NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2015 Volume 15.2 | Page 6

My Take
I am not a practicing
religious person, even
though I grew up in the
Bible Belt in the Midwest,
in St. Louis, Missouri,
and was baptized at the
tender age of three
or four at First Baptist
Church by the good
Reverend Bracey.
Being dunked underwater in front
of an entire congregation of staunch
believers at such a young age was a
terrifying, traumatic event for me.
“Why am I being drowned!?” I probably
thought to myself.

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Yet, I recovered from that scary event
and stayed a member of First Baptist
Church for 13 long years, attending
services all day long on Sundays,
mainly because of the tyranny of my
grandmother who was president of
The Flower Club. She used to drag my
younger brother and me by our ears
to services; our only reprieve from the
gospel was trudging back home for
supper around one or two o’clock every
Sunday afternoon. Then, after filling
our stomachs with chicken, which
we called the “glory bird” and whatever
sides my grandmother dished up —
beans, collard greens, or string beans —
she dragged my brother and me back
to church for evening services. My
mother and her younger brother never
went to church. When I finally liberated
myself from the grip of the church at
the age of 13, I never went back again,
except for the occasional wedding or
funeral. My brother, however, became
an evangelical, jackleg preacher.

By

QUINCY TROUPE

I confess to all of this because Pope
Frances’ visit to Cuba and the United
States in September of this year
was a moving experience for me. Not
enough to convert me into Catholicism
or any other traditi