When he Spoke…
Still going through the thrill of being new and accepted in a new work space. My duties resound over infantile attention. The attention is fleeting, I know, but I have been soaking it up these past few weeks. I have gloried in my unorthodox ways of relating with young students. But on a sad and drab day, I felt my heart crack like a near-splintered louvre.
As was a gradually developing ritual, I was focused on a confab with a contingent of little girls who wanted to understand my aversion to religion and its representations. God got into the mix. I was glad at the consternation etched on their ruddy faces, of seeing someone different in thought, mannerism, and action. The complete mix of a perfect misfit.
As I fired away, encouraged by the sparkling little pupils on my pupils’ faces, I heard a voice rise over the opinionated din. A voice I had struggled to adjust to, as it was a reticent one. Reticent not by choice, but by chance. A diffident voice which held the sway and shut me up as I sped off to a climax of my verbal exposé. He said, gently, very gently, but with resounding power, “I hate God.”
We call him special to avoid the abrasion of truth. Everyone is kind to him- the kind of kindness that would make one tear one’s hair out. He has mastered the art of being present but fading into the backdrop of every setting. But when he spoke, our voices fell.
