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Print Dear Gabby, I’m a PK (preacher’s kid) with all the customary chips on my shoulder. I have a hard time not being cynical because I’ve seen a lot of what goes on behind the scenes in church that others don’t see. I also was sexually abused as a child, and I don’t trust people very much, men in particular. This mistrust shows up in the way I dress. I think I (and my brother) might be the only Pentecostal Goths in the world, or at least in the part of it we live in. Now, let me make this clear; we don’t dress unholy. Most of our clothes are dark colored and strange, but they’re modest. My pastor is okay with the way we dress. My parents are okay with it. The only people who seem to have a problem with it are our church “family.” My brother and I have been called “Devil Children,” “Vampires,” “Satanists,” and bad influences. The youth group will hardly have anything to do with us, and my brother has been told repeatedly that he’s going to hell because he likes the color black too much. All this hurts me. I’m afraid of what these horrible things being said about us will do to my father’s ministry. Already there are whispers about how he can’t control his household. We go to a rural church in the South. My mom tells us that the things they are saying are to be expected. I’m thinking about just leaving my church and starting over somewhere new. I really need some answers, and I’m literally at the end of my tether. A lot of very stressful things have happened to me recently. I need some support from somewhere and I’m not finding it in my church. So after all this explaining, I guess I have three questions: (1) Am I wrong to try and express who I am by the way I dress? (2) Do I just give up on convincing stupid people that I’m not evil and start over? Or do I stick it out? (3) Is there any place that I can find the support I need before I go crazy? Thanks for your time, Miss Pentecostal Goth-in-the-South
Dear Miss Goth-in-the-South, My town thinks Independence Day is really important. There’s a carnival, a big parade down Main Street, followed by a picnic, amateur sporting competitions, and fireworks at sundown. We anticipate it all year and always pull our red, white, and blue outfits for the day. My town is small, maybe a bit like yours, and most of the people know each other. The parade is one place this is obvious. I once went to a parade in Chicago and didn’t enjoy it much at all. The spectators jostled me, stood in front of me, and yelled rude things to the participants. And no one knew any of the glitzy and impersonal parade participants except for a couple of people they recognized from television. My town’s parade is nothing like that. We all have our lawn chairs set up in the same places we’ve set them up for years. (The VanBurden clan “owns” the area to the west of the General Store right next to the Coles and across the street from the Fishers, who are always beside the Garfields.) There’s no jostling, except around the cooler of sliced watermelon the Coles always bring to share during the parade. We settle into our spaces a few minutes before the parade begins. Then, the high school band starts warming up a couple of blocks down and we all sit up straighter in our lawn chairs so we don’t miss anything. The band is always first. Some years it sounds better than others. After the band marches by, we get to see Miss Independence (the Independence Day beauty queen dressed to the nines,) the Girl and Boy Scouts, the senior citizen float (which I may ride in one day when I get really old), the town’s fanciest and shiniest cars, the mayor, and even the “Tryke Tykes,” (all the graduating kindergartners from the year previous furiously pedaling their festively-decorated tricycles). Unlike the parade in Chicago, we always call out hellos to the participants, asking after their families and telling them how well they’re doing (or how pretty their dress is—for Miss Independence.) And in between the groups, we reminisce about previous 4th of July parades. It’s always been the same—as long as I can remember. The only changes are the participants. Last year’s Miss Independence was the great-granddaughter of Frederick VonDenkkerguski, a fellow who courted me when I was young! I must say that she was turning into a much better person than Frederick ever was. Something else was different last year, too. One of the teenage Boy Scouts refused to march proudly. He slouched along at the back of the group, looking embarrassed and bored. I heard Mr. Fisher call out to him, “Hey, Tyler, walk straight and proud.” “I hate this stupid uniform,” Tyler said, loudly enough for us to hear on the other side of the street. “Why are you a Boy Scout?” Maureen Cole asked him. “Well, we do some radical things,” he answered, “but they don’t always make us wear these clothes.” “Well then, walk tall because you’re proud of who you are and because of the activities of Boy Scouts that you do like,” said a voice over in the Garfield area. “The clothes don’t make the man anyway.” This was from Stanley’s grandson-in-law. “It’s what’s in his heart and mind.” I couldn’t resist adding, “There’s something really wonderful about a man in uniform.” “For real?” he said, hopefully, until he realized that the female voice he’d heard had come from Gabby, the woman who was almost as old as the town. (Thankfully my eyes and my mouth still work!) “For real,” said that darling Christa Cole, who turned 14 her last birthday. “I think you look cute.” Then she blushed prettily. That’s all it took. Tyler smiled at Christa, pulled his shoulders back, lifted his head high, and marched down the street. And that, my dear, hurting Miss Pentecostal Goth-in-the-South, is what I want to say to you. The clothes don’t make the person; it’s what’s in the heart and mind. I’ve seen the “Gothic” clothing that people wear. It’s certainly not my personal style (it would look pretty odd on a 90-something year-old woman, don’t you think?), but as far as I know, God hasn’t made any particular rules about the styles or the colors we wear, as long as we’re modestly dressed. So my advice to you is to stay put, support your father with your love and prayers, and wear whatever modest clothing your pastor and parents agree is okay. You and God should keep working on your heart, though, to make sure your hurt doesn’t turn into soul-stealing bitterness. Then, square your shoulders, hold your head high, smile at everyone (not just the cute boys!), and march off into your future. I can guarantee that, not only will you confuse the people who think you’re bad (which can be fun!); you’ll begin to feel better about yourself, too. And remember, God loves you just the way you are. Sincerely Sincere, Gabby
ninetyandnine.com © 2004, ninetyandnine.com ---------- Gabrigail VanBurden has been offering advice for longer than most of you have been alive. Email your practical Apostolic life questions to Gabby@ninetyandnine.com and be prepared for some straight answers! |
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