Daughter of the Patriarchy Series by Sierra

Daughter of the Patriarchy ~ Two Snakes and a Virgin – The Serpent’s Seed

Feb 252010

by Sierra

I was about nine years old when I started paying attention to some of the doctrines that were slowly infiltrating my life over the past two years. I’d stopped wearing pants or cutting my hair by the end of the first year, following my mother’s lead. The last pair of pants she wore were a lovely pair of wide-leg trousers with a sheer lace overlay; they could pass for a skirt until she took a step. She wore them to church, then threw them away – she felt “convicted” for wearing a man’s garment. She threw away her makeup, too, keeping only a sheer moisturizing lip gloss as a token of her past.

I liked my new dresses, and I liked the long hair slowly descended across my shoulders. I’d begun to look like some of my favourite book characters: Anne of Green Gables, Pollyanna, Jo from Little Women. And so all of my old tomboyish clothing smoothly faded away without a fuss. But as little as I missed these things, I was taken aback by the sudden realization that Christmas was over for my family.

Christmas did not go without a fight – from my father. He grew increasingly uncomfortable as my mother spent more and more evenings at all-night prayer meetings in believers’ homes, and her stylish wardrobe began to fade into dull, baggy flea-market dresses. Her hair grew jaggedly out of its layered bob, and she began to resist his carnal desires for sex, money, and ostentatious living.

My father had visions of the high life – spurred on by the infrequent but massive work orders he received for his small business. He saw himself at the head of an illustrious new corporation, and proudly passing it on to the next male heir. I gritted my teeth when he mentioned these things, wondering if I could prove my mettle and pass for a son, since, no thanks to me, the chance at a son seemed to have died two years prior. Maybe if I’m smart enough, I thought, he’ll let me take over the family business someday, even though I’m not a boy.

“Hello, Miss Dog-Meat.”

Daughter of the Patriarchy Series by Sierra, NLQ Stories No Responses »

Feb 012010

by Sierra

Every so often, a story circulated around Message churches. Our pastor related it with a twinkle of humour in his eye. The precociousness of little children was always a failsafe source of amusement in a world that afforded so many sinful entertainments. Children quoting scripture were even better. Out of the mouths of babes, it was oft repeated, the Word of God was made perfect. And so, it was with paroxysms of mirth that the following anecdote was passed around.

One day, a minister’s wife was out doing the grocery shopping with her family. Her youngest boy, then only four or five, spied a worldly woman in the supermarket. With frank and immediate assurance, he called out, “Hello, Miss Dog-Meat!” He looked up innocently to his mother for approval, who could not correct him – after all, the words he’d spoken had come from the prophet. Surely God would use the boy’s words to convict that woman of her immoral lifestyle. Her son had spoken the Truth – the Word of God was a seed, which would surely bring forth good fruit in the woman’s life if she but yielded to the chastisement of the Holy Ghost.

What was wrong with this woman to draw such censure from a small child? What aspect of her appearance instantly gave away the grave moral deficiencies of her character? She had been wearing eyeshadow.

Daughter of the Patriarchy ~ A Jewel or a Trash Can

Daughter of the Patriarchy Series by Sierra, NLQ Stories 2 Responses »

Jan 192010

by Sierra

119590444

William Branham with a woman in his prayer line. (He would lay on hands, pray, and they would walk away healed, allegedly.)

If you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always had an answer. If you asked again in ten minutes, it would be a different one. I wanted to be a figure skater, detective, veterinarian, zoologist, writer, astronaut and archaeologist – and not just one at a time. When I went outdoors to play, I climbed rocks and saw them as mountains. When I jumped over streams, I bravely bridged rivers. With stuffed animals as my companions, I sailed pirate ships and submarines and narrowly escaped devastating wars through wit and determination. I harboured refugees and defeated tyrants. In the house, I turned huge cardboard boxes into storefronts and sold pets to imaginary customers. The bar in the basement was converted to a restaurant where I served gourmet meals to my four-footed friends and ran a lucrative business.

And so it came as an utter shock when I began to talk to my friends at church about the future. “What do you want to be?” I’d ask them, dreaming of sailing off to Europe in a wooden ship and forging a new life from grit and grease.

“Oh,” they would say, “a mom, of course.” Genuine surprise crossed their faces at the consideration of anything else. They told me how many baby boys and girls they wanted and what their names would be. They told me about their future houses and the music that would play at their weddings. Their words rattled against my ears, lifeless.

I stared at them in defeat, and wandered off toward the woods where the boys were playing with sticks fashioned into swords. If there was anything I didn’t want to be, it was a mother. The church made motherhood look like a living death. It meant confinement to the house, a constantly bulging belly, eternally wiping up spittle and piss and listening to the grating wail of infants. It meant serving perfect meals to a man who couldn’t make toast. I watched my own father as he concluded his meals with a barked, “Coffee, woman!” and was aghast to see my mother scurry to put water in the coffeepot. As soon as I was old enough to learn, I began to set up the coffeepot in advance and discretely plug it in before he had finished eating, desperate to stave off that disgraceful command. It didn’t work. When I moved to help my mother with the dishes and lessen her load, it drew comments that boiled my blood.

“Look at my two women in the kitchen, just the way it should be.”

I’m not your woman, I seethed inwardly. I may be your daughter, but I belong to me. Continue reading »