Shuffled Off

On an evening in the summer of 2006, when I was 18-years-old, faces, famous and obscure, mingled together. The then politician and lawyer, Beau Biden attended, among other dignitaries. The occasion celebrated the selections for the NAACP awards for service to the community. I happened to be one of the recipients.

Flash back to the last Tuesday in February of that year, when I stood as the president of the Brothers and Sisters Student Union (BASSU) and master of ceremonies for the annual Black History Month dinner in the A cafeteria in Newark High School in Newark, Delaware.

It didn’t go well. I was 17 then. I looked out at the audience, and tried to make quips. My mouth turned to sandpaper. I quickly moved to the meal section to call out tables, and failed to introduce the blessing. My stomach dropped. Beads of sweat crawled on my forehead like ants.

The man who delivered the prayer over the food looked at me as if I had hurled out a string of words you can’t say on network television. The rest of the night didn’t get any better. I am president of the Pilgrim Baptist Church choir, and when it was time to sing, I awkwardly segued into singing from my post as host. The sense I had in me to bring forth a song gnawed at my budding non-believer mind.

The last insult came when I forwent thanking my dad for his efforts in serving the food. This final parapraxis stood as the most damaging as I saw my Dad leaving the school cafeteria out of the corner of my eye. A part of me didn’t just die, it suffocated on the fumes of my own misunderstanding. It was a low point I will always remember.

Fast forward to that summer, an event similar to the BASSU meal. I was at the table with friends, other family members, my sister, stepmom, and dad. My name was called, and I stood up to receive a plaque I had earned for being a model citizen of Newark. I wasn’t nervous when I rose to the applause, nor when I stepped to the lectern.

I remember saying, “I want to thank God, and it was a night similar to this just a few months ago when I didn’t acknowledge my father so I thank him, too.” I then removed myself from the place from which I addressed the audience, and found my seat.

My mind already tallied the wins and losses of the night. I had cleaned up the mess I made in February with the nod to Dad. But I felt bewildered at the thought of saying, “thank God.” I was on the way to becoming an atheist. How could I have said this?

Another year passed, and I engaged in an argument with Dad when I refused to go to church one Sunday morning. I stayed in bed and said “I’m sick.” That’s all I had. I knew I couldn’t just say I didn’t want to go. So I felt a twinge of guilt about lying on Sunday, because there was still a speck of Christianty floating around in my body. Of course there are legitimate times to lie in the face of evil. The next Sunday came, and I knew I had to think of something better. After considering my entry level position at the time, as a sales associate at Burlington Coat Factory, I thought of a way to ask if I could go to church, and then cut out when it was time to go to work.

I sat through service with my knees knocking, and my eyes nailed to the clock. When it came time for me to go to work, I quietly excused myself and headed for the church exit.

This happened for a few weeks until I finally gathered my strength. Before rehearsal, I went to my choir director and took a deep breath. It was the longest stretch of air I had ever inhaled. I looked into the eyes of this strong mother of four, a member of my family, who can still sing.

We were in a room adjacent to the choir box and as soon as I opened my mouth, the words just flew out.

“I’m an atheist.”

In response, she just looked me straight in the eye and nodded. All I remember from the time after that was fleeing the church, walking into the parking lot, and feeling free and, light. This was the real me. I imagined revealing this in a black Baptist church was how individuals in the LGBTQ+ community feel after coming out of the closet. This moment solidified when I shuffled off God. It was a moment where I truly felt like my authentic self, and also the moment I began my journey into philosophy.

After discovering the gorgeous mansion of Ayn Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism, being an atheist was like checking my faith at the door. I learned that spiritualism was not rooted in mysticism, but in the function of the soul, or consciousness.

I rushed out into that parking lot holding the choir director’s infant grandchild in my arms. I knew that I would have no sway in his spiritual life. I clutched him tighter, and wrapped my hand around his head. The realization that I would have no influence on his personal philosophy chilled me, but as I handed him off to his mother, I knew I had secured my position as a man who could walk proudly as a non-believer.