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#Post#: 24--------------------------------------------------
The Boy in the Pink Shirt
DIR By: StoryGod
Date: November 30, 2019, 5:18 pm
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For Zia Shabani, It was a no-brainer what to do Sunday morning.
There were no Anglican services at Kotiah-Yovanovitch, but the
app showed a Protestant Service in one of the lounges on the
first floor of Singer-Provine, the tenth grade Residence House.
The plastic chairs for worshipers were set in a circle and the
priest was a woman in a colorful vest, and clerical collar. She
had long hair going gray in places.
Two fellow students provided the music. One, a girl with silky
braids played the trumpet while, a tall skinny boy in a pink
shirt played an electric piano. The boy had large hands and very
white fingernail tips. It took Zia a while to figure out that
they were polished in a French manicure. Zia felt the hairs
stiffen on the back of her neck, even though she didn't have any
hairs there. Was this what her mother told her to fear. Of
course neither Kenya nor the United States was Uganda, and
people had a right to be let be. Still neither St. Anne's, which
was all female anyway, nor her private day school back in
Nairobi, nor any boys' school she knew about would tolerate...
When the service began, the boy with the pink shirt led the
music. He had an amazing, ringing, tenor voice. It was the kind
of voice that encouraged others to sing. When it came time for
communion, Zia offered to help the Priest break up matzas that
served as wafers and pour the grape juice into little cups.
At social hour, Zia got to introduce herself. The boy in the
pink shirt called himself Laurence. He came from Iowa and had
been attending Kotiah-Yovanovitch since it opened. "It's much
more tolerant here," he said matter of factly. Zia was not sure
how to answer. She was glad she was too dark to blush.
"Where are you from?" Laurence asked. "Nairobi, Kenya."
"Wow how did you get here?" he asked.
"Airplane...I'm sorry."
"That's how I got here too," Laurence laughed. "My father owns
six car dealerships in Des Moines."
"My father's used to be the Minister of the Interior. Since the
last election he's Minister Without Portfolio."
"I see..."
"What do you think about what's happening in Uganda?" It was the
wrong question to ask. It just sort of popped out.
"I think it's disgusting," the Priest spoke up. "It makes my
blood boil that there are people who call themselves Christians
involved with it."
"Those laws were a legacy of the British in Colonial times."
"Yes, but today, they're just plain evil."
"I'm not going to disagree," Zia replied. The priest looked
around because she realized she might as well be speaking
Swahili.
"What's going on in Uganda?" asked Laurence.
"They're persecuting Ell-gee-bee-tee-queue," Zia sounded out the
letters hoping to get them right.
"When is that news?" asked Laurence.
"It's not," sighed the trumpeter who thrashed her braids. "It's
why I quit the Evangelicals. I'd rather be where people are real
Christians."
Zia decided her mother was more old fashioned than her father,
but in the end she would understand. She walked with the kids
from the liberal Protestant service toward
Landon-Burchard-Durren. Brunch had started over an hour ago.
"The thing I like about church," Laurence told Zia "is that it
means no lines for brunch."
#Post#: 90--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Boy in the Pink Shirt
DIR By: StoryGod
Date: December 30, 2019, 1:01 pm
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This second Sunday at Kotiah-Yovanovitch, Laurence, the boy from
Iowa who also had nails painted in a French manicure, wore a
cream color sweater that set off the pink in his complexion. He
was handsome, thought Zia, even if he was... Zia was not sure
what his predilections were and she had no way to really ask.
Maybe, she told herself, it didn't matter. These were liberal
Christians and would protect him.
It was a good service. Zia knew about half the hymns. She wished
she knew more. She wished she had more time to sing. She
resolved to try out for chorus. That would absorb one of her
two, precious extracurricular activities. She did not care.
Chorus, was as good a choice as any when you thought about it
and it reminded her of the convent school in England.
She felt sad when services broke up. She was disappointed they
did not do communion every Sunday. She thought about finding an
Anglican church off campus, but praying with what was mostly a
bunch of old, white people would feel wrong as well. "Too bad
there are no Anglican convents," she mused. Then she remembered
she needed to call her mother. She had gone four days without a
phone call, and Mom was way too worried.
"Do you have 'family meal' for brunch in your suite?" asked
Laurence as they put away the chairs and Laurence folded the
legs under the electric piano which was portable.
Zia shook her head. Not having to eat alone felt wonderful.
Laurence, the trumpet playing girl, and the other church-going
students were the best companions Zia could imagine. Zia
realized she would have something really positive to tell her
mother.
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