There were few things I despised more than indecision. That uncomfortable feeling of self-doubt coupled with the weakness of passivity had rattled me into a self-assured soul. For instance, I’m sure everyone has had a teacher or perhaps a run-in with an online poll which asked your opinion on a book character or your favorite Kardashian. Now the idea of whether Macbeth is a hero or a villain, while be it a puzzling question surely it deserves a solid answer; and while the Kardashians are not widely considered the most admirable of personalities, to answer “none of the above” would be a cop-out at best. A strong believer in the lesser of two evils, never did I resort to “I don’t know” or “neither” as my first response. This may also be why I hated Monkey in the Middle as a kid.
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The evangelical Christianity of my grandma was like a rowdy neglected child. A child I had shunned out of annoyance for its fantastical purity portrayed with a ceaseless candor. I hadn’t even turned five when this child was bestowed upon me, yet this was the norm. An endless cycle of dressing this kid up to the nines when my bible-hugging out of good faith grandmother visited every other weekend for our Sunday trip. I don’t say trip to be endearing, but to stress the menacing length of the services we would attend. My time was spent rationalizing the emotions of the large hysterical crowd, and attempting to translate the roars of the minister to English (not only because the service was in Amharic, but because of all the weight given to allusions to the bible). After service would end and my grandma went home, my mother and I would tuck the child underneath my bed. There it would stay as we ate dinner and had our lazy
The evangelical Christianity of my grandma was like a rowdy neglected child. A child I had shunned out of annoyance for its fantastical purity portrayed with a ceaseless candor. I hadn’t even turned five when this child was bestowed upon me, yet this was the norm. An endless cycle of dressing this kid up to the nines when my bible-hugging out of good faith grandmother visited every other weekend for our Sunday trip. I don’t say trip to be endearing, but to stress the menacing length of the services we would attend. My time was spent rationalizing the emotions of the large hysterical crowd, and attempting to translate the roars of the minister to English (not only because the service was in Amharic, but because of all the weight given to allusions to the bible). After service would end and my grandma went home, my mother and I would tuck the child underneath my bed. There it would stay as we ate dinner and had our lazy