Soccer Balls
Sunday.
“We won’t be late.” It’s the lie I tell myself as I reach over and hit snooze. Five minutes became 30 and now I am behind, very behind. Slipping my legs into my Lulu’s and throwing on my ballcap, “I slept in, we’ve got to go or we’re going to be late,” took the place of my usual “Good morning” salutation. I grabbed my cold coffee off of the counter and like a border collie to sheep I rounded up five children and rushed out the door. The field is green and the sun, bright yellow. If it wasn’t for the leaves, orange, you would think summer had remained. The air is crisp and the scene, childhood, as my son runs to join in the thunderous choir of U13 feet dribbling soccer balls. Parents begin to decorate the sidelines with lawn chairs and “double doubles.”
The white “Do Not Trespass” sign glistened with “christian love.”
In their ignorance they sit, unbeknownst to them what stands just a couple hundred feet away. Grabbing hold the hand of my toddler, with the other three offspring following, through dead branches and a thick line of evergreens, I trudged. Halted by a chain-link, barbed wired fence, laden with padlocks, standing there, staring at me in all of it’s lies, the prison of my adolescence.
From behind me, the sounds of freedom roar while into my face, the piercing sound of silence screams. The juxtaposition burdensome.
The premises 30 feet in front of me holds memory of my two-inch heeled footprints. For 26 years, the firsts of what are considered life defining moments happened here. Transitioning from public school to homeschooling. A cult graduation. Moving out of my parents’ home at 18 and into the assistant pastor’s. My first crush, heartbreak and kiss. Sex, marriage, pregnancy, motherhood and the reason I stand on this side of the chain link fence today, the final “kick-out.”
The white “Do Not Trespass” sign glistened with “christian love.” There is nothing the cult is more adamant about than keeping the outside world, well, out. My cold fingertips caressed the links, whiplashing me back to a life filled with coercive control, undue influence, homophobia and misogyny.
In what felt like coming out of a coma, tapping, I felt tapping. Little fingers on my upper thigh, tapping, repeatedly. How long were they tapping? Thirty seconds? Five minutes? I am unsure. Coming-to, out of the disassociation, eight little hands tugged at me while their soprano voices erupted in coral unison. “Can we go play there? Can we go play there? Can we go play there? Mooooom, we want to play there!!” There, gawking at them in childhood temptation, a playground.
With my heart breaking, I uttered, “I’m sorry, you can not go play there.”
From behind, the sounds of freedom roared while into my face, silence screamed.
“But why?? Look at the slide, it’s huge! Pleeeeease Mom?!” Sickened by it’s multi-million dollar infrastructure which includes a soccer field, skating rink, rock wall and zipline, I couldn’t blame my children for wanting to play. It’s the Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory of playgrounds. The “Rapunzel” castle tower slide is sure to give a thrill. With built-in outdoor countertop barbecues, members can cook and enjoy a "playdate” lunch in a gazebo or under the covered “patio.” Without a doubt, the grounds are instagram worthy.
All I see is seclusion, segregation and separation.
Priding myself on not lying to my children, my daughter held the padlocked “door” in the gate. Kneeling to their level, I looked into their bright ogling eyes and with the utmost gentleness I bemoaned, “They don’t want us there.”
The roaring sound of freedom; the deep hollow sound of cleats meeting soccer balls calls us back to the field, green, where the bright yellow sun is shining.
