Preachin'

I'm none too thrilled with Reilly Kate's preschool this year. She attends a Christian preschool on base. Just in case you are a stark raving atheist, let me tell you it is not completely legal to have a Christian preschool on base. It basically runs just below the radar. It's funded like any other religious organization on an Army installation -- through the Chaplain's office. Just like the Protestant Women's Group or the Jewish Singles or any other "social" religious group, so is the preschool.

We didn't intentionally choose this school. Since Mike makes enough money to put us over the poverty level, we don't have the need required for Head Start. Since neither of us uses English as a second language, again, our children don't qualify for Head Start. Which is fine. I get this. I'm all for Head Start and truly believe that we as a family don't need it. But the only preschool that Reilly Kate is qualified for that was less than a grand a month in tuition was this, the Christian preschool on base. And, in fact, the tuition is down right cheap at $150 bucks a month. Cheap. Cheap.

You get what you pay for.

Keeping the fact that most of the other children in the school are also in the same boat as Reilly Kate, the school, while Christian, is pretty dang secular. Sure they pray before having their snacks and sing Jesus Loves Me and all that happy who-daddy, but I assure you, if we were Jewish or Pagan or Hindu, we'd probably have enrolled her there anyway. It's just not all that religious. Or at least it wasn't. Last year.

This year, I could just tell there was a new wind a'blowin'. As I walked down the hall, I noticed Bible passages were posted all over. And not just the feel good, nice ones. These were the Bible thumping, shove it down your throat, you're going to hell, you sinner, kind of passages. Praise Jesus. Within the first week of school, Reilly Kate was coming home asking me "How long did Jesus have to suffer on the cross before he died?" "Why did they put nails in his hands and feet?" "My teacher told me that they forced him to wear a crown of thorns. And that the thorns stuck in his head and hurt him. And caused him to bleed all over. Is that true? Did Jesus bleed all over?"

Yes, my four year old was now fully aware of the Passion. It didn't surprise me a bit to see her beloved teacher (and yes, Reilly Kate loves her teacher) sitting behind us at mass. Oh, that Catholic guilt starts early, huh?


It wasn't until Reilly Kate missed a day of school to go down to Cheju-do that I realized the full extent of this religious transformation of the educational environment to which I send my daughter. Her teacher sent home some make up work for us to do. No problem for us since I am homeschooling Reilly Kate in Kindergarten. I looked over the sheets just as I was about to instruct Reilly Kate on what to do with them. And upon reading them, I tore them in half.

The hand outs were on family structure and roles. Things like, "Daddy works in an office. He makes the money for our family. He is the head of the household." "Mommy cooks for us and keeps the house clean." "Sister cleans the house." "Brother plays with the pets."

Now, folks, I too went to a Christian school. I went to a pretty conservative Christian school in the '70s. My mom wasn't even allowed to sit on the church board, for Peet's sake, because she was a woman. And still I have NEVER seen hand outs like this. Never. Ever.

I was stunned.

And I immediately regretted having torn them up in front of Reilly Kate. Being the child that she is, she wanted to know why I tore them up and what was I upset about. I was stuck having to go over them and then we discussed sexism and the feminist movement. We talked about women's suffrage and the continuing struggle for equality. I just really wasn't ready to have to tell her that the world isn't as fair and nice as we had led her to believe.

Then I got angry.

I taped the shreds of paper back together and took them into the new preschool director's office. Last year, the door to the director's office was always open with moms sitting on the couch nursing babies and chatting. It was a gathering place, a place for moms to connect. The office was responsible for my making the few friends I had last year. Not so much this year, though. The new director is hardly ever in her office and when she is the door is shut. Knock on it and be made to feel like you are putting out someone very important. I knocked and was told to come back later. Lunch trumps concerned parent in this regime.

I came back at the time requested and explained my concerns, showing the director the homework sheets. She listened attentively, nodded, apologized and said she would speak with the teacher. And then, with a rather smug grin drawn across her face, she leaned in and said, "But... I'd be amiss in my duties if I didn't inform you that the husband IS the head of the household according to the Bible."

Amiss in her duties? I sat and pondered for a few seconds, watching her smile broaden. She looked as if she was about to explain to a small child that one mustn't eat Starbursts for breakfast in lieu of real fruit. She had that look of amusement mixed with self satisfaction. I felt the heat of my own self righteous indignation prick my cheeks. I painted a snarky smirk on my lips and said, "Well, really that is a matter of theological debate."

It might have been the word "theological" that smeared her happy face. I'm not sure. But when my eyes met hers as the words were escaping my mouth, I saw a noticeable depression. Her smile was now tight, forced, fake.

"Theological debate? This is a Christian school," she said, grabbing the Bible on her desk.

"Sure it is. But someone who attends the United Church of Christ is going to have a different view than someone who is Southern Baptist."

Her smile now was noticeably fading and her eyes were clouding up with confusion.

"What denomination are you?" I asked her.

"I'm a Christian. This is a Christian school," was her reply.

"Yes, I understand that. I too am a Christian. But I'm wondering what denomination you are."

Shaking her head as if to clear the fog, she asked, "What do you mean? What's a denomination?"


It was at this point my dear readers that I distinctly heard "Sha na na na... Sha na na na... Hey hey hey... Goodbye," singing in my head. I would even swear to hearing the sound of the cracking of a bat when hit with a homerun ball. I felt like Babe Ruth, calling the shot, knowing full well that not only was I going to hit it out of the park, but I knew exactly where that damn ball was going to land. In a moment's hesitation, I contemplated whether this was just too easy. Could it be a trap? But when I scanned the director's face and saw nothing but the haze that had drifted across her countenance, I knew it was just one of those things I had to take advantage of.

I then launched into an almost two hour discussion on varying theological controversies and basic religious debates. She actually asked me to stay and continue the discussion well past our allotted time. She sat astounded and kept repeating, "I had no idea." "I didn't know that."

I think I actually saw smoke come out of her ears when I taught her about transubstantiation ("You what? You believe you are eating the actual body of our Lord?"). And she was none too thrilled to find out that there are other books of the Bible that were not included in the King James version. She did try to come back. Once, when I was telling her about Torah, she said, "Ah! But I'm not Jewish!"

"No, of course not. But Jesus is."

She's been understandably distant to me ever since. Not that she's that friendly to anyone really. But particularly distant to me. She's nice, though. Very nice. Overly so, perhaps. I figure that is on account of her finding out that the man who signs her checks and keeps the school's accounting books is none other than my very own brother. Yes, one of my brothers works out of the Chaplain's office here and is responsible for all the school's fiscal concerns. When she found that out, she made sure to take me to every single one of the teachers and clarify exactly who I was and who my brother was.

Unfortunately, she still hasn't figured out my last name. She asks me at least once a week what my name is... again. I guess it throws her off that I haven't adopted the moniker of the head of my household. I wonder if that too is biblically mandated. Perhaps I should let her thump me with her King James to find out.