The People’s Revival

You know, as a working class gen-x guy, let me say this.

My dad went to work and came home, and that was it. No throwing the ball, or “How’s you day, pal?”, that didn’t exist. 

Pretty much my only interactions with him were when I needed disciplined. Back in those days, the belt was ever-present, even if emotional attachment was not. 

I’m not saying he is a bad man, he’s not. He survived a far worse upbringing, no comparison. 

And he tried to do better, you know? 

Back then, a lot of Moms stayed home. They were there when you woke, and they were cleaning when you slept. Juggernauts, really. 

But my mom was sent to a reform school at like 15, because they couldn’t feed all the kids. She had 15 brothers and sisters. 

So she didn’t have it easy either. 

I remember being able to leave to go camp with other boys for 3 days at a time. Alone. By 10 I was gone for like a week at a time. 

Once the sun came up and the day started, I was expected to be out of the house. Back then, in my house kids were to be seen and never heard. Ghosts. Obedient ones.

But life outside that was better. Once I left the house, you went on your daily search for all of your friends around town, or your neighborhood. The pile of bikes outside steadily accumulating more bikes until it sat like a beacon fire to anyone else wanting to join in. 

And we were really alone. My parents were religious at that time. I mean by that that they were holiness Pentecostals, yes, amen! So I had this kind of double life between my role as the invisible kid, and the person that I was with my friends. 

Sit still!

The stinging snacks that everyone heard but nobody saw. 

The Pentecostal pallet in the back or outside when you dared push it further than constrained violence and fear tried preventing you. 

And young me, having brought some toys and blankets for falling asleep under the pews in the event that the Spirit hit. 

Just memories. 

Outside of that environment, we became ourselves. Inside of it, we were giggling zombies performing for adults. 

I remember once my cousin and I were in the usual position under the pews. We weren’t just cousins, me and Davey, we were brothers in crime. He had gotten stuck with the name Percy because his grandma, who raised him, liked the name from Harelquin Romances. True story, poor guy. 

Anyway, so we are under the pews with He-Man figurines and coloring books, when all of a sudden the Spirit hit the room. We knew this because the preacher was yelling and adding -uh to just about every word. 

So we put down He-Man and that condor thing from the show, and start peeking out from under the pews. 

Sure enough, the front had filled and those folks had got to dancing! Someone else would start in with tongues, another would interpret, and someone else, right in our view, started to twirling. 

And I don’t mean slow, he was so caught up to God that he didn’t waver a bit. He just lifted his hands and twirled in a circle. 

Well, to two kids under those pews, 8-9 years old, that is comedy gold. My cousin started it, he starts going “WOOooooh” every time that fella made an orbit. Real quiet, so the adults can’t hear us. But by that time, they are so caught up in the Holy Ghost, and there was such mighty tongues and prophecies coming forth, they couldn’t hear us. 

So he starts going louder each turn of the man, and every time he does I start to laughing. This is a cardinal sin, the Pallet or the empty nursery room is the only judgment here. 

But then he starts rolling his eyes and it was over. I start laughing so hard that my side hurts, and so does Perce. I mean, loud enough that the music stopped and we didn’t notice. 

Next thing we knew, Sister Johnson had one of us in each hand and we were headed for the empty nursery that was far enough away that the crying babies wouldn’t disrupt the service. 

She was this stern old woman who had less pepper than salt. Being Holiness Pentecostal, yes, amen, her skirt went to her ankles, her sleeves to her wrists, and her bun all the way up where the Devil can’t go. 

I remember being hit so much that it changed my relationship with her, she was the Sunday School teacher. I never even looked her in the eye after that, to tell the truth. 

That was religion to me.