faith – Bethany Leger

I Forgot I Had a Sister-in-Law

This isn’t really about my sister-in-law. It’s also not clickbait. Until a month ago, I literally forgot she existed.

The last time I saw her, she was wearing a wedding dress and exchanging vows with my brother. That was almost ten years ago. They settled on a small reception at a friend’s house. Guests drank champagne in a living room that looked like it was decorated by Laura Ashley, while I excused myself to sneak shots of tequila I had stashed in the fridge behind a fruit tray. They cut the cake (I didn’t eat it.) I mostly hid in the kitchen, pacing in front of the fridge like I was guarding a moat. “Is something wrong with you?” my mother asked under her breath, not out of concern, but irritation. “I’m just tired.”

Only, I had a sneaking suspicion this was the last time I would see any of them ever again.

Growing up in the Jehovah’s Witnesses, I was very lonely. This is not the case for everyone. Some come from large families. Even if they, too, are indoctrinated from birth, they still have siblings to play with. They have cousins in the neighborhood, and Grandma lives two blocks down. My father’s side of the family are “believers”, but may as well have not existed. They lived in the wasteland of West Texas and made their one token visit in the eighties (frankly, I think it was an aberration.) My mother’s family are New Yorkers, none of them Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the ones who were lived on the other side of the Atlantic and talked shit about us in German at the dinner table.

What does this have to do with my sister-in-law? I had decades of practice detaching from other people. I was taught to avoid my classmates, coworkers, and yes, even blood relatives who didn’t “serve Jehovah.” That left me with a small pool of forced associates at the Kingdom Hall, and an estranged brother whose neck I would hug for the last time on his wedding day. I don’t blame him. It couldn’t have been easy being a 16 year-old guy with a sister in kindergarten. The age gap didn’t help, but the Jehovah’s Witnesses managed to drive the final wedge between us, removing what little semblance of normalcy I had always longed for.

My hunch was correct. I never saw them again. My husband and I flew back to North Carolina, realized we were in a cult, and left shortly after. This is not what I want. No one wants this. But these are the rules: you leave, you’re dead. My brother’s wedding day was the last time I saw my mother, eyes bloodshot from orchestrating the day’s festivities, but relieved the wet blanket was going. I said goodbye to my father, stomach rotund and content. And, I said my final goodbye to my sister-in-law, beaming and beautiful on her big day. I can’t save her now.

Painter, Pianist, Persona Non-Grata

My father is a pianist. He plucks each key with care and precision, and could tune a Steinway using only his sense of smell. I don’t play piano, but I’ve enjoyed painting for over fifteen years. I may not boast a sprawling loft in Soho, but as a fun hobby, it helps scratch the itch.

I inherited my father’s creative streak. Unfortunately, my father is also a devout Jehovah’s Witness, and the same proclivities that make him such a talented musician and craftsman are the same qualities the Organization has found a way to exploit. In the name of faith, my father has put the same sweat and toil he puts into his piano business into working for people who tell him he can’t speak to me.

My mother and I have a complicated relationship. It’s a mother-daughter thing. But my father was simple: he bought me the junk cereal I wasn’t supposed to eat, and when asked if I wanted to see Babe, a movie about a talking pig, or Clueless, he laughed his ass off watching a bunch of teenagers make stupid decisions. “How could you take her to see that?” My mother was not amused. As if!

My father has been an elder in the Jehovah’s Witnesses for over fifty years. These are the pastors or priests of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, church officials responsible for leading the congregation. Since the Organization doesn’t have paid clergy, my father has devoted decades of his life to this role without receiving a penny. My father has inspired people, and at times, been thrown under the bus by his own cohorts when he followed his conscience rather than the consensus. I can respect his hard work and ethical compass. But, I also wish I could just watch my dad play the piano.

My father made the “choice” to dedicate himself to the Organization at 10 years old. Before my father hit puberty, he committed himself to a religious ideology that would slowly strip him of his humanity, and drive a wedge between him and his only daughter. When I told my father I was revoking my membership from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, he made it clear that he would “remain loyal to Jehovah and His earthly organization.” His response was immediate and rote, like turning on your blinker at a stoplight. And just like that, our relationship came to a screeching halt. No more Chopin. No more Rustle of Spring filling the house while my mother cooks. Well, maybe so. I just won’t be there to hear it.

Maybe I wasn’t meant to have my parents forever. Maybe my mother was supposed to feed me, clothe me, and give me a strong voice. Maybe my father passed down some artistic gene that would make me appreciate the visual arts, a skill that would help me get through strange and difficult times. Whatever the magical reason is for why this all happened, I no longer use art as a diversion; an escape from the brewing tension in my brain. I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not just to make others comfortable. And that’s music to my ears. Thanks, Pop.

Disfellowshipped: The First Time I Talked to a Dead Guy

He wore a tan suit that looked like it came off the clearance rack at JCPenney. When he didn’t respond, I poked him again in the shoulder. “Hey, it’s me!” I waved my magic marker-stained hand in front of his face. But, his gaze fell downward, blank. I backed away slowly and shuffled over to my mother who was seated on the opposite side of the room. “Mama,” I whispered. “I said hi to Jamal but he didn’t talk to me.” My mother, draped in her auburn scarves and garnet earrings, craned her neck around. I watched as her eyes tried to locate him in the crowd. Then, leaning in towards me, she lowered her voice. “He’s disfellowshipped.”

Let me break this bullshit down for you: Jamal* was 17 years old. When he was a child, he lost his father in a tragic accident. Then, his mother suffered a traumatic brain injury. Jamal was my brother’s buddy, and was one in a handful of young Jehovah’s Witness men in town. No one cared about Jamal. His mom was kooky, and his younger sister was obese. His family didn’t bring any clout—or money—to the congregation. Then, Jamal got into some trouble and was excommunicated. At 17, a fatherless boy was ostracized by the only people he knew, and left for dead.

No, Jamal was not dead, but he might as well have been. I wish this were an exaggeration, but no one would know Jamal’s whereabouts unless they smelled the body weeks later. Through the naïve eyes of a child, I couldn’t comprehend why a bunch of grown-ups would do something so cruel. Whatever Jamal did, he didn’t deserve to be ignored in a room full of people, people who were supposed to love him and have his back.

Then, it happened to my brother. Like Jamal, my brother was “dead” for two years. “How’s your brother?” they’d ask me, knowing damn well they exiled a young man. Their smirk was a knife to my seven-year-old heart, and they took me for stupid. But, the funny thing about seven-year-olds is they don’t stay seven. They get older, they remember, and sometimes, they become writers.

My parents are devout Jehovah’s Witnesses, and I’ve brought them shame for speaking out against the Organization. But if I don’t say something, I teach them that shunning is okay. The Jehovah’s Witnesses traumatized Jamal, my brother, and continue to traumatize thousands more with their inhumane shunning policy. Jamal and my brother may be grown men now, but their wounds will never heal. They were forced to hang up their skateboards, dreams, and their dignity, their memory forever ossified as Prodigal Sons who crawled their way back into God’s good graces.

By the way, I’m dead now, too. I revoked my membership from the Jehovah’s Witnesses on New Year’s Eve, 2017, because I could no longer align myself with an Organization that has ruined countless lives. However, I’m only dead to my parents and former friends. In all other respects, I’m alive and well. The sun still shines on the wicked!

If you’re reading this, and you’re currently dead, I want you to know it gets better. Yes, it’s shitty for a while, but it does get better. And, if you decide to go back, I understand. Your family has put you in an extremely difficult position. But. I hope you’re honest with yourself as to why you’re going back, because anyone who would do that to you sure as hell doesn’t love you.

If you’re dead, welcome back to life.

*Not his real name.

Resources about disfellowshipping and shunning in the Jehovah’s Witnesses:

Jehovah’s Witnesses call disfellowshipping a “loving provision”:

https://www.jw.org/en/library/magazines/w20150415/disfellowshipping-a-loving-provision/

A shunned Jehovah’s Witness mother kills her family, then herself:

https://www.freep.com/story/news/2018/05/18/keego-harbor-murder-suicide-lauren-stuart/620709002

Jehovah’s Witnesses pressure families to not communicate with disfellowshipped family members or friends:

https://www.jw.org/en/library/magazines/w20130115/let-nothing-distance-you-from-jehovah/

Check out JWFacts for more information and updates about Jehovah’s Witnesses’ shunning practices.