Innocent or evil?

Man is inherently evil I'm told. I keep the news from my atheist friend who's spending his retirement in service to others. I won't tell him because I understand the power of perspective. It's a lesson I learned quite young.

By the time I was six, I had decided not to leave childhood. I took this stance with the fierce determination of one who had seen the future and didn't like it ... and with the naivete associated with children and other idealists.

I had reached this pivotal point in my young life not by accident but by observation. By sneaking suspicions that materialized into full blown conclusions the day the missionary came to our home.

Before his appearance, I had already suspected that growing older meant growing unhappy. I saw adults as joyless. They were the spoilers who told me to be a little lady when I wanted to run; the ones with never-ending reasons why I shouldn't pick the flowers, touch the knick-knacks or put my hands on the glass. Before the missionary came, I had also begun to fear that my sister, some two years older, was falling prey to this brand of misery. She began citing their rules. She was becoming one of them.

You might suspect that I was demon spawn. Yet, doing bad was never my intention ... despite evidence that suggests otherwise.

On the morning that the missionary arrived, however, none of this was on my mind. Our home was brimming with excitement and I was caught up in it. Not only was a visitor coming, but one unlike anyone I'd ever known; one who had lived in Africa! My siblings and I were already gathered in the family room as he entered through the side door with my father.

This was to be an important meeting. With Father in his first year of seminary, it would help my parents decide whether or not to enter the mission field. I'd already been instructed not to badger our guest with too many queries, but upon seeing a small bundle tucked under the missionary's arm, my curiosity got the better of me and soon questions were pouring forth.

“What is that? Is that from Africa? Are the people there naked all the time or just sometimes like in National Geographic? Do you speak African?”

Undaunted by the onslaught of questions, our guest -- a kindly, pale man -- soon took center stage. With all eyes fixed upon him, he revealed the contents of his bag -- a carved wooden object -- and asked if we knew what it was. I was quick to respond. “A doll,” I said. I loved dolls, but a cold fear had already struck my heart that this man, before he left Africa, had stolen some poor little girl's plaything.

“No,” he replied. “This is an idol. This is what the African people worship. They think it's a god.”
With all the worldly wisdom of a six-year old, I was skeptical. “It doesn't look like an idol,” I said. “It looks like a doll.”

There was a sense of unease in the room as my mother arrived to usher us to the table for lunch. I know this because I was getting the look. I saw it on my sister's face. And my father wore the look so sternly his two eyebrows had scrunched into one. “Children are to be seen and not heard,” my mother reminded me.

As we began the procession into the kitchen, the missionary placed his African momento on our television set and, turning back to us, announced, “this TV, it's an idol, too.” To which my father said, “Amen.”

I don't know what Mother served for lunch. I don't know what passed for conversation. I don't know because, throughout the meal, my mind never left the wooden carving on the TV.

It wasn't long before I asked to be excused from the table. With a feigned nonchalance that should have aroused suspicion, I meandered back into the family room to re-examine the figurine. I studied the object from all angles. I admired its worn, round face and dark painted eyes before finally daring to pick it up. Seeing wooden pins at the shoulders, I carefully I rotated its stiff arms until the doll seemed to reach forward toward an embrace.

Maybe the missionary didn't have a daughter of his own. Or perhaps she didn't play with dolls like I did. I gingerly cradled this one in my arms and carried her to the sofa, wondering what her life had been like in Africa and what little girl must have loved her.

I was lost in those thoughts when my father returned with the missionary from their meal. The men froze together in silence as they spotted me on the couch with their idol tight against my chest. I wasn't innocent; this they knew for I was embracing what was forbidden. But was mine the face of evil? Certainly they must have wondered.

I still can feel the sting of the spanking I received that afternoon. But stronger yet was the angst that came with the full understanding that my own observations would always be discounted when up against the beliefs of those who make the rules.

In some ways I did grow up that very day, despite my best intentions. Although I had to keep the lesson hidden, I learned that what we see is colored by what we expect to see ... what we want to see. Perhaps even by what we fear.

Was the carving an idol? Or was it a toy? It depends. How do you see it?

Comments

[Tammy Warren]

I grew up in a household that had been ripped apart by adults casting stones on beliefs such as this. My mom became pregnant at 16, ran away...married..and had 2 more children back to back. My grandmother was extremely strict with her growing up. No pants, no dancing, no living basically. My mother ran and fell into a pit fire worse than what she was running from.

What is so strange, is the very person (my grandmother) went full circle. She never let on to us that she had ever "cast those stones" at my mom. She never treated her grandchildren the same as she treated her own. I believe she saw what damaged she had done to my mother. I also believe that she took these secrets with her to her grave. I loved her and respected her more than anybody. I look back and wish I had asked her why? I never did. At the time I had convinced myself the punishment she was given was enough. The guilt she felt for being this way. I know this because later in life...she did not preach anymore. She did not judge others. She was somehow trying to make a peace with herself. She knew if she were at peace that she would be a kinder person. I just wish she had told my mother she was sorry.

Enough said...you seem to open plenty of drawers for me lately. I have to shut them for now. Thank you for taking me there in my mind.Really...I find peace these days in strange ways.

[Haizum]

This is a wonderful post. :D

I guess whether or not it was a doll would depend on which part of the world one was brought up in. In mine, it could be both.

I wouldn't deign to say that I know the differences between child and adult (I'll admit, I haven't quite crossed over), but I think what's important is for a child to learn respect, for everything, especially differences. It would help to lessen the shock when they find things dissimilar to what they're used to.

[Brenda]

Well, after reading many of your own posts, I'd have to say, "yes," you are just as awesome! ;) By the way, I just cringed when reading your post on the ingredients in school lunch foods at http://theangryeducator.blogspot.com/2008/05/come-on-kids-eat-jamwich-theyre.html

It's not what I consider brain food!

[Rebecca]

Just like you said: "what we perceive is colored by who we are." Therefore, if I perceive the opinions in this blog to be... AWESOME... does that make me awesome as well??

[Brenda]

Great comments, everyone!

Evi, good point about the extra layer of meaning adults ascribe to things. Young children don't have that capability for some time.

Pepsoid, I thought you might be interested in this post! Wouldn't it be wonderful if all children were seen, heard and appreciated? Still, I'm a better adult for having had the experience described here, because now I take the time to truly listen to children. (I can tell that you're going to make a great dad!)

Fay, Thanks so much for dropping by my blog and for promoting it on your site!

Titania, Your words really resonated within me! Like you I've decided that I will not be "a policewoman of God" as you so wonderfully put it. I think that so much more damage than good is done by those judgmental approaches and I'd rather be the nurse that helps spirits mend afterwards.

Pam, I'm glad you've stopped by and commented! And I'm glad to hear you still haven't grown up! We need to hold on to our innocence and sense of wonder for the world as long as we can! So, you go, girl!

[pam]

What a wonderful post! At 50 I still swear that I'll never grow up.

Oh, it was definitely a doll. ;)

[Titania]

It was a doll. I agree that as adults we can choose to take the reins of our predecessors or we can choose to follow our own inner light of love. To be quite honest I was raised in a very fundementalist Christian background. I will have nothign to do with organized religion. But... I take the beauty from the world's teachings and look at the words with a child's heart. Untainted by intolerance, hate, fear and all the other banes of organized religion.

I enjoy life by not being a policewoman of God. Actually, no one has the right to be. Never could figure out how mere humans could truly understand the thoughts of a loving God and yet still manage to show such hate.

It was just a doll but loved by those who held her. How can love be evil?

Wonderful post.

[Fay]

Brenda, you have done a wonderful job with Enroute 365. Very insightful. It's an honor to have it listed in the Blogging Women directory. Keep up the outstanding work!!

[pepsoid]

Children *are* innocence... they become corrupted and stifled by the rules of adults... they should be seen, heard, listened to, respected and learnt from... a doll is a doll!

[evi]

children and adults obviously see things in different ways. a child sees it for what it appears to be while adults give it a whole new meaning beyond appearance. your perception was purely innocent.