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Audio CD
First published March 10, 2020
In my family, there was no real difference between fried chicken and religion. Whenever my mother passed through the fellowship hall doors, it was with a fried offering of chicken. Families brought their best fare to the house of the Lord, usually in the form of casseroles. Others brought Jell-O molds, or worse, tomato aspic—a gelatinous tomato dish spread onto a cracker. I’d rather lick a mule between the ears than eat tomato aspic.
My mother, however, always brought fried chicken. Dishes were laid upon the Blessed Altar of Folding Card Tables and blessed by the high priest.
Amen. Hallelujah. Let’s eat.
My childhood was not a pretty one, but I believe ugly childhoods make pretty people. I have gone through moments when I doubted the things I thought I knew. I’ve experienced tragedy like anyone else. I’ve lost people, I’ve buried good dogs, I’ve been uncertain where I belong, I’ve been a Kansan, and I’ve been a Southerner. I’ve been a loser and man who feels like he won life’s lottery. But no matter where life takes me, I will always be a rural child and a survivor of suicide.
I am like anyone else who gathers in a fellowship hall. I’ve endured sadness, horror, grief, anxiety, and football teams who just can’t seem to win a national championship. I’ve lived through dark decades when the sun wouldn’t show itself. But when I walk into any fellowship hall in the USA on a Wednesday night, bad things go away. You can always visit a fellowship hall to see and feel the same things.
You close your eyes and see the image of your mother holding a covered dish. You feel the memory of your father, the most confusing man you ever knew, who ruined your life but also made your life what it is. A tapestry of things both reprehensible and exquisite. A man who once sat beside you with a necktie flung over his shoulder. Who loved you.
You wonder how this beautiful person had the audacity to leave all this behind.
And you are forever haunted by fellowship halls, even when you aren’t in them. You dream of them. You can’t wait to revisit them. They are your proof. Evidence that life is not against you. A reminder that eventually, no matter what it seems like, the tables will be set up, folding chairs will be unfolded, tablecloths will be unfurled, casseroles will arrive by the thousands. You will eat the food of your people. The homemade biscuits, the tea with too much sugar, and the fried chicken. And it will hit you all at once. No matter how bad it looks, that blind man was telling the truth.
Everything will be alright.