lay me…”s every night, but I never prayed at meals or any other time (only when my grandma on my mom’s side was around. She’s really spiritual and makes us pray everytime something bad happens or whenever we’re about to eat. Even at dessert!). I’d always loved the idea of owning a bible, and I’d had a few. But I’d either lost them or damaged them beyond repair. The last one left was a bright pink one with an orange band around it that my mom gave me an eternity ago, but I threw it away recently.
Another highlight of my church times was the little booklets that the church would hand out. My brother and I had made up this whole world full of magical creatures – giant birds that you can ride, horses faster than a cheetah, etc. – and everytime we got our hands on one, we would pretend it was a spellbook, reading things that weren’t there, waving pretend wands and controlling our make-believe world. It was so much fun.
Now, onto the point of me even writing this! As I said before, every July my stepmom, dad, my brother, and I go to this summer camp for christians. It is seven days long, and there are “tents” all around the camp for people to sleep in. My stepmom’s mom owns a small, wasp-infested tent near the edge of camp. This year was my first time staying the entire week there. Last week we had only slept there about three days.
But this week was different, and not only because of us staying there all the time, or the fact that I would participate in this year’s redneck-style volleyball tournament. It was different because I was sliding in there with a new set of cards. I was an atheist, this time around, and only three people there knew it. One didn’t care (my brother), and two were trying to change it (my stepmom and dad, but more on that later).
Since the past year I had also gone through an “emo phase” (though I’m still not over it), so the first anyone saw of me was a flash of a face behind a sleeveless hoodie. My friend from the previous year (let’s call her Rose) recognized me immediately. I was honestly shocked. I had changed a lot since last year. My hair was short-cut and I had glasses. She had gotten glasses, too, and her hair was now shoulder-length, but she has a face that you cannot forget. My other friend (let’s call her Sarah) also recognized me. We spent the first day together, playing on the swings or playing volleyball. I’d always been good at serving, so they wanted me on their team. I declined, too afraid that I would embarrass myself.
My family had arrived a day later than everybody else, so we had missed the first youth service, the first night service, and the first social. I was moved up to the four o’clock youth service with my brother and Rose because I was old enough then. Sarah was still in the two o’clock service because she was two years younger. The first day was really boring. I found out that for the entire week, we would be learning about the grace of God. At the time I had no idea what that meant, or how important it was to the pastors. At the youth service, we would sing songs and do fun activities and games. But I was “too mature” for that. My personality had also changed a lot. I had gone through a “dark time.” A lot of people in my family started rapidly dying in my family, and their deaths hit me hard. I started not sleeping at all, afraid that if I fell asleep, when I woke up, another person would be dead. My head wasn’t in the right place at all, and I started going to therapy. After a year of no more deaths, I was doing much better. Both of my parents had gotten remarried, my dad only giving my brother and me a weeks’ notice before their wedding, and it was hard to deal with the changes.
Over a year later, barely over an hour until midnight of New Year’s Eve of 2017, we got a call from the hospital. My mom’s mom’s mom (my great-grandma) had been in the hospital for awhile. My brother and I had visited her earlier that day. The operator at the hospital said that my great-grandma was dying, and she didn’t have much time left. This hit me hard. I loved my great-grandma, more than any of the other people that had died. We were playing poker and watching tv, waiting for midnight. My grandma, mom, and uncle hurried off to say goodbye. My mom and uncle didn’t return for one, worry-filled hour. We had tensely played poker (not to brag, but was winning. I had gotten much better). They informed us that she was not yet dead, and that my grandma was staying with her. My grandma had recently lost her sister and her father. I was also worried that losing her mother might just break her. All she would have left was her other sister. The ball dropped, we celebrated. My grandma came home a few minutes after midnight and told us that my great-grandma was dead. I was heartbroken. Her funeral was the only one I cried at and, boy, I cried hard.
I eventually got through it, but I was different. More mature, less trusting, more cautious. In my opinion, I had changed for the better. My friends didn’t notice because I had also gotten better at acting like I was okay. But I was also more fragile, yet tough at the same time. I was crying at one moment, and smiling the next.
The youth service bored me to death, but I kept my thoughts to myself until I reached our tent. Only my stepmom was there, my brother was off with his friends and my dad was back home, he had to work. My stepmom was very laid-back and sweet, quite the push-over. She was the easiest to talk to.
“Do I have to go to the youth service?” I asked innocently.
“Why not? Don’t you like it? You get to hang out with Rose and your brother,” she had replied. She seemed slightly panicked.
“True. But it’s boring. The games are ridiculous and we’re talking about the grace of God all week,” I whined. My stepmom mulled this over a bit.
“You won’t have to go for the entire week if…” she paused, “you listen to the preacher tonight.”
I had not realized what her intentions were with this until I texted my mom about it. I had been complaining to her all week, though the cell service was horrible and only one of the tents had internet. My mom was fuming.
She doesn’t like the fact that you don’t believe in god. She’s trying to change you. Don’t let her. Once I realized what it meant, I was mad too. I couldn’t believe such a sweet, innocent woman would do something as hurtful as this! But she was afraid of what her family, they were all big christians, would say about my atheism. She didn’t want them to know, she wanted me to change my beliefs. I was really mad. But I listened to the preacher preach that night and, guess what he talked about? You guessed it, the grace of God! He explained what it truly was, and I mean no offense to the christians out there, this is just what he said; God does everything for us, and no amount of work can get us anything without His help. This made me mad, too.
Now, onto the volleyball team! I was one of the two organizers of the team (I had finally decided to join). It was Rose and me organizing everything: everyone’s positions, who would tie-dye the t-shirts we would make, everything. I helped with recruiting, the whole shebang. And guess what they did? They had signed up for the volleyball tournament when I wasn’t there, I was with my stepmom running an errand. When I returned, they showed me the list of players because we couldn’t remember who was on the team. I noticed my name wasn’t on the list.
“Oh, shoot,” Rose had replied.
“Crap,” Sarah had said, “we forgot to put your name down.”
Hurt immediately began to course through me. The max for our age limit was eight players, and we had ten. None of the other players were willing to be alternatives, so I was one, along with the other extra kid. But he didn’t seem to care. I did, I really did. Rose insisted that I helped tie-dye t-shirts, even though I wouldn’t get one because I wasn’t officially on the team.
“There are only eight shirts,” I had said before we started, hoping she would catch my drift. She didn’t.
“Yeah…?” she had asked.
“Isn’t there one for the alternative?” I kept the hurt out of my voice, but I was too kind-hearted to back out of tie-dying now. It hadn’t been Rose’s fault, and nobody else on the team wanted to help tie-dye. They were at the bonfire roasting marshmallows while we worked our butts off.
Rose had shaken her head and started on the first shirt. She just rubbed some dye on. I tried to tell her that that wouldn’t go through the entire shirt, but she wouldn’t listen. She did her four in the exact same stille, the exact same way. For mine, since I was more experienced in the tie-dye department (my school did it every year), I did swirls and bulls-eyes and lines, making each shirt different. I wanted the players to stand out. I soaked them in dye and, though it covered the table and the floor and each color bled into each other, I was proud of myself. When we finished, Rose rushed off to roast a marshmallow and I stalked back to my tent. I was sad and angry. I told my stepmom what was going on and she was outraged. She rushed off to the store to get me a shirt to tie-dye. I waited in Rose’s tent for over half an hour, but my stepmom had not returned.
My stepmom’s grandma, who owned the tent, asked me what I was waiting for.
“Melissa’s getting me a shirt from the store to tie-dye,” I had answered.
“You mean to tell me that you came in here and did all the work, and they didn’t even get you a shirt?” she asked, angry. I nodded.
“I’m the alternative,” I reasoned. Despite how much my friends had hurt me, I didn’t want them getting in trouble.
“That’s no excuse. I’m sure we have a spare shirt somewhere.” And she had rushed upstairs to search for one. I sat there for a good five minutes until she returned. She held up an off-white shirt and said, “is this good?”
“Yes, thank you,” I had replied. Rose’s aunt had stepped in at that moment.
“We have extra shirts from Lincoln’s (her son) team,” she said. I smiled and took the shirt she offered. I made stripes in ym shirt with rubber bands and tie-dyed it yellow, green, and a little bit of blue. When we opened the shirts the next day, mine was beautiful. As I had predicted, all of Rose’s shirts were mostly white space with a little bit of color. Mine were all dark purple, but the color was all the way through.
The next day at the tournament, I wore my colors with pride. Our team lost on the first round, but I was still proud of my shirt. When I got back to my tent, the other tent owners and my dad were there. They were talking about next year.
Next year… they still didn’t like me being an atheist. If they were nice, caring stepparents and parents, they would understand and accept that I was not a christian and that I did not want to go to the services or the youth group.
The tournament was on the last day and, the next day, we said our goodbyes and parted ways.
Camp this year was fun, sometimes. But it was mostly filled with anger and hurt and I, honestly, wish it had never happened. My stepmom and dad are still struggling to accept my religion, but I’m dealing and I can see the light peaking through just on the horizon.
Thank you for reading my rant/story.
Narrative Nonfiction
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