first chapter of my book (maybe)

I have been wondering lately at what age I might have begun to sin. The Catholic Church, in particular, speaks about an “age of accountability,” which makes me think that before this age, one might not sin, at least not in a truly willful or rebellious sort of way. Still, it is obvious in any culture that a battle between obedience and defiance play a major role in a child’s upbringing and lifestyle, and an interesting thing to think about is a child’s growing awareness of his or her own sin nature. At what age this awareness might come and under what circumstances. A good part of my childhood consisted of testing out the proverbial waters, pushing the envelope, and struggling to find at least a “sense” of freedom. My parents were the oppressors, and I lived under their iron fists of justice, daring every now and then to find a few more loopholes in the law code.

One day, when I was around two or three years old, my mother was cooking in the kitchen at our home in rural Mississippi. Steam rose above a pot on the stove, as it shook and gurgled, occasionally sending a piping hot droplet of water onto the floor. When the macaroni noodles were done boiling, my mom removed the pot and walked over to the sink to drain the water. “Don’t touch the stove,” she warned me, as I looked up at her with the sort of desperate curiosity you come to when you “push through” to the other side of boredom. I hadn’t even thought of it until then, really, but now that she mentioned it, it would be interesting to know what the eye of a stove felt like when it was still glowing orange-red. I had to get over there before it faded back to its original dull and black state. I took one more look at my mom, who, by that time, had made her way to the kitchen sink and was standing there with her back to me, using a measuring cup to dole out the right amount of margarine into the mix. I knew I had little time before she would turn around again, so I quietly shuffled up to the stove, and not thinking about why I wanted to disobey (other than the fact that perhaps my mom was keeping me from something really grown-up and exciting), I grabbed the eye of the stove.

This lesson proved to be a meaningful one for a time, but after the pain wore away, I would find another way to “buck the system.” In first grade (not that I was the paragon of obedience between these two incidents), the dynamics of the system had changed quite a bit. In addition to parental authority figures, I had teachers and a principal to try to appease, and with that, a whole new source of temptation. 13 tempters in class with me. Day after day. At the end of each day, the “car-riders” would wait for our parents or other delegated chauffeurs on the back steps of the school. Rows and rows of steps created what could be likened to an amphitheater. We were instructed to remain on the steps until we saw our parents or were otherwise summoned by whichever teacher drew the short straw that day and had to wait with us. That day, my father (who stayed at home during the day and was a “class mom” that year) was running late, and with no structured activities to keep our six-year-old minds occupied, we naturally began a game of “truth and dare.” When my turn came, I asked for a dare. Ike Munn, the “bad boy” of the class, dared me to walk outside the school gate and to squat down and stick my rear end out into the road.

I had no problems whatsoever completing the dare. With all the chaos of after-school kids playing and teachers talking with parents, I easily slipped through the crowd to do what no one believed I could. It felt good to earn the respect of my fellow classmates, and I was glad that the school day had ended with such a high level of personal accomplishment. My short-lived high was squashed pretty shortly thereafter, when my dad pulled up to the school in our old Pontiac. An authority figure to me at the time (a girl from the fourth grade) walked up to my father and told him that she had witnessed my reckless behavior. By the time I made it down the steps to my father, he had that familiar look on his face. I walked three paces behind him to the car, staring at the ground the whole way. You see, my dad did not understand the gravity of a dare. The words “double dog” or even “triple dog” meant nothing as I fumbled for an explanation, any explanation of why I had sat in the road. Before we had even made it to the house, my dad reached into the back seat, and I learned a new lesson in proper behavior, with special regards to traffic safety and the adherence to of school protocol.

Up until this time, I understood the world, or my world, rather, in terms of cause and effect. Obedience merited rewards, even if the reward was just a lack of a punishment. But as I got older, I began to understand the sin problem less as a behavioral or social issue but as a fundamental, intrinsic, even ontological malfunction that existed within me. Sinning did not only involve the breaking of rules or the damaging of another human being. I could sin alone just as easily. And sometimes I felt bad when I did certain things that no one even said were wrong. It was like there were invisible and unspoken rules inside of me, and I could sense when they had been breached. Like Adam and Eve, I became aware of my own nakedness. Something was wrong with me.

When I was seven years old, I went to stay overnight with my grandparents who lived in coastal Mississippi. My granddad was a tall, loud-talking preacher, who had a heart for the poor and loved people with true compassion, but, I have to admit, his booming voice intimidated me as a child. My grandparents had always taken an active role in my upbringing, and my grandma tended to me like a mother, except with her, I had a little more say on what was for supper. Grandma always gave me a bath, got me ready for bedtime, made sure I took my Flintstone’s vitamin, etc. On this particular trip, Grandma did not make me take a bath that night, and it felt as though I had gotten away with something. I tried to play it cool, like it was commonplace for me not to bathe, not wanting her to change her mind about it. But I discovered when I woke up that although she had been tired the night before, she wanted to make sure I was “good and clean” before we went out shopping that day. She came into my room and told me to go ahead and get undressed, and she would start my bath.

Granddad was downstairs having his morning coffee and reading the newspaper when the telephone rang. “Betty, it’s for you!” his voice ascended up the stairs. When Grandma left to go answer her caller, I knew I had to think fast. I ran into my room, opened up my Mickey Mouse suitcase and put on my pink shirt and shorts that my mom had packed for me to wear that day. The logic behind this move was that Grandma would see that I was already dressed and would not want to go to all the trouble of undressing me, bathing me, and dressing me again. But somehow, as I heard her coming back upstairs to finish what she had begun before her interruption, I knew my plan was not going to fly. So, I hid…in the closet. “Mallory? Mallory, are you hiding from me?” I heard her walk away. A few minutes later, I heard a voice from downstairs bellow: “Mallory! You better let your grandma give you a bath! I’m getting a switch!”

Now, I had gained enough life experience in my seven years to know that receiving a spanking from my granddad would not eliminate the bath requirement. I slowly came out of the closet and began to take off my clothes, crossing my arms in front of my body, my shoulders raised and stiff. When Grandma came to put me in the now lukewarm water, I was unable to meet her eye. I will never forget the embarrassment. “What’s the matter? You didn’t want me to see you naked?” I shook my head, as I stepped into the tub and submitted to the bath. For the first time ever, I knew I was naked, and I didn’t like it.