All Happy Families

Julian wiped the slush and snow from his boots, and stepped through the door. It was nice to get out of the frozen November air: it was nicer still to be greeted by the warmth, noise, and wonderful scents of his parents' home on Thanksgiving morning. Julian let aunt Naomi take his coat, and after the obligatory hugs and kisses and flurry of questions, he passed into the living room. Everywhere he looked there were people: crammed on the couches and overstuffed chairs, kids sprawled in front of the television watching the parade or playing Nintendo Gameboys, others sitting in chairs dragged in from the kitchen or standing around in little islands talking animatedly. He could see Mother in the kitchen with aunt Deborah and his sisters Bethany and Adina, arguing about whether they should put pecans on the sweet potatoes. Mother waved to him, acknowledging his presence, and then without missing a beat went back to her argument. "I'm the cook here, and I say there ain't gonna be any pecans. If you want to put the damn things on your sweet potatoes afterwards, that's fine. But the rest of us shouldn't have to pick them off, just because you have an urge to try new things." It was good to be home, Julian reflected as he slid onto the couch between aunt Naomi's two boys. He just lived on the other side of town, closer to the bustling commercial center on Franklin Street, but lately, he was having difficulty making it out as much as he used to. Something would pop up at the last minute, or he would feel too exhausted after work and a hard weekend of clubbing - and he just kept putting off the visit, until it had been months since his last trip out to the old house. But he did like it here - even if it was filled with memories and ghosts. The Hughes' house was solid and old, built around the turn of the century when the city was hit with a construction boom. It had a pretty white picket fence - which Julian and his brothers had had to paint every three years, whether it needed it or not - a rose garden running along the side of the house, and a spacious backyard. It was two stories, with basement and attic, which the kids had been forbidden to go into, but which had proven a wonderful place for games of hide and seek. Even with the extra chairs and all the company, the living room was neat, if no longer immaculate. Elisabeth - Julian's mother - was a neat freak, something he had picked up from her when he moved out and got his own apartment. She was constantly dusting and sorting and polishing - even the old Collector's Plates she had displayed along the wall to the kitchen. Although the living room was situated around the middle-sized television in the center of the room, spiritually it was dominated by the large velvet painting of Jesus that hung over the fireplace, which had never, in all the years that Julian had lived there and since, worked. The velvet painting depicted Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, kneeling, his large hands folded in prayer over a rock. His head was bowed, features contorted, so deep in prayer that he was shedding tears of blood. Julian had never liked the painting - though at least it wasn't as gruesome as the battered and crucified Christ that adorned his father's small church. Julian's father, the Rev. Joshua Hughes, had been the pastor at First Church of Christ, a middle sized Black Southern Baptist congregation, for almost twenty years. He was a man of deep convictions and a fiery temper, who roared and bellowed and pounded the pulpit when he preached. He was a sight to behold, like a half mad Hebrew Prophet come out the desert, on fire with the Lord. He could work his audience up into a seething, frothing, singing and shouting mob, and could penetrate the cold heart of a sinner with just a glance. Whenever the Reverend made an altar call, there was always a rush of people trying to get there first. He was happiest when he was doing the Lord's Work - and the rest of time he tended to be a quiet, sullen man, deeply reflective. Julian could remember days on end where his father had said nothing, but kept his face buried in the Bible or watching television without comment. But he also remembered, as a kid, being lifted up on his father's massive shoulders, and being given horseback rides through the house, or trips to the beach which had ended with all of them eating ice cream cones, hurrying to lick them up before they melted all over the cone and their hands. Julian glanced up as the door swung open, caught on a sudden gust of wind. James and his family hurried through the door, the children - aged 2 and 5 - bundled tightly with hats and gloves and thick winter coats so that they looked like they had braved the tundra to get here. Julian grinned, seeing them. At least he wasn't the last to arrive. Of course, in some people's minds - namely Julian's sister Adina, and his uncle Matthew, James' father - Julian might as well have been the last. There had been a rift in the family after James had fallen madly in love with and eventually married a White woman. Her name was Melissa, but Adina insisted on calling her That White Woman - or Jezebel, when she was in a particularly Biblical mood. Originally the rift had been wider, but when the couple had produced such pretty babies, it was hard to hold a grudge. Now, only Adina and Matthew made a fuss about it, and Matthew was starting to warm to them, despite himself. The two little kids, shucked of coats and gloves and boots, ran up to their grandfather, and gave him a big hug. He paused for a moment, staring down at them as they clasped his legs, about as uncomfortable as if a pair of slimy octopi had hold of him. Cautiously, he reached down and patted their heads, then extricated himself from their grip and walked to the back of the house without acknowledging his son and daughter-in-law. Quite an improvement, Julian noted wryly. About a half hour later, Mother came out of the kitchen and announced that they were almost ready. She conscripted the older kids to help set the table, and then got some of the adults to carry steaming platters out. The Hughes family always made a big deal out of the Holidays, and Thanksgiving was the biggest deal of them all - even more so than Christmas, though they did that one in style too. There was a giant golden-black turkey as well as a ham, cornbread and oyster dressing, heaping piles of mashed potatoes made with chicken broth, two kinds of gravy, green bean casserole, tuna casserole, baked macaroni and cheese, a relish tray that was at least half black olives so the kids (and a few adults) could put them on their fingers when others weren't looking, sweet potatoes with lots of goo, cranberry sauce, at least three kinds of fruit salad, green and red jello, and lots of butter on everything. The main course of the meal, of course, was dessert - they had pumpkin pies, pecan pies, keylime pies, apple pies, and rhubarb pies. And to drink, they had several kinds of juices, and coffee and sweet tea. Julian was sitting next to aunt Naomi, his cousins Nathan and Tamara, and uncle Matthew. As they waited for the children - who had their own table away from the adults - to be settled, they chatted. Naomi was a large woman, with pillowy bosoms barely contained by her lavender dress suit. She wore a fake pearl necklace and large gold rings on her fingers. She was always smiling, and quick to laugh, and Julian fondly remembered her many visits when he was a child. Her two boys were just as big, though thick with muscle. There was talk that when they graduated in the Spring, they'd get a scholarship and play ball for State. Naomi was very proud of her boys, for neither she or her late husband had been able to attend college. Much of the conversation was about Naomi's boys. Finally when the ruckus had died down, Rev. Joshua Hughes stood at the end of the table. He surveyed his family, as he did his parishioners each morning before he began his Sunday sermons. When he saw that everyone had found their place, he cleared his throat, a deep bass rumble, and began to say Grace. "We thank you, O Jesus Christ, for the bounty that has been set before us, and ask that it nourishes our body, as your Holy Word nourishes our soul. Now, O Lord, accept our humble gratitude, as we pray ...." Julian's head was bowed with the rest of his family - except for little Michael at the children's table, who kept peaking through his folded fingers to get a glimpse of the black olives - but he did not recite the prayer with them. Instead he offered his own silent thanks, to Zeus and Demeter and most of all to the Goddess Hestia, who presided over the hearth and home, and all family gatherings. When they had finished, he raised his hands heavenward, as was customary with Greek prayer, and whispered aloud the closing. Then he began piling food on his plate, passing the dishes around, and chatting with his cousins. When his father brought the turkey around, Julian asked for a large slice. Mr. Hughes was glad to see his boy eating more. Julian had always been a little scrawny, and he feared that with his busy work schedule and all the partying he did, he wasn't eating properly. So he cut him a big slice of the tender breast, and included the crispy skin, everyone's favorite part. When his father had gone, Julian cut off a portion of his meat, and folded it in his napkin. The Goddess Hestia - whom some felt was the most important in the pantheon - was always given a libation at the opening and closing of a meal - especially a festal meal. She was also given the first bite of food, burned on an altar so that the fragrant aroma would rise up and greet her, or better yet, tossed into the hearth fire, which was mystically identified with her. Julian couldn't exactly perform the sacrifice now - first, he doubted his staunch Christian family would approve, and second the closest thing they had to an open flame was the candelabra that decorated the table, and he didn't feel like holding the turkey over the tiny flame till it was consumed. So he folded it up, and tucked it away for when he got home. Julian was scrupulous in such ritual matters. Aunt Naomi leaned close in, and whispered, "Why'd you just do that?" "Do what?" Julian asked, hoping his grin would disarm her. But there has never yet been a grin invented that can dissuade a nosy woman, and none were more nosy that aunt Naomi. "Why'd you put that turkey in your shirt pocket?" She proceeded. "Oh, that. I'm taking it home for Hestia." "Hestia? Who's that?" She blurted, her voice no longer a whisper. "I didn't think they let you have pets in that tiny little apartment of yours. And besides, you didn't grab very much. Why don't you let your momma make you up a doggy bag after dinner. I'm sure she wouldn't mind." "Uh ... no, that's okay. This is fine." "Not very much meat, you ask me. What is Hestia? She a dog or a cat? Must be a cat, since you only took a little bit." Julian swallowed hard, and looked around. She was starting to draw attention, and he felt like a little kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "No, she's not a dog or cat. Hestia's well .... Hestia's a Goddess." "A what?" "A Goddess. You know. A female God. Like in the Bible, when it talks about Great Diana. She's like that." "I've never heard of this Goddess. What's she do?" "Hestia ... well ... she watches over the family. Protects us, makes sure only good things come inside the house. She's very important." "Hmm .... I see. So why does she need that turkey you have stuffed in your shirt." "It's a sacrifice ... an offering. A gift for her, you could say. My little way of saying thanks." "Is that like Voodoo?" Cousin Nathan asked. Julian laughed. "No, not really. Hestia is a Greek Goddess, so I worship her as part of the Greek religion." "You're not a Christian?" Naomi asked, raising her eyebrow. Something in the look made him feel like a small boy. He lowered his head, and said, "No, I haven't been for a while now." "You haven't?" Tamara blurted, dropping her fork. "No ... probably not since I was 16. I had doubts before, but it wasn't till then that I cut the ties." "Does your father know?" Naomi asked, her eyebrow still riding her forehead. "Well, I'm sure he suspects. But we've never talked about it." "So what are you?" Tamara demanded. The way she looked at him it was as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head. "I'm a Hellene." "What?" Both Tamara and Naomi demanded. "A Greek." "No you're not, honey. You're Black." Julian laughed. "I know that! I mean, I practice the religion, and have adopted cultural elements from the Greeks." "Why'd you do that?" Julian pushed his mashed potatoes around with his fork for a few moments, and then said, "I felt the call of Athene. Back in college, when I was studying economics. At first I didn't realize it was her .... hell, I didn't even know what it was. I just felt this strong female presence, but with a masculine edge to her. Very strong. Like you knew she could kick your ass, without even trying. But disciplined, so that she wouldn't unless she had good cause. Smart. Very smart. Always thinking, coming up with new ideas. She came to me in dreams, and when I meditated. She'd just sit there and watch me. I started searching, trying to figure out who or what she was. Then one day, I wandered into a Museum completely by accident - and there she was - or at least a statue of her, leaning on her spear, helmet tilted back, staring pensively at me. I immediately recognized her as the woman from my dreams, and when I read the little sign at the bottom of the statue, I knew the name of my Goddess - ATHENE. After that, I started studying Greek philosophy and history - and I was hooked. I found a group online, met some people in my area, and now I worship with them about twice a month." "Yeah, but Julian .... you're Black. What does all this Greek stuff have to do with you?" Nathan asked. "You don't have to be a Greek to believe in the Greek Gods - or to believe in Greek ideas. They were the foundation of Western civilization. Philosophy, science, math, geography, art, democracy - all this came from them, and is part of the common inheritance of all who belong to the Western world." "You mean the White world." Matthew interjected. "Black people are part of the West. We've made incredible contributions to society." "It's not our culture though. They forced it on us. When they made us slaves, they stripped us of our proud African culture, and because of our skin, we will never be a part of theirs. You can try and pretend to be White, but they will never accept you." "That's bullshit. My White friends accept me." "No they don't. They may pretend to, but deep down, they only see you as a Negro." "Oh come on. That 60s radical rhetoric is so tired. Open your eyes, uncle Matthew. We live in a different century, a different world. Things aren't like they were when you marched on Selma." "You weren't even alive then. What the hell do you know about the world?" "I know that your hardline politics haven't done Black people any good. I know that if we are ever going to improve our standard of living, we have to look forward, not keep rehashing our unfortunate past. And that we mustn't be afraid of certain ideas, just because they may appear White. It's silly to be afraid of success, to sabotage ourselves for fear of losing our culture." "You didn't lose your culture: you threw it away by accepting this White man's religion." "Christianity is just as much a White man's religion! Hellenism is actually closer to traditional African religion. It's polytheistic, connected with nature, has sacrifices, dances, and songs - and with Dionysos there's even trance possession. That's much more like what our ancestors did than this Protestant Christian crap that you all practice." Julian glanced up, and saw that the whole table had fallen quiet and was staring at him, open mouthed. His father was quiet and implacable as ever, his expression unreadable, except for his narrowed eyes. Julian swallowed hard, afraid of the anger he saw boiling beneath the surface. "What're you talking about there, boy?" Rev. Hughes demanded. "Your son has become a Pagan, Reverend. Worse than that, he practices some kind of White Greek religion." Shocked murmurs went up and down the table. "Is this true, son?" Julian looked his father straight in the face, without flinching, and said, "Yes it is." "Why on earth would you do such a thing? I know you've read the Bible, son, I made you. Don't you remember where Jesus says, 'I am the way, the truth, and the light', and 'none shall come to the Father but through me?'" There were a couple "Amens" from the group. "Certainly you know what happens to those who reject Christ's love and mercy. From the Gospel of Matthew, chapter thirteen, verses forty one through forty two. And I quote, 'The Son of man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity; And shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.' Son, do you really want to spend all eternity in hellfire, because of this silliness?" "No he doesn't." One of the aunts said. "Repent." Another suggested. "It's not silliness, Father. It's not iniquity. This is my religion." "Religion won't save you, son. Only Christ's blood, shed on the cross, can do that." Julian closed his eyes, and made a quick prayer to Athene to give him the strength not to falter, and the wisdom to speak the words in his heart. "Save me from what, exactly?" "The wages of sin, which are death." "I'm a good person. I don't steal, kill, or rape." "But you do get drunk, and carouse with loose women. I've heard about what you do on the weekends." "Jesus did the same thing, dad! Read the Gospels, for Christ's sake. So do most of the people in your Church. In fact, they do a lot worse than I ever have - but they're there on Sunday morning, so that makes it okay. All they've gotta do is ask Jesus to forgive them, and feel bad about what they did, and poof, they're magically redeemed. No need to change, because they can just ask Jesus to forgive them again." "And what redemption does your Pagan religion offer?" "None. My Gods don't hold us over hellfire, threatening to drop us in if we don't love them. What they demand of us is that we become better people, treat each other fairly, and show appreciation for the beauty and goodness in the world around us." "More of that New Age, do whatever makes you happy, fruity crap. Boy, there is only one God, and his son Jesus Christ. Your false Gods are demons and idols, and they sure as hell won't help you on Judgement Day when he casts all the sinners into the Lake of Fire with the Devil." "I never understood that. If God is all-powerful and all-wise, how could the Devil fight against him? Doesn't God already know everything that's going to happen, and couldn't he poof Satan out of existence with nothing more than a thought? Either there really is no great cosmic battle, or maybe Yahweh doesn't have it all under control. And if he's not all-powerful, then maybe the other Gods exist, and that's why he tries so hard to convince people that they don't. He's afraid of sharing. Jealousy shouldn't be a divine attribute, father - it isn't with my Gods." "There's only one God. The Bible says so." "And what does that prove? Homer and Hesiod say there are hundreds of Gods." "The Bible is God's own Word. Perfect, containing all truth. So if it says that there is only one God, then there must be." "Dad, that makes no sense. You're saying that you know that there's one God because the Bible says there is, and that you know the Bible is true because it's God's word. That's circular logic." Rev. Joshua pounded his fist on the table, rattling plates, and disturbing the unnatural silence that had settled over the meal. Everyone had sat watching the tableaux unfold, son versus father in a battle for the soul. Even aunt Deborah, who chattered like a humming bird, was quiet. "God damn it, get out of my house, boy." Julian tensed, but was kept in place by the cold, furious eyes of his father. Julian's mother grabbed her husband's arm, and pleaded with him. "Don't do this. Please don't do this." "I won't have a God-mocker in my house, Elisabeth. If he wants to go off and worship the Devil through his Pagan ways, then so be it. But he won't desecrate my house while he does it." Julian pushed aside his plate, and stood. He was shaking with anger, but clamped his fists shut, and bit his tongue to keep from saying the words that longed to rise up and strike at his father. One of the Precepts of Solon, the wise Athenian law-maker, was "Have regard for your parents." For their sake, he would not continue this discussion in their house. Elisabeth caught up with him in the kitchen. She grabbed his hand, and turned him so his fiery young eyes met hers. "Your father didn't mean it. Please come back and have dinner with us. We just won't talk about it anymore, okay." Julian looked down at his mother and smiled sadly. She had been a pretty woman once, and still had beautiful brown eyes, so deep and soulful. But her life hadn't been an easy one, and she wore it in the lines of her face, which had prematurely aged her. There were two streaks of silver at her temples, and her lip quivered as she looked up at her tall, handsome son, no longer her baby boy. "Oh Momma, I wish I could. But it'd still be there between us, like a dead body, and pretending won't make it go away." "But you're my boy, grown or not. You have a place at the table with us." "Until Father accepts me for who I am, I don't." "You know your father, he has a temper on him. Let him cool down, I'm sure this'll pass." "I don't think it will, Mom." "This is silly, Son. None of this matters. It's just religion. Do you have to make an issue out of it?" "I'm not the one making an issue out of it!" "Don't raise your voice to your mother, boy!" Rev. Hughes yelled from the door of the kitchen. He took several long strides, closing the distance between them, and crossed his arms over his big chest. He glowered at Julian, and Julian would have punched him in the stomach if he was anyone other than his father. Julian clenched and unclenched his fists, and then said, "Look, I'm not dealing with this any more. If you want me out of here because of my religion, fine, I'm out of here." "Good! Get out of here." Rev. Hughes growled. Then, to his wife he said, "Think about it. What will my congregation say? 'Rev. Hughes' boy - the Devil worshipper.'" Julian didn't wait to hear what his mother had to say. He stormed out of the kitchen, across the living room, and tore his jacket down from the coat-rack. He threw it on, and stomped out into the icy cold of the November afternoon, slamming the door loudly behind him. * * * A couple days later, Julian heard a knock at his door. He finished lighting incense at his altar, which contained a small replica of the statue of Athene that he had first seen at the Museum, and went over to answer it. He was surprised to see his mother standing there. In the almost three years that he had lived there, she had only been out once, shortly after he moved in. "May I come in?" "Oh ... uh ... yeah, sure." Julian replied, stepping out of the way to let her by. He offered to take her coat, but she said that she wasn't able to stay long. He offered her something to drink, but she declined that as well. She walked over to his altars, and admired them. There were two of them, the one for his Patron Athene, which had a statue of her, with a little plate of flowers before it, two candles, and an incense brazier. The other altar was larger, and contained an assortment of figures, with small tea candles set in front of them. There was a large wicker plate, which they shared in common, and which had fruit and grain in it. She examined the figures closer. There was a woman with a crescent moon on her head, and a bow in her hands. She liked that one. There was a man with a thick beard and crown, and a conch shell in his hand. She was still deciding what she thought of him, when her eye caught another figure, the Devil. He was shorter than the others, with goat legs and ram horns on his head. He seemed to be leering at her. Her hand went up to her lips, and she muttered something under her breath. "That's Pan, Mom. He's a shepherd God, a wild party guy who chases after beautiful nymphs." She turned and looked at him, her eyebrow raised. "Well, no wonder you worship him then." He blushed and laughed uncomfortably, then sat down on a long white couch that took up most of the living room. He patted the seat next to him, and said, "So what brings you all the way over here?" Elisabeth continued standing by the altars, taking in the fine details of the figures. She should have been shocked or horrified to find out that her son was an idolater - she knew her husband would be. But she could understand it. They were beautiful, and had a pleasant feel about them. She wondered what it would be like to worship a different God, but quickly banished the thought from her mind. "I was out running errands, was just in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop by and see how you're doing. Is everything okay? Got enough food?" Julian grinned. "Yes mother, I'm fine. Everything's good - even got a full refrigerator of food." Which, strictly speaking, wasn't true - but for a bachelor it was well-stocked. There might actually have been a jar of pickles somewhere in there, behind the catsup and mustard and beer bottles. Elisabeth knew otherwise, but didn't press. "Well ... I just want you know that you're still my boy, and ain't nothing going to change that. You're always welcome at my house." "Thanks mother .... but I think Father would prefer I stay scarce for a while." "Pshaw. That silly old fool will get over it soon enough. You just caught him off guard, is all." She sat down next to her son. "Well, it wasn't my choice! I would have been quite content keeping it to myself, but aunt Naomi kept pressing me." "Naomi always did have a big mouth on her, that's for sure. Almost as big as your uncle Matthew's!" Both of them chuckled. "Which reminds me. After your dramatic exit, Matthew and his boy were reconciled." "Oh really?" "Yes, sir, they were. I guess his boy taking a White woman as his wife was nothing compared to your becoming a Greek Pagan." "Well, at least something good came of all this then." "I think a lot of good will come of this, son. It's no good hiding secrets from your family. Especially something like this. And now that I've had a look at it, I can see it's not evil. Evil has a feel, a smell. As the wife of a Minister, I've gotten quite good at detecting that smell. And I don't sense it with you and what you're doing. The way I see it, life is hard, and we need as much help getting through it as we can. For a lot of people, Jesus is that help. But maybe you need a different kind of help. And all I care about is that you get through life, as happy as you can. I'm not going to begrudge you one bit of happiness in this life. And I don't think God would either." Julian smiled, and took his mother's hands. "Thank you, mom." He said squeezing them. She leaned forward and gave him a big hug, and then she got up to leave. "Now, you sure you don't need anything? I have a whole carload of leftovers I'm taking out to some of the people from our Church. Sure you don't need anything?" "Well .... I did miss out on your delicious keylime pie ... have any of that left?" She winked at him. "Of course I do." "And, I was looking forward to some of your mashed potatoes, and that killer gravy you make. Got any stuffing left?" "Yes, I do. Come down and help me carry it up. We'll have us a Thanksgiving picnic, just the two of us."