Weeks held certain rhythms, and every Sunday was an orchestrated crescendo. Before the sun’s first light, a careful choreography began: the sound of steam irons hissing through the kitchen, my mother’s precise hands pressing creases into fabric. Sunday wore its own silence, one that demanded self-inspection before we had even spoken a word.
As a child, I sensed that Sunday’s ritual wasn’t just about sanctity. The surface was about worship—heading to the Lord’s house, standing in rows in gleaming shoes—but beneath was a layer more concerned with presentation. We weren’t just addressing God; our attire spoke to a congregation that measured our appearances with unspoken scrutiny.
Every detail mattered: collars that could cut paper, rows of polished shoes reflecting light. And amid these rituals, I found myself somewhere between a boy and a reflection of expectation. My father’s directives played on loop, sowing seeds of masculinity that whispered ‘perform’ rather than ‘be.’ It was less about manhood and more about how others perceived it.
Inside the church, the very architecture seemed to bind us into performance. Heavy doors, red carpets that smothered footfalls, pews polished for transparency—we were called to not only worship but to be watched. The messages were clear, outlined in the scripted roles we played, further layered by the quiet corrections that came without word.
Moments were carved into memory—an unscripted sway from the music led to an usher’s watching glance, folding me back into safe stillness. Later, that moment made clear, even joy had its permissible boundaries. To move with the spirit carried implicit warnings.
The fellowship hall, filled with culinary and conversation rituals, also tethered us to roles: men, boys, the unspoken dripping from the more overthought discussions of the game or weather. Subtle monitoring rendered delight into liability.
Growing up, the faith that was supposed to hold me sometimes hurt with its boundaries. It rhetorically preached freedom but demanded it translate to conformity. A dichotomy settled in early—fear masked as faith, sensitivity punished by silence.
But healing grew from the ashes of those Sundays. Slowly, it uncoiled the language of my mind, releasing barbed beliefs that had felt like truth. Discoveries often subtle: adjusting my voice, reclaiming gestures, finding strength in softness rather than mistake.
Today, I look back at the boy in the pew with protection and empathy. He needed none of those firm corrections; he needed language and safe places to be wholly human. The truest parts were not faults to be hidden but the essence of living we’re often told to sand down.
Softness is not incapacity, nor joy a weakness—it’s a sacred truth, one worth knowing. The boy of those Sundays is a reminder that self was waiting all along, quietly resilient, no longer content to perform but to live expansively.
Kabal Briar