Thou art sullen

I experienced my first harshly lonesome holiday, Easter Sunday. When you are raised in the church, no matter how twisted the path your beliefs have taken, their is still comfort in it. Going to church with my family - singing songs of rejoice or saying those prayers that I know by heart - reminds me that I was once a child. I was free of cynicism.

Saturday I went to services with a girl from work. She attends the conservative St. Marys, just blocks from the capital, in an old cathedral with rafters reminiscent of a Spanish ship out of the 17th century. Pre-Vatican II traditions wrap around the congregation's throat like a June Cleaver pearl-choker. Prayers, commands to kneel, everything, is sung in a drone. It is amplified by the professional choir, who moonlight at the Lyric Opera yet sang the saddest version of Halleluja chorus I've ever heard. The only joyful hymn was "I know that my Redeemer Lives", which my friend pointed out is borrowed from we Protestants.

The most striking thing was the women in sheer veils with their daughters heads covered by lace doilies. This practice of modesty has not existed in most congregations since the 60's, and seeing the brood of children following their veiled mothers my heart was pumping with feminist annoyance. As with many practices I'm discovering in the south, I wonder which practices are out of gentility and which are of servility.

Then again, what lightened the church mood was the constant interference on the bishop's microphone. He was picking up a hip-hop radio station, loudest during the most serious parts of the service. Then later, my friend and I went to Walmart on a failed quest to find those Smooth Away shaving pads that allegedly use crystals to remove hair. An effective hair remover is my idea of the Holy Grail.

Then Easter morning came and I had nearly finished the candy from the basket my mom mailed. I took a long bus ride to Magnolia Cafe (near Hey Cupcake!) so I could get my traditional Easter breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes and chocolate milk. Random note: while I waited for a seat to open-up, I walked around the neighborhood and spotted a long-hair goat in someone's front yard.

To my frustration, Magnolia's doesn't sell chocolate milk. What kind of breakfast spot doesn't sell chocolate milk? I was so upset that I pouted while I ate. Note, I actually hate pancakes. I stabbed around the pancake to get to the good parts, sitting alone at the counter with all the old single men. The waiter kept referring to me as "Man" or said "How you doing, Buddy?" which annoyed me even further, although I don't know why.


I walked home, three miles, in hot weather, in blue jeans, pouting the whole way. Yes, I was cheered up by a call from my neice; she read me her letter to the Easter Bunny. But I did have a tummy ache from the sugar and the heat. Yes, my sister and I talked during the rest of my walk home. But still. Eatting my doubly chocolate Easter breakfast is a joy best shared with the ones I love, and it made me very sad to be alone.