The Many Thoughts of Wanda Kidd

Recently, someone asked me what type of middle schooler I was.  Ironically, it is not a part of my life to which I give much thought. I know that is supposed to be a terrible time for adolescents, especially girls, but I remember it fondly. I liked changing classes and getting to know new people even though I came from the mill town across the tracks from the university town. The teachers were well-versed in what they taught, and I do not remember them being unnecessarily harsh or playing favorites. Then I began to wonder, why was that my experience?  

For most people, middle school is when they go from childhood to adolescence, and they are not prepared for all the changes that are coming. From puberty to being dropped into a new school with groups of people who know nothing about you and who you were before you arrived is a daunting experience.  Beyond middle school, it is challenging for everyone each time it happens, from college to new jobs to grown-up relationships. Change is hard, and only some are prepared for the change.

So, as I thought back, I can thank my mother for the preparation because equipping me for these experiences was important to her. In 1950, she moved to North Carolina from New York to live with her brother, who was attending UNC on the GI Bill. She had a lot to overcome.  She was a Yankee and a Lincoln Republican in the Dixiecrat South with a toddler and a pending divorce. Any one of those things would have disqualified her from polite southern society, but no one prepared her for that.

She was intelligent and pretty, and she held her head high and caught the attention of the best-looking guy in town, who just happened to be the mayor’s son and my dad.  I know this to be true because sixty years later, at my father’s funeral, a local woman told me she was still bitter about my mother’s role in catching him.

That combination of events and the fact that she was not raised with the Southern cultural bindings allowed her, no, compelled her to empower me to think outside of the box. She helped me reframe situations and rethink norms in ways she did not feel she had the freedom to do for herself.  To my daddy’s credit, he allowed her and even supported her in the endeavor, which was also an act of courage.  Several stories come to mind that have shaped my perspective on life, but these four stories set the table for my lifelong trajectory as a woman and a Christian minister. This is one of them.

Story 1

I was an old soul as a child. I liked to talk and would have deep conversations with adults everywhere I went. I loved to spend the night with extended family members. One aunt and uncle, in particular, invited me often. Their only son was much older, and they seemed to find me entertaining.

I went to church with them when I visited. As a five-year-old, I loved the church. I enjoyed the songs with animation and movement, like marching and flying in the “King’s Army.”. Usually, the cadence of the sermon was soothing to me.  I especially liked church on summer nights when there was a halo around the ceiling lights and the breeze came In through the darkened windows.

One Saturday night, however, changed my life.  Aunt Ruth had finished playing the piano. I sat in the front row, and the windows were opened.  All seemed normal until the visiting speaker stood up and began to preach.  My memory of him is so vivid that the first time I saw Chris Farley play the man down the river living in his van, that preacher’s image flashed before my eyes.  He wore a short-sleeved white shirt that pulled on every button. He had a skinny black tie and sported a crewcut, black-rimmed glasses, and a floppy Bible.  He had a white handkerchief with which he regularly mopped his face as he built into a frenzy. Immediately, I knew I did not like how he made me feel.

I obviously cannot tell you all that was said that night, but it had a lot to do with women and how they are the reason that men sin.  What I took away from that event was that girls who wore shorts were going to hell, and because my mom made me wear shorts, that was my destination.  As a five-year-old, all I knew was that hell was a terrible place, and somehow, I would be punished for my sinful attire.

My Aunt Ruth dropped me off at my home as if everything was okay because I guess it was nothing new for her desensitized soul.  I went to bed, and somewhere in the middle of the night, I woke in a panic, crying and calling out.  It is still so vivid for me, even 60-plus years later.   My daddy quickly appeared at my bedside and tried to soothe me, asking what was wrong.  I looked at him and said, “I am going to hell,  and it is all Mama’s fault.” He stood up and called out, “Mama, you need to come in here.” 

I appreciate that my dad did not offer me platitudes or tell me it would be alright, but he let me express my fear and deep pain.  My mom came to stand by my bed, and Daddy said, “Tell your mom what you told me.”  I looked up at her and said, “Tonight, the preacher said that if I wear shorts, I am going to hell, and you make me wear shorts even when I want to wear a dress.”  My very young mother looked at me and said. “Well, I guess what I thought was that God would rather see you with shorts on while you are on a swing set than have your dress fly up and show your underwear.” 

That simple explanation made sense to me and immediately reduced my anxiety. I drifted off to sleep, appreciative that it had been handled calmly, with acceptance and comfort.  There was no hysteria about what was said or threats of speaking to the preacher. The issue was finished.

This may look like a simple story from a little girl’s memory, but it was so much more to me.  It was a story of empowerment—a story of being heard and comforted rather than placated and dismissed. I did not have the maturity or words to articulate what happened that night, but the planted seeds encouraged me to.

• Trust my heart to know what feels wrong
• Blaming someone else for your weakness is wrong
• Just because a man is talking from a pulpit does not make it true
•  Someone cannot replace my understanding of God as love with their need to exert power over others.  

My visits to my aunt and uncle’s home became more infrequent, but it was an organic shift rather than a breech in relationship.  All my grandfather had asked of his children was that they not “fall-out” with each other and they honored that request with each other.

In the South, when you have a male relative in the  “gospel ministry,” they are allowed to be the spokesperson for Jesus. They say the prayers at meals, make definitive statements to be adhered to, and are permitted to chastise younger family members for unseemly behavior. 

However, that experience as a five-year-old freed me from my uncle’s power over my relationship with Jesus and, in many ways, authoritative power in general. There was no head-on confrontation, just subtle resistance. I was unwilling to go into my grandmother’s house and change out of my shorts when he showed up for Sunday lunch like many of my cousins were expected to do. My mother once told him when he was in one of his tirades, “Rudy, you must have the dirtiest mind in the room to see the filth in as many places as you do.”  She said it with a smile, but her point was made.

When I was fourteen, a health crisis in our family meant that my sister and I had to be farmed out to family members on weekends, and the dreaded weekend at the preacher uncle’s house had arrived. With my parent’s permission, I planned to attend a school dance.  I had a ride to and from the event with a friend’s mother, but when I let them know of my plans, my uncle told me I could not go and then proceeded to explain to me the evils of dancing and that as long as I was staying with him, I would not be attending. 

Nine years of resistance quietly solidified in me, and without raising my voice, I informed him that this was not his decision and that if he needed me to stay over with my friend that night, I would be glad to do that. My sister reminded me years later that I took her to the guest bedroom and calmly told her this was not going well and that I hoped she would be OK, but I was going to the dance.

My family is not a fighting family, but they are stubborn. That uncle never spoke to me for the remaining forty years of his life, and he was not subtle.  He would walk into a room, shake everyone’s hand, including my husband and children, and skip me, but I held him no ill will. He did try to convince my daddy to dissuade me from attending seminary and pursuing ministry as a calling. Still, his failed efforts taught me so much about the fundamentalist perspective and spirit, which is born of deep and debilitating fear. As much as he would hate it, he and men like the evangelist from so many years ago prepared me for my role as a minister in a less-than-hospitable world for women.

Neither shunning nor frontal attacks deterred me from my life’s calling. I did not relish either scenario but knew I could survive because there were and are young people who need people to help them find their voice, passion, and calling.  My five-year-old self’s discernment and resolution, encouraged by parents and others who trusted me, allowed me to face middle school and, obviously, so much more.