101. Me vs. Church, Part I: Vestiphobia

My best friend in grade school, Ricky, was keyed up about going to Sunday school, and was especially excited about the newly-built church which was just down the street from my house.  I admired that kid and emulated him whenever possible, so I told my mother that I wanted to go to the new Sunday school with Ricky.

My family were not church-goers, and not religious at all. I assumed that Mom, not a very social or spiritual person, probably had had enough of it in her youth and that was that. When I announced that I wanted to try out Ricky’s Sunday school, I got her raised-eyebrow response, “Really? And why would you want to do that? And Episcopal… of all things!” I had no idea what Episcopal meant. She might have been making a point, but I couldn’t get it. In my family, there certainly were opinions about other people’s faith or ethnicity. But for me, all of that went in one ear and out the other. The fact that Ricky was happy about going was good enough for me.

Looking back, I am impressed at how well Mom actually held her tongue. I think she would have liked to teach me how “overly churchy” some denominations are, how liturgical and boring they can be, or how strict or ridiculous their tenets were, or how entangled you get in their social committees and politics, etc. But any talk of that would have been over my head, I had no frame of reference for ritual or dogma, nor which churches were considered conservative or liberal.

I had Catholic friends who went to things called Catechism and Mass and sometimes showed up with little ash smudges on their foreheads and stuff like that. I’d been to a Catholic wedding once—I couldn’t understand why the Priest wasn’t speaking English and there was a lot of getting up and kneeling down. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be Catholic.  It seemed important back then to identify as a “this” or a “that,” so I always said our family were Methodists, whatever that meant.

I was relieved when Mom said, “Alright, I guess there’s no harm in just going to try out their Sunday school.” She added, “You’ll be on your own, you know; your father and I have no need for church.” She waited for my reaction, I think expecting me to waffle—which I didn’t. But she had one special weapon saved for last, and declared, “I’m going to have to take you shopping for a new suit and shoes.”

Oh, now, wait just a darn minute…

To quote Charlie Brown, “AAUGH!” The words “new suit and shoes” reverberated in my head for days. Why, why, why did I have to wear a new suit? My everyday school clothes were a button shirt, chino pants, and comfy old Buster Browns—wouldn’t that be just fine?  I hated clothes shopping more than anything; and being a fussy little boy, starchy new clothes and tight shoes always felt like an especially cruel form of punishment.  This may have been my first awareness of my symptoms of vestiphobia, the fear of suits.  But Mom obviously was already well aware of it, because the only last card she needed to play was, “Get in the car, we’re going to shop at Bamberger’s.” Oh, she could be cruel!

Bamberger’s Department Store in Morristown—that terrifying maze of clothing racks and weird mannequins! I could still feel the trauma of getting separated from Mom while she was shopping. I was just a very little kid. That’s when a pruney-face and gravelly-voiced saleswoman scolded me for crying, and announced over the loudspeaker the most humiliating thing, “We have a sad little boy in Ladies’ Undergarments.” My poor mother. I’m sure I was a joy and a gem to take shopping. Oh well, I digress.

If Mom had indeed wanted to stifle my curiosity about church, she knew what she was doing when she picked the heaviest itchy wool suit off the rack. “Here,” she said, “You’ll have to try it on and that man over there will help if it needs alterations.” I looked at that guy and shuddered, I had run into him before in the boy’s clothing department. He had a habit of jokingly mussing up kid’s hair with his big rough hands, like a bricklayer, and had breath of beer and stale cigar. I squirmed ridiculously while he tried to measure my inseam for the pants. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and get to the safety of the car. But it wasn’t over. Next: a stiff new pair of shoes.

As Sunday approached, I couldn’t avoid peeking at the suit hanging menacingly in my closet. Day by day, my fascination with the idea of Sunday school ebbed away while the suit had begun to supersede the monster under my bed. When the Big Day came, I didn’t have to fake a sore throat or anything! Mom played it cool, but she must have been just fine with me chickening out of Sunday School, and neither of us brought it up ever again. And I never did find an occasion to wear that suit. Sorry, Mom, for the trouble, and sorry, Ricky, I just couldn’t do it.

I’m pretty sure Ricky didn’t mind if I went to Sunday school or not. Our friendship moseyed on through our school years—in fact, he and I are recently back in touch, pretty nice for two guys with 3000 miles and over 50 years of separation.  

My idea of attending church went into a deep hibernation. But at the age of 18, I somehow got wind of the Unitarians. I thought I might get inspired and meet some nice young people there. I found the nearest Unitarian church and went on my own to check it out. Oh, and a big plus, the services were described as casual, “come as you are.” I was not going to have to wear a suit! I will write more about that day in my next story, Me vs. Church, Part II. I think this will be a 3-part series, by the way, so stay tuned!

PS: I haven’t changed. My wife Linda knows all too well about shopping for clothes with me.