Mother Knows Best

By Jennifer Veenboer

Religion in general was one of the topics my mother warned me not to talk about in public. It was one of her golden rules. This rule invariably left me confused as a child and throughout much of my adolescence. If religion was not to be discussed in public, why was it such a popular topic for strangers to approach me with?

My first memories of religious public dialogue go back to the age of six. People would stop me on the street, follow me through the grocery store, pursuing me anywhere and everywhere, telling me about God and His ways. Being the obedient child I was, dialogue of this kind was considerably one sided. I couldn’t figure out what I had to do with "God’s" way and why people kept saying they would pray for me. For the longest time I thought it had more to do with the injustices of having bright, unruly red hair, for which I was relentlessly teased by friends and family and often the butt of bad jokes.

It wasn’t until adolescence that I began to realize these people were referring to my disability! What a shocking revelation! It was as if my amputation was a homing device and these zealots were actually courier pigeons dutifully delivering the message of God.

The older I became, the more open these people were with discussing God and His ways. Simple comments like "God has His reason you know" or "I’ll pray for you" turned into games of 21 questions followed by full-fledged commentaries about God’s wrath.

As time passed I also became more familiar with the process of dialogue. It was almost as if they shared the same script! It always starts with the "what happened" followed by the "Did you’re mother take any drugs? Well, she had to have done something my dear for God to do this. Oh, you poor thing, I’ll pray for you."

For years I never knew how to respond to these people, until one fine day...

It was a warm day in July. I was on my way downtown, wearing what all people wear this time of year -- shorts and a T-shirt, my artificial leg in full view for all passers-by. Enjoying the walk, I had not noticed the homing device going off.

"Hello dear, what happened to you?" A voice said from behind. Flushed and panic stricken, I knew it was too late. There was no place to hide not even a church nearby to take refuge. "Oh! Umm, birth defect," I responded in a nervous tone. "Oh! You poor thing. Why did this happen?" What do the doctors say? "Just one of those things," I said, hoping it would end there... but it didn’t.

Through a long drawn-out explanation about birth defects, I was informed once again that God and my mother have had some harder times in their relationship. She relayed that my limb deficiency was the obvious outcome of my mother’s blasphemous behaviour, "a form of punishment," she said.

I could feel the anxiety in me reaching an all-time high. This woman just kept going on and on, relentless in her analysis of my disability and God’s role in it all. Finally, she asked, "Do you think you’ll ever find a kind man who will take you in and care for your needs?" Before I could stop myself, before I had a moment to think, I turned to the woman and said, "I hope not, my husband and my boyfriends might not like it."

I never witnessed such a look of complete and utter shock on someone’s face as I did on hers. In a matter of seconds, she was gone. Not a "good-bye" not an "I ll pray for you," not even a "God bless you." The only sound I heard was the click clacking of her shoes as she turned and scurried away. For a moment I felt ripped off! I wanted to yell, "wait... we re not finished... You forgot to tell me you’ll pray for me!" But I didn’t.

When I think back to that incident I wonder: had this woman no shame? Obviously her mother hadn’t shared the golden rule: "Never
talk religion in public." Don’t get me wrong, because I don’t practise in public doesn’t mean I have an axe to grind with religion, its followers or God. I just to like to think of it like Ronald Reagan does: "We’re all Christians, Jews, Muslims... Why can’t we just get along and fight the Commies??!!"

(Jennifer Veenboer lives and writes in Toronto, ON.)

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