Mrs. Jones wore no makeup whatsoever—not even lipstick. She put her hair up in a bun, and her starched “house-dresses” all had prints of flowers or polka dots. She had a daughter named Sarah who was several years older than me. Her husband drove a big-rig truck for a living, so he was seldom around.
Unlike other babysitters I’d had, who took care of multiple children, Mrs. Jones only babysat for me. I liked spending time with her because I got a little more attention from her than I had received from those other, busier babysitters, all of whom had made it clear they were just in it for the money and didn’t really care about the kids they were watching.
Mrs. Jones was especially interested in my spiritual development. She was a member of the Pentecostal church—a group commonly referred to as “holy rollers,” due to their tendency to become so carried away by the Holy Spirit that they sometimes ended up rolling on the floor. A big part of the church’s teaching was that if you wanted to get into heaven you had to refrain from drinking alcohol and coffee, dancing, smoking cigarettes, and wearing makeup. Of course, they also believed you shouldn’t have sex before marriage or outside of marriage.
Mrs. Jones taught me, along with her daughter, to believe that all of these prohibited activities were the devil’s doing and God would punish those who participated in them. Every evening, she sat us down on her bed for a Bible lesson and a lecture about what was right and wrong. She made us promise we would never smoke, drink, wear makeup, or dance when we grew up, and that we would remain virgins until we got married. I didn’t quite know what a “virgin” was, but I hoped that what the teenage boy had made Joey and me do didn’t mean I wasn’t a virgin anymore.
When I was about six and Sarah was twelve, Mrs. Jones had us sign a pledge. I fully intended to honor that pledge, if for no other reason than I was afraid of God’s wrath if I didn’t. Besides, I already felt like I was a bad person because of all the bad things I’d already done. I was always getting into trouble with my Momma, I was a liar, and I’d done bad things with Joey. I couldn’t afford to make God even angrier with me.
Since my mother often had to work on Sundays, I frequently attended church with Mrs. Jones and Sarah, and if Mr. Jones was in town, he came too. There I witnessed many strange things—some exciting, some scary.
The reverend always began his sermon speaking very slowly and quietly. It was like he was lulling us all into a false state of comfort. He preached about the wonders of God’s love and the importance of attending church regularly. But then, all of a sudden, he changed tempo and began preaching “hellfire and brimstone,” warning us that all sinners go to hell and experience eternal damnation but those who repent will have ever-lasting life. The louder he spoke, the louder the organ music became. People began hopping to their feet, clapping their hands, raising their arms toward the heavens, and swaying with the music. I loved this part—I loved to dance and sing—so I gladly joined in on the celebration, clapping my hands, singing at the top of my lungs, and dancing up and down the aisles.
Then the shouting would begin: “Hallelujah!” “Amen!” “Praise the Lord!” I took this opportunity to yell as loud as I could right along with the rest of people, thrilled to know that no one was going to reprimand me and tell me to keep quiet.
By the time the preacher was finished, the crowd had worked itself into a frenzy.
Some people were crying hysterically, some hopping around in circles screaming. Then—thud—someone (usually one of the women in the first row) would collapse on the floor. Everyone seemed to have their own particular way of collapsing. Some went to their knees first, others looked like they were falling in slow motion, and still others fainted in a dead drop, falling straight down to the floor. They gyrated around on the floor or wriggled and writhed like someone having a seizure. This is when the “speaking in tongues” would begin. They sounded like they were talking or shouting in a foreign language. Speaking in tongues meant you were possessed by the Holy Ghost, which was the best thing that could happen to you.
While I loved the singing, dancing, and shouting, the gyrating on the floor and speaking in tongues scared me. I knew these people were supposed to be blessed by the Holy Ghost, but to me it felt like they were possessed by something or someone far scarier—like the devil. I tried not to look too long at the people having seizures and speaking gobbledygook because I was afraid they had the power to put me under their spell.
The preacher’s “hellfire and brimstone” sermons put the fear of God in me. My Sundays at Mrs. Jones’s church, together with my mother’s constant lectures about being “good,” pretty much kept me in line. And even though Momma thought Mrs. Jones was a religious fanatic and the things that happened in her church were weird, she liked the fact that she had so many rules and kept such a tight rein on me.
From Momma, I heard the same message every day: “You be a good girl today.”
One Saturday, after I’d been with Mrs. Jones for about a year, Momma dropped me off at her house and repeated her refrain: “Now you be good today for Mrs. Jones.”
I looked up at her and said, “Momma, I have to be good for Mrs. Jones. I have to be good at church. I have to be good for my teachers. I have to be good for you. When can I be bad?”
This amused Momma to no end. She laughed
