In the Shadow of Fundamentalism

Chapter 3, parts 5, 6, and 7

Love Does Not Boast

In addition to the new social pressures of high school, there were a host of normal difficulties that accompany the later stages of education. For the first time since fourth grade, higher math and science became very difficult for me to remember and follow. Perhaps partly due to the distractions of being in enclosed spaces with these young women, and perhaps because of all the social conflicts and changes around me I found myself losing scholastic ground.


My brother, then a shining example of what HCA was created to inspire, taught the required Spanish class in our high school. Even though he was himself only a student, he became faculty at HCA, and brought reports of my consistent failings in class home to my parents. This forced an unnatural conflict between us, continuing the rift begun in our early childhood.


Unable to evade the stress of school even at home, I took to long periods of sleep. Often I would sleep on the morning ride to school, on the evening ride home from school, after dinner, and all night until the morning again. Truly I began to hate and avoid my life as much as possible.


My issues with obesity began to ride on my mind as I watched my friends in their first high school crushes. I was always the quiet boy whom the women failed to notice, and not having any examples of ugly men with girlfriends or romantic success, I felt like my weight was dooming me to lifelong loneliness.


I often sat in the moments I was awake in the recliner chair in my room, locked in a duel of wills with God Almighty. Balanced on the roll of fat above my navel was the point of one of my father’s knives, its point drawing a small bubble of blood from my white skin.


“Send me to hell,” I thought (for the penalty for suicide is understood to be Hell.) “I am already in hell.”


Sometimes I would dare God, “Change things, or I will end this pain now. Prove to me You exist. Prove it.”


Other nights I would retreat to fiction. I escaped into the “Lord of the Rings.” I had adventures with the Dragonriders of Pern. I read about Asimov’s robot mysteries and delved into the spectrum of Shakespeare’s tragedies. Alone, in my room, I was an eclectic scholar of the human condition. Only when I left that sanctum did I cease to be interested in anything but survival.


In this same period of time I turned my mental focus upon the mysterious phenomenon of sex. Pouring over my mother’s textbooks from nursing school I first learned of female anatomy and the concept of orgasm. For all this fascination, I was forced to keep that information secret and hidden for years before I was even strong enough to admit I had an interest in sexuality.


I believed strongly that, although sexuality was a part of human nature, it was somehow even less pleasant than the functions of defecation. As such, no woman would ever be interested in me if I was attracted to her physical form or curious about her in a sexual way. Even though no living heterosexual teenage male can avoid being curious about women and sex, I thought I was alone in my obsession, and kept it hidden like a criminal hides his crime.


My outward face to the world was a cliché pulled from the pages of “Morte de Arthur,” the chivalrous code of the romantic knight. Medieval armor became my protection from the prying eyes of my world, and the cruciform sword was my defense against my most hated adversary, myself.


As I read Arthurian lore, I found the dark secret of King Arthur’s incestuous bastard child Mordred, and felt kinship with those romantic attitudes about forbidden sexuality. I rejoiced with Tristan as he drew his naked blade and lay it between himself and Isolde to keep his promise, and I saw Lancelot ruin an empire by indulging in physical temptation with Gwenivere.


That Medieval European mythology would perfectly compliment fundamentalist attitudes about sexuality never worried me. I was lost in a maze of circular thinking, viewing the female form as a source of destructive temptation and simultaneously believing the spirit of womanhood to be a redemptive force in the world.


Only Fundamentalist thought could so thoroughly divorce mind and body as to make these ideas seem feasible.


It is Not Discourteous

One of the prime experiences HCA had to offer the high school students was the annual trip to WEC, a missionary base in northern Pennsylvania.


Because of the vast number of stories about the pranks and adventures that occurred on the yearly WEC trip, I was naturally thrilled to imagine my chance to experience a genuine adventure, not to mention a break from the daily grind of classes.


Apprehension about the long ride not withstanding, I claimed a seat near my best friends in the back of one of our school vans and settled in for our rambling conversations about nothing and everything to fill the time. Unfortunately for me, I was in Pastor Dave’s van, and I knew from past experience that he would attempt to be involved in and direct our conversations as much as possible. Sometimes I wondered if he was afraid we would talk about something other than God or church, and did everything in his power to keep us from straying from his life’s work of molding young Christian minds.


Chatting in hushed tones, Spike and I sat and compared events from the “Fellowship of the Ring.” I was particularly fond of the section in the mines of Moria, wondering what strange things lurked in the depths of that awful dungeon.


About fourty-five minutes into the drive, Pastor Dave called Spike and I to the front of the van. Like guilty children caught talking in class, we faced his barrage of questions about our quiet conversation in the back.


Earning himself a harsh glance from me, Spike calmly stated that we were discussing the works of Tolkein.


“These are books you guys are reading?” Dave asked us.


“Well, I just finished and I…” I was about to try and change the subject. I could think of nothing less pleasant than to summarize the entire plot of those books for the pastor of our church and face harsh discussion about books containing sorcery and magic rings.


“Yeah,” Pastor Daved said almost to himself, “Those were good books.”


“You read them??” I blurted out.


“Of course. Did you know that Tolkein and C.S. Lewis were good friends? Probably a lot like you and Spike.”
I was floored. Speechless. I had no idea if he was serious of if it was some sort of trap.


What I learned from those few minutes of conversation before the subject was carefully turned to the wonders of Biblical literature was that David Hackett was a normal man, in most respects. He had once been interested in fine literary works, in beautifully crafted fiction and in the power of the word upon the page. On some level, perhaps long past, he was one of us.


It is Not Selfish

I often ask myself what kept me going to HCA. I hated my life, I considered suicide regularly, and I had nothing left to lose. So why stay?


There is but one power that can tame the mind of a teenage boy in turmoil. It is the power of the possibility of love.


Somewhere along the path, I believe at the end of seventh grade, the beginning of eighth, there was a sudden infusion of change into the upper grades of HCA. I heard about this change from my friends, who had been at the local mall the first night these beauties were spotted.


Four of my friends sat in the food court overlooking the escalators as four young ladies – the daughters of missionaries supported by our church – made their first entrance into our social scene. The joke, of course, was that the family was a variety pack of beauty, A redhead, two brunettes, and a blonde for our appreciation.


I learned that one of these four was in my grade, which I had endured by myself for quite a while. Arthurian romanticism poisoned me in the moment I learned this simple fact. A sense of fate, of possibility, and of change all dawned upon me simultaneously.


Here was the daughter of a missionary, sent into the world to save lost souls, and I was very lost. Here was a beautiful woman for the boy with no crush. Here was a classmate for the lonely student. In a world governed by the will of God and providence, this was no whim of Chance.


I was doomed from the moment I first saw her. Doomed to wish, and pine and write poetry and waste away inside at the miserable joy I felt in knowing her company. She was, quite literally, the most beautiful girl I had ever spent so much time with, and I felt increasingly attached to her. In my mind, she was the beautiful damsel of my Don Quixote impossible dream.

posted by NY Monk @ 12:34 PM