More On Being A PK...Part II

Pops always stressed to me, still does, that I should "...get connected with a black church. The black church will lift you up like no other..." Understand, I have no beef with the black church itself but growing up as a PK, organized religion in itself, particularly Christianity is a wall I'm not ready to scale back over at this moment. Maybe never. He wanted me to have an all encompassing "black church experience." I think in some ways this was to legitimize my blackness being that my looks are somewhat ambiguous to others.

The irony of the situation is that while we were a black family, the churches my father was always appointed too were largely white. Usually affluent and in very white areas. It was odd. The only time I remember being grounded in the black church experience was as a child in Kansas City, Missouri. The church was downtown and seemed huge to me.

Three sets of pews filled the sanctuary and red velvet cushions covered the seats. The ushers, women dressed in white, patrolled the aisles, catching those who fell gracefully to the floor in the throes of the holy spirit. The pulpits sat on either side of the altar, a stage for the men to speak their word and convey the message. I remember watching my father up there, telling the congregation to pray for me and my scarred knees. (I was a shameless tomboy, much to my paternal grandmother's chagrin.)

My mother would sit patiently, listening, sometimes jotting down notes while my sister and I squirmed, turned around to see where the other kids were sitting, or just annoyed each other, provoking a stern look from our mother. After the service we ran downstairs for the reception in the large hall with its own industrial sized kitchen. I wove in and out of the crowd, around men's dark pants, brushing by women's chiffon and silk skirts and would pause momentarily to look upwards at the hats...the hats always kept my attention. I remember the music of course, the music that I listened to above all else. That was my experience in the black church. Colors of reds and blues, greens and purples with textures of velvet and satin and smells of incense, candle wax and old ladies'pocketbooks with mints and kleenex and choruses of Amen and Can I get a witness?

After that, the churches my father was appointed to were largely white, wealthy and as you can (or maybe can't) imagine, a very different experience. The music was different, there were no impromptu outpourings in the middle of a sermon, the food was certainly different (I miss the KC barbecue) and dress sense was much more informal, something I could definitely appreciate. While many parishioners became family friends, there was still that whispered feeling of being on the outside, of being the other. While I don't remember race being an issue in Kansas City (just poverty and unemployment)it always seemed to be an issue in the white churches.

When a Korean church community wanted share a space in the church my father was at there was an uproar. When we housed a homeless family in the church for a time there were "concerns." When efforts were made to ease the congregation into reflecting a more, er, umm...diverse population, there were many "discussions" that occurred at late night meetings. When the churches he was appointed at started celebrating the Martin Luther King, Jr. Holiday there were hate calls and nasty letters sent...and I'm sure a few parishioners disappeared from the rolls or contributions to programs ceased.

Sundays were an interesting experience and as I've been told, the most segregated hour(s) in America.