Left Behind: By Jemina.

As adults, we all have certain fears we’d like to conquer--fear of heights, fear of failure, fear of clowns, and whatnot. One of my fears is the fear of being left behind. This fear has been rooted deep within my soul due to several instances as a child that at left me paralyzed with fear. You see, being the baby of the family had its pros and cons. I was more spoiled, it’s true, but that’s more because the novelty of child rearing had worn off by the time I arrived, and Syl just didn’t have it in her to tell me “no” most of the time. Syl’s child-rearing fatigue syndrome also led her to delegate. A lot. In fact, Syl delegated my supervision to my sister Joy much of the time. Unfortunately, this usually resulted in my being wholly unsupervised whenever an imaginary game of “Pioneers” was started (see Davy Crockett entry below). Joy would tear up the stairs to her bedroom like a bat out of hell, grab her rifle and jam that coonskin hat on her greasy mullet so fast, I was alone before I knew what had happened. Over time, I grew used to Joy leaving me alone at home, but the problems started when her absenteeism in public created some unfavorable situations for me.

Although church services on Sunday began at 8:30 in the morning and lasted until noon, we were often forced to remain on hallowed ground as the deaf congregation all clamored for Phil and Syl’s attention. It was not uncommon for a disgruntled parishioner to, in a flurry of hand movements, demand to know something relatively trivial, such as why so and so brought deviled eggs for the potluck and not jello salad like requested? Or why so and so kept their stinky baby in the service instead of leaving and changing their kid’s turd-filled diaper? While Phil and Syl were putting out fires indoors, we kids were usually outside playing tag or running amuck in some form or fashion. We’d play until we heard Syl screaming our names in rapid succession (she refused to actually go and look outside for us) and we’d all load up in our 1985 Ford Club Wagon van and drive home. However, since I was the youngest and most persecuted, I would often go and play by my lonesome to avoid the ridicule that was most assuredly waiting for me wherever Joy and Josh were. Consequently, there were times when I wouldn’t hear Syl’s roll call and everyone would clamber into the van, Joy would fail to mention I wasn’t in the vehicle, and off everyone went back to the house without me.

Sometimes Syl did not realize I was missing until we approached the house. Sometimes, though, it wasn’t until everyone sat down to eat lunch that she discovered I had yet to make an appearance. However, no matter the time of said discovery, there was no effort made to go and retrieve me. Phil and Syl, ever the pragmatists, figured that the bus that took the inner-city kids to and from church would also take me home. This happened so often that it almost became a routine for me to seek out the cluster of poorly-dressed children (a category in which I fit myself), tell the bus driver my plight, and ride along, a beacon of paleness amongst the Caucasian, Hispanic, and African- American masses.

My agony doesn’t end there, my friends. Due to the fact that I was raised in a strict Independent Baptist household (re: compound), we were constantly reminded that “THE END WAS NIGH.” This meant that the Rapture was sure to happen any day or hour. If you were sinful, of course, you wouldn’t be Rapturetized and would be left on earth to suffer the pestilence, flames, and famine of the Tribulation. One of Joy’s greatest pleasures in life was to tell me that I wouldn’t be Rapturetized because I was a snotty-nosed kid who often disobeyed my parents, even though my disobedience was, more often than not, at her suggestion (an evil ploy to keep me out of heaven? I sincerely wonder). As I was far too simple-minded to figure out Joy was a pathological liar, I tended to believe that I’d better shape up or else I wouldn’t be shipped up to heaven. Now, readers, place yourself in my already overgrown feet as a 6 year old--you’re minding your own business outside of church on a Sunday afternoon, trying to avoid the bullies who happen to be your own brother and sister, and all of a sudden BAM! Everyone around you is gone. Panic sets in as you conclude everyone’s been Rapturetized, and who, exactly, is going to take care of you? Scary, isn’t it? Welcome to my childhood.

I eventually realized that being left everywhere was not attributable to The Rapture, nor to the fact that my parents hated me, but merely to the combination of a large family and an older sister who wished she were the youngest. But don’t think that just because I’m old enough to drive myself places, I don’t have my oldest brother (still the most devout person I know) on speed dial just in case I have a Rapture-related panic attack. I may be older, but I still am terrified of being left behind.

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