AM I DESTINED FOR HELL?

My mom is from the south.  Born in Raleigh, North Carolina.  A white woman.  Part of a once affluent family in Raleigh which still has streets and buildings named after them… us.  But she was yanked from that world at the age of 5 to be raised by her Aunt Catherine who had left the homestead for NYC, the giant melting pot of races, religions, cultures where my mom would eventually meet her husband, a charismatic handsome man from India, my father. 

My Great Aunt Catherine lived a wild life as a New York City socialite, drinking and entertaining in their 14 room apartment across from Carnegie Hall.  Her life had ups and downs.  Great love and loss.  Marriage, affairs, divorces.  It was a full life. 

But in her later years struck with her mortality after one of her sisters died, Catherine moved back to Raleigh and became a born again Christian.

When I was 10 years old I was sent to spend a week during the summer with my Great Aunt.

“Pass me that cup,” my Aunt requests.

I hop off my barstool seat in the bright kitchen full of wondrous smells.  My Aunt was an all around creative.  She sewed her own clothes, made her own hats and jewelry, but the best was her passion for cooking.

She pours off a section of the batter.

“When you make friendship cake you always share a portion of the starter.”  Her eyes sparkle with the joy of her process.

“We’ll take this to Margaret tomorrow.  She’ll add more to the starter ingredients, then pour off some for Mary.  We’ve been making this cake together for years.”

I am always learning here.  Pineapple upside down cake, rhubarb pie, even scuppernong wine!  She made it all.  Her love became my love, as I practiced my skills along side her.

“We’ll stir this once a day for ten days before I start the next stage of the cake.”

“Ten days!” I yowl. 

With a mischievous smile she whispers, “I’ll save you some, you can have it when you come back during the holidays.”

Covering the bowl with a dish towel, she sets it aside.

“Precious.  Come here and pray with me.”

She grabs my hand tightly, lovingly.

“Ok, Aunt Catherine.”

Kneeling by her bedside, I feel close to her.  Special.

“Did you memorize the Lord’s prayer like I asked you.”

“Yes, Aunt Catherine.”

“Thank you Jesus.  For the gifts we have.  For the time we get to spend together.” 

She squeezes my hand tighter.

“God, please save my precious niece.  She’s a good girl.  And I love her so much.  Amen.”

She starts to cry. 

I throw myself into her with a big hug.

“Don’t cry.  Everything is going to be OK.”

She sets the Bible on the bed in front of us, shaking her head.

“I pray to Jesus everyday for you.  But I know it won’t do any good.  You have dark blood running through you and there is no changing that.  And I’m so afraid for you.  My heart aches that you are going to hell.”  Sadness oozes from her eyes. 

We hold each others hands tightly still kneeling by the bedside.

Sitting on the plane on the way home, I play out the words in my head.  ‘Going to hell’..  ‘Dark blood’… ‘no saving me’…

Reaching home I wander down into our basement to the small room designated for worship, with the Sikh holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib, on a small table protected by a cloth covering.  I found my father in his usual position, reading out loud from the book.

Wrapping my long flowing chunni around my head to cover my hair, tossing the long end over my shoulder, I quietly slip into my father’s prayer room.  With the tiniest of distraction, he acknowledges me.

I touch my head to the ground bowing before the holy book, one of many rituals I learned over the years.  As I do, I wonder what am I supposed to be thinking, saying, understanding?

Filled with this empty action of wanting but not knowing, I sit on the floor in the corner of the room.   My fathers sing-song prayers wash over me.  I close my eyes and listen.  Hoping for some answer, to be touched by something.  To feel what he feels.  To feel what my Aunt feels as she caresses her bible.

I don’t understand a single word.

Thoughts drift in and out.  Images.  Memories…

Riding my bike through the neighborhood as a small kid.  Passing the tough older Catholic boys who live on the side street..

“Nigger” one of them yells.

Startled I peddle faster.  What did they say?  I don’t know what it means, but they start chasing me.  I pedal as fast as I can.  Knocked to the ground.  Grabbing to get my bike back.  Bewildered.  Scared.  Laughter as my bike is thrown back at me, I fiercely ride home back to safety.

The sounds of my father praying stir me.  I shift uncomfortably on the floor, my knees bent tightly up against me as my mind shifts in time…

The door slams, dad is yelling something about the car.  I rush outside to see that across the entire hood of the car was spray painted the word “Fag”…in huge letters with a circle around it.   

Another image slams in front of me… the furniture.

A visit to my Aunt’s house with my family.  Entering the living room to find all the furniture covered with sheets and an explanation that Aunt Catherine didn’t want my dad to get them dirty.

I open my eyes to take in my dad.  In loving gestures he swings the Chaur Sahib, fanning the holy book occasionally as he reads.  He is calm.  Peaceful.

Covering the holy book, he looks up.  Our eyes meet.

“Dad,” I desperately blurt.  “What am I supposed to be feeling? What are you feeling?  I want to know how to feel what you are feeling.  I want to understand how to feel that.  How do I do it?”

“It is not something that can be explained.  It is something you just know.” He simply says.

I do not know!  I am helpless.

What is this knowing?

My Aunt also has this…  this knowing.  Which somehow tells her I’m going to burn in a fiery hell for all of eternity.

I so want to understand this experience my father has, this place of truth and comfort.  I want to be comforted too. 

He was not alone.  She was not alone.

I continue to visit my Aunt during the next couple summers.  Just her and me.

“Would you like a YumYum?”  She tempts with that look of sweetness.  Ahh, my favorite treat!

We bake.  We cook.  I learn to hem dresses.

We go to church.  Hugs and kisses flow in this strong community.  Bonded together.  I stand inside but I watch from the outside.

And we continue to pray.  And pray.  I hate praying.  Stop judging me!  You unknown entity!  Why does she put belief in you!  

Some one… thing… who supposedly has more control over our destinies than we do?  Who judges without action or wrongdoing?

The words continue.  “I love you,” floats towards me.  The words which once held me in warmth now scratch.  These words.  These lies. 

You don’t.

I pretend to love her back.  But I don’t.  I don’t.  I don’t.

I do all the right actions, put on all the right emotional gestures.

I am so clever.  She thinks I love her.  I AM a good girl.

Years later in the darkness of my college dorm room, the phone rings.  And rings.  And rings.

“Hello, what’s going on?” I mumble with sleepy eyes.

My mom is quiet.  “Aunt Catherine has passed.  There is a ticket for you to fly down later this morning.”

Hanging up the phone I feel nothing.  Or many things.  I’m not sure.

My mom is strong, unwavering as she makes all the funeral arrangements.  I watch as if staring out a window, removed from the sounds, the activities, the feelings.

I choose not to look into the open viewing casket.  Too many people.  Too stuffy.

I wander out into the parking lot.  Meandering between the cars I hear the words, “Precious, I love you.”

“I love you too, Aunt Catherine.  I love you too,” I babble to the bushes.

No, no.   I hate you.  I HATE you.  My body starts shaking.

The tears come.  The knowledge comes.

Folding onto the sidewalk, I bubble over with hysterical pulsing cries of pain.

Yes.  My insides ache.  “I love you.”

It took her death to understand.   I actually do love her.  We loved each other despite our own limiting understandings and beliefs.  We loved something deeper in each other.  It was a feeling without reason.  A truth.  Something we both just knew.