Religion in a Day
Breakfast is at seven, when my son comes downstairs, yawning, diamond-faced and dishevelled. I make sure he eats and gets ready for school. As I stir the eggs, my huge hand dwarfs the utensil and I am again stabbed by fear. Following his mother’s death, I constantly worry about him being out in the world alone. The feeling turns within me, giving me notions that - perhaps - a woman might have. I must ensure no harm comes to him, and I do my best, but the neighbours mutter and judge, smugly entertained by this very public metamorphosis of a man.
Confined to the house since the accident, this child is now my only human connection to the outside world, with its sunny days and passing cars. I often sleep in the afternoon but am careful to be up and active when he returns from school. That day he burst in to show me the ‘new hand signal.’ As usual, I felt myself being carefully interested; but not too interested.
‘That sign,’ my son said knowingly, ‘it means you’re in.’
‘In what?’
But he doesn’t say. Is he talking about gangs? Is he trying to tell me, in some secret way, that he is being bullied?
‘Who showed you the hand signal?’ I asked, as casually as I can.
‘The white boys.’
‘Oh.’
I should not have said that, and he glanced at me with disdain. ‘Dad!’ he exclaimed. ‘They’re not racists!’
‘Ok.’ I am trying to keep up.
‘It’s a good piracy.’
I had no idea what that meant, so later I searched online and was immediately swamped by references to something called ‘The Fearless,’ with memes and blogs and precisely that hand signal. I made tea but did not drink it. Nor did I take my usual afternoon nap.
The news was full of footage of huge crowds gathering in city centres across the world. There were protest marches, climbers on statues, honking lines of cars and angry faces. I even heard shouting outside, and when I pulled back the curtain to look, there were people running. Then the phone rang.
My brother, who lives on the coast, told me that cars were burning on his street and that crowds were banging on the doors of houses, demanding answers. One man had been torn to pieces just for carrying a plastic bag; another for buying too much food. ‘It’s best’, my brother added, ‘to show no signs of money. Scuff up your lawn. Hide the Beemer. It’s a religion!’
Next, a neighbour called. The supermarket had closed but food was being given out in the parking lot. I told him what my son had said, but then the line cut off and the lights went out.
‘We’re just going to stop,’ my boy told me. We ate dinner by candlelight and he wriggled with pleasure on his chair. ‘I worship nature Dad.’
‘Well, that’s a good thing.’
‘No.’ He said, his voice slowing. He regarded me with older eyes. ’It’s going to be hard. That’s what they say. No more unequalness. None. No expensive cars. No coal or oil. No plastic.’ Then he raised his fork to the sky and said ‘Long live the spirits of the trees!’
‘Eat your dinner why don’t you.’
‘Sure Dad.’ He smiled and made the hand signal. ‘To the Fairness!’
‘You mean the Fearless?
‘No Dad! Don’t you know anything?’
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