Growing up, I always told people that once I graduated from school and became an adult, the first thing I did would be to move out of the South, and head to New York, Ontario, London... any place where they'd never heard of chicken-fried steak, and ain't wasn't part of the collective vocabulary.
Two years ago, I graduated from college with a fancy communications degree. And I moved... back home to Kingsport. And everyone asked me Why.
At first, I gave the normal answer. "The economy sucks, man. No way is it a good idea to move anywhere right now."
Then, because I was so sure I'd someday be a Serious Writer with Deep Thoughts, I waxed philosophic about getting back to my roots, because after all, don't heroes have to return home to find salvation? And I am the hero of my own story, right?
But the real truth?
The previous reasons, sure, but to be honest, I just think the Bible Belt is a really, really funny place. I'm not kidding: it's hilarious. No where else in the world is Target deserted on Wednesday nights, and the difference between Freewill and Missionary Baptist is of earth-shattering importance.
And, because this is the Bible Belt, I'm blessed with a job that requires me to ask people about their religious affiliations. Try that in New York, and you're violating someone's First Amendment rights. But here, not only do you get a cheery answer, but at least a dozen times a day, the response goes something like this:
"Oh, honey, I'm a member of the First Freewill Baptist of Cedar Creek, and it's so important in my life! You are saved, aren't you? A nice girl like you?"
Let me be clear: IN NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM AM I BASHING RELIGION. You have the right to believe and practice whatever you want, and you can talk my ear off about it; I'm a naturally curious person and I like to learn about other faiths. However, once you ask a question like that, you are a lie target. Sorry. It's a compulsion.
Also, even though my grandmother's not actually Catholic, she instilled in us enough of their theology that the whole "being saved" thing was never part of our religious vocabulary. So when people start talking about how/ when/ where they were saved, I start feeling like I'm back in fourth grade, when the cool girls were comparing the party favors they got at Tera Swan's tenth birthday party, and I had to awkwardly smile and congratulate them on their bounty.
That's a lie. I was totally invited to that party. But it makes for a pretty apropos comparison, no?
But I digress. To get to the point of today's story, just know that when people ask that, at leave five times a day, I get to say this:
"Actually, I'm Jewish. We don't really do the 'saved' thing."
Nine times out of ten, I receive a polite smile and awkward silence, as that patient summarily dismisses me from his or her life. However, for the occasional Nosy Nellie, I have to invent a synagogue in Kingsport (according to Google, there are none around here), and ad-lib a few tidbits about Jewish culture.
My heartfelt apologies to Jewish people everywhere. But if anyone's offended, I think you're missing the point. I win at lying, with one exception.
Several years ago, during the Tennessee State Fair, what had begun as a lighthearted day amongst the fair-goers quickly turned tragic. A (quite possibly) well-meaning woman from the Southern Baptists' Convention asked my friends and I if we were saved, and reminded us that if not, we're forever barred from the Kingdom of God. One my cohorts was a preacher's daughter; she quickly said Yes. The other was actually a Southern Baptist, so she said Yes, too.
Of course, being me, I said I was Jewish, and, because the fair turns me into quite the little smart-ass, I asked if that was OK.
She smiled warmly, and told me that, "of course the Jews can be saved, if they want! Jesus was Jewish, you know."
"Yeah, I know that; I actually have a bumper sticker that says so!"
At this point, my friends edged away from me, so as not to be struck the the lightening inevitably headed my way.
I started to walk on; after all, I had clearly won my lie.
However, this is where the story goes all wrong.
She smiles the quick, triumphant grin of a tiger who's separated the fattest, slowest goat from the herd.
"I'm sure you do. But do you realize: since Jesus was Jewish, I'm actually more Jewish than you are?"
Seriously, and this is an open question: how does one answer that?! For the first time in my little lying life, I was rendered speechless. I walked away, my head hung in defeat.
Later that night, I came up with dozens of quick, quippy replies. In every retelling of that story, until now, I shoot one at her, I win, and for the rest of her life, she welcomes people of other faiths into her fair booth, where they share lemonade and sing "Imagine" in a great big sharing circle.
Also, because this blog is my own little confession booth, I need to let it be known: whenever my co-workers ask me about my church habits, I tell them that I'm Catholic. I can't use the Jewish excuse; they know I'm Italian, and seriously, I'm not sure if you can be both. Never mind that I don't even know all the words to a Hail Mary, and I have no idea what makes Mass so special from other church services.
If lightening strikes me for this, I pray to St. Francis of Assisi that it misses my dog.
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