Three blocks from my home was a Baptist Mission, set as a light to the moral darkness of the Mexican neighborhood. It was run and, I suspect, largely financed by a family that owned a bakery. The treats they gave out were whole cakes and packages of sweet rolls. I suspect some of the kids came expressly for the pastry. I know I enjoyed taking home those pink, coconut-covered confections, tasteless but for sugar.
The meetings were twice weekly, I think, after school on Wednesdays and on Saturdays. First a preacher, Brother Something or Other, would give a sermon about accepting Jesus into your heart. We would sing some Baptist songs, often with hand movements. I remember "His Banner Over Me Is Love," our hands making a banner over us. There were some good songs, and unlike the Catholic church, these were meant to be sung with gusto by the congregation. I liked that.
After the initial program, there would be some classes. We would be taught things I can't remember about Jesus and stuff. I do remember the crafts: God's eyes, plaques, various flowery things. We got to use glue and fire and scissors. We took things home.
One day, frustrated that no one was accepting Jesus into their heart, Mrs. McQuorter reminded us of a boy who had been hit by a car and died. To her knowledge, he, too, had not accepted Jesus into his heart. He was in hell now, we were told, sadly. I thought that wasn't fair. I didn't know if he was in hell. I kind of doubted it. But I didn't like the idea that she would know the eternal destiny of a nine-year-old boy simply because he didn't do what she said, or what the Baptist Mission into the Mexican neighborhood said. I wasn't sure I believed in hell anyway, or heaven, though I kind of did believe in Jesus. Pictures of him were so compelling.
I remember sitting on the stairs next to a girl from around. One of the boys stopped by and reminded her of what the group of boys had done to her. She just nodded and looked away passively. One afternoon as I was walking home, a boy named Tony tried to grab me for a gang rape. I kicked him in the groin and ran. The older boys laughed at this. None of the others pursued, and Tony was doubled over in pain. I forgot to tell my mother, who was lost in her depression anyway. The incident didn't seem particularly noteworthy, since girls were raped all the time in the barrio. Escaping rape was something you did, until your ticket got punched.
Summer brought vacation bible school. We were bussed out to a camp near Katy. The girls stayed in girl shacks and the boys in boy shacks. There was a swimming pool where we spent much of the day. In the mornings and evenings there were sermons and crafts, and after dinner a G-rated movie. It was at vacation bible school that I had my first kiss. Victor. He was a perfect son of Aztlan, with the noble profile, long black hair, and the body of a young warrior. He was sixteen--I was twelve at best. I was honored that he chose me when there were so many other prettier girls who would have liked to kiss him. I was later told that Victor wanted my virginity. He was too nice to break me without my consent, and it never occurred to me to have sex at the age of twelve. My father had already explained to me that sex was something you did after you graduated from college, so naturally, in my mind, my sex life would begin once I had a college degree, a professional job, and my own apartment. I saw myself taking a lover in my own apartment, not in the woods at vacation bible school.
I was a suckup and accepted Jesus into my heart. I've done it several times. The whole thing is set up that way, with the sermon, the songs, and the big lead up to the popcorn explosion of on-the-spot conversion. The Protestants have got this thing down to a fine art. In the Chicano mindset, this was not a big deal, and it wasn't expected to last beyond vacation bible school. My special spiritual counselor was named Gail. She was unusual in my world in that she had short hair. Plus, she was in college, which would be a selling feature with my father, who was always talking about college. The next step after vacation bible school was to find a Protestant church you felt comfortable in. Gail was a Methodist, so I thought I'd be a Methodist, too, except there was no Methodist church in the Mexican neighborhood, and I didn't feel particularly inclined to spend all day some Sunday on the 20 Canal city bus looking for a Methodist church that I knew didn't exist.
I just went to the Baptist Mission, and got free cake.
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