Jessica Wilbanks grew up in a world of moral absolutes. In a new memoir, she describes loving, and leaving, her family’s faith
Early one Saturday morning when I was twelve, my father rustled me awake. I patted my bedside table for my tortoise-shell glasses, then rose heavy-footed to pull on a sweatshirt and lace up my sneakers. I maneuvered past the sleeping dogs on the floor of the kitchen and tiptoed over the detritus of muddy boots and Lego.
I climbed into the truck and the high rumble of the muffler echoed through the morning mist. My father made the right onto Route 4, and we wound our way through those dark roads, passing Southern Calvert Baptist and the AME church and dozens of tobacco farms, the plants barely visible beneath the mist. At the 7-Eleven, bearded men in camouflage jackets sipped from Styrofoam cups of coffee as they gassed up, raising a two-fingered salute at the passing cars.
Continue reading...from The Guardian https://ift.tt/2z2sGAJ
via
0 Comments