Thoughts & Prey-ers
They said, “Education is of the devil,” therefore I became a demon.
My trajectory was clear, university. It all began in September of 1997, when the flame of passion for education was lit within me. Lighting the flame in Kindergarten was Mrs. Acorn. Following her, continuing to keep the flame aflame was Mrs. Howe, Mrs. Acorn (again), Mrs. Taylor and Mrs. Jensen, Mr. Nugent, Miss Barrington Mr. Botchey, and Mrs. Brown.
I was a ‘straight A’ student. Anything less and I was a self-proclaimed failure. Standing at the podium of my negative self-talk stood my Mom and Dad. Rewarding my achievements with twenty Canadian dollars for every A and A+ mark I achieved while rewarding my sister the same for achieving C’s and B’s. While two grades ahead of me, I took it upon myself to finish her homework to keep her from failing (to keep the peace). My academic achievements fuelled my self worth and the house comfort level.
In secret, Mom discussed with me the opportunity to attend the University of Alberta.
Priding themselves on raising us naive, the cult’s mantra, ‘Education is of the Devil’, kept us in complacency. A form of preying. Thoughts and prey-ers. It kept us open targets to coercive control and undue influence. As women, our futures were predetermined as mothers and wives consequently resulting in many cult members reaching only the bare minimum in education required by law. However, Mom was fervent. Involving herself in our education, going as far as becoming the school receptionist for many years. In my childhood home, she replaced the cult’s mantra with her own. “No daughter of mine will be a drop-out.” Before marriage Mom had successful careers with the Edmonton Art Gallery and at local law firms. Bearing the weight of being a ‘difficult woman’ from the cult leadership (men), she continually rebelled to have her daughters succeed in education, in particular, me. Mom built close relationships with our teachers, so close that through renting, one of their houses became a place to call our own. A field trip wouldn’t happen without one of my parents volunteering, and not a single school assembly or concert did they miss.
While the long length of my skirts and hair resulted in personal ‘Q & A’ segments, elementary school was a place of self exploration without judgment. I was accepted and I had a plethora of *’worldly’ friends. Each year, I was the ‘teacher's pet’ which eventually became my one and only source of playground bullying. I had crushes on boys ( hi James) and went over to *‘worldly’ houses. I invited my *‘worldly’ classmates to to my birthday parties and accepted invites to theirs. Addicted to the endorphins of the environment and experience, at year end, you would find me standing in the school hallway sobbing. I loved this part of life albeit mixed simultaneously with the hovering daily impending doom of the rapture.
It was a sunny day in late June, 2003 and there I stood in the school portable on the gray speckled carpet, staring out of the hallway window in my burgundy plaid jumper. Silently sobbing and sneezing snot as a rush of grades K-12 students in matching uniforms shouted with that ‘first day of summer vacation’ excitement. Escaping their happy reality, as the school bell rang, each decibel echoed, marking the last day of grade six and the end of my public school experience.
As an eleven-year-old, I don’t remember the Sunday service in which the decision to homeschool was made but with distinction, I remember the ensuing chaos from the mothers. The world of our mothers went ‘topsy turvy’, becoming ‘teachers’ at the whim of a man’s narcissistic decision. “The influence of the world is having a direct negative impact on our children. We have to protect their innocence. Going forward, our children will be homeschooled.” There was no wiggle room to challenge his decision. When the cult leader spoke, you obeyed. “You can ask questions but you can’t question.” ( I'll elaborate another time.) I was about to enter junior high with my mother, now Mrs. Brown, my sister, my classmate and the oak kitchen table, my desk. If hell existed, this was it.
Optimism and being the ‘good girl’ was my diet. People-pleasing my nutrition. As the shock of my new reality began to wear off, I did not voice my displeasure; rather, I bounced with excitement at the opportunity to ‘follow god’ a little closer. Our dining room transformed into a ‘school’ and respect it was owed. With an iron-fist, Mom ruled a routine. As though she would when I was in public school, Mom woke me at 6:30 a.m. She picked out my clothes and I got dressed. I ate breakfast and took care of my personal hygiene. Mom was rigorous. “Just because you are home does not mean you will be doing schoolwork in your pyjamas or with crumbs on your face.” School began at 9:00 am and ended at 3:30 pm. There was no talking out of turn. I raised my hand to ask Mrs. Brown for help and ‘recess’ was scheduled down to the second. This continued to be my education scene throughout grades seven to twelve.
Priding themselves on raising us naive, the cult’s mantra, ‘education is of the devil’, kept us in complacency. A form of preying. Thoughts and prey-ers.
As the years went on, a steady decline in student marks became evident. The Moms were struggling to teach and the children struggled to differentiate ‘teacher’ from ‘Mom.’ Desperate for an intervention, pressure was placed on the cult leader to figure out a solution. Beginning with a few foldable 6x3 foot tables in sporadic order, children began to gather in the fellowship hall building to do their schoolwork. As months went by, more & more children claimed a table. Migrating to sit with those who were in the same grade, mini ‘classrooms’ began to form. Watching this unfold, a few grandmothers and mothers started to come to the fellowship hall to overlook and ‘teach’ the children. Establishing a routine, it slowly became a makeshift school for many. After taking up every available space, from the corners of the fellowship hall up to the mezzanine, the leader made the decision to build a private school of the cults very own. Due to the iron-fist Mom ruled with and coupled with my quench for scholar excellence, I did not attend the makeshift school. Alone, the thought of joining was tainted with failure.
Determined to graduate before the rapture swept me away, I worked tirelessly and entered grade twelve a year early. With my ‘straight-A’ track record upheld, I couldn’t take the risk of losing it now. In secret, Mom discussed with me the opportunity to attend The University of Alberta. Determined to make it happen, Mom went as far as taking me to the university’s open house. The flame of education that began all those years ago in Kindergarten was burning bright with my future. To be sure I graduated with excellence, I needed a proper classroom. I craved the peer pressure, the consequences and the live instruction. Knowing Mom had my back, she enrolled me into public night school for my diploma courses but just as she did, entering into my life, walked my first boyfriend.
*’Worldy’: Not a part of the cult.
