Egoless

GOD is great. This is what I believe.

I will do this, God willing, in His name. I submit to Him.

My martyrdom is near. Here, in the darkness underground, except for the device in my hand and the daylight above, I kneel in prayer. When I stop writing, I will have posted this message. Then, I will rise from this hole, pull the chord and go to my glory.

The unholy shows through the thin line of light. It stings my eyes. But eyes adjust when the time comes, God willing, and I will see clear. I hear the demons’ music, laughter and joy. These will be silent when the unbelievers are destroyed. God is great! 

I had not always this faith. But thoughts of my life have been crushed. I am hollow inside. I believe I am chosen to be reborn.

I once wanted to know the world, to love everyone. Our home was underneath an elevated train near a curve on the line. Every ten minutes, I heard a piercing, screeching sound. I lay in my crib and would stop to listen. This was when I first became aware of the world. The noise made me curious about what was outside.

I would listen, then fall into sleep as the clicking and screeching faded until the next train came. I would awaken to the wafting scent of my mother’s cooking. The kitchen was beside my room. Mine was a plain, ordinary room. There were no playthings. I amused myself with my blanket in the crib. I discovered that, if I rubbed my hands and knees on the crib's floor while crawling, I'd get an electrical charge and see a spark on my fingertip when I touched the blanket. As my mother cooked dinner and the next day’s meals, I closed my eyes to breathe. I can almost smell the spices now.

Those times were happy. Other times are mixed with pain.

I made my first snow angel on the school playground when I was seven. My friend Wendell told me to lie on my back in the snow and move my limbs like scissors. I heard the snow crunch. For the first time, I also heard myself laugh as I moved my arms and legs. When Wendell helped me up, I looked down. The imprint looked like a winged angel. I was filled with joy. Wendell and I skipped taking the bus that day. We made snow angels all the whole way home.

When we arrived, my mother saw my wet coat. She asked what I’d been doing. When I told her, she went quiet. Then, she said: “You made a show of yourself.” I felt small. I pleaded to her that I made angels. I didn’t tell her that I’d had fun. “God made angels,” she said, chopping onions. “You mocked God.”

I looked across the kitchen to my father, who sat at the table peeling potatoes. He did not look up.

“Sorry, Momma,” I said. She said nothing, which told me everything.

Momma was right. I had liked making snow angels. I had liked Wendell, who would share whatever he packed in his lunchbox and show me how to play games, which I usually won, on his console. I’d look forward to going to Wendell’s home. He lived in a walkup where his father made soda and sandwiches and left us alone to play.

I loved playing at Wendell’s home. My father rarely came home. Mom raised me, my brother and my sister with help from my aunt and grandmother, who live with us in a bedroom they share. Dad, who had worked through college as a delivery truck driver, was either at school or driving when I was a boy. When he graduated, Dad worked as a programmer. I was always asleep when he came home.

Dad likes his work. He takes me to his office. He brings us to company picnics. Once, my father took me with his co-workers and their families to a baseball game. I was fascinated when I looked at the field. I still can’t believe there’s a place where men are allowed to do nothing but play. Their only purpose is to win. Cheerful vendors walk up and down aisles selling food, drinks and candy. You trade money for souvenirs, caps and pennants.

The ballpark puts on music, contests and competition. There's a giant scoreboard with all kinds of information so you can follow the game. The whole purpose of the ballpark is for people to enjoy being at play.

After that, I started going to ballgames with my dad. Sometimes, Wendell and his dad joined us. I discovered that wanting to be the best and win is fun. Everyone’s there to root for someone to do well. Wendell and I kept track of runs batted in and hits, errors and batting averages, comparing statistics and scorecards. I saw favorite players. I kept track of stats. I collected and traded cards. I learned that making mistakes, losing and failing is part of life.

I tried out for sports at school. I started studying. This pleased Momma. That fall, she let me watch the World Series on TV. She cooked a turkey that year on Thanksgiving.

Momma tired of my interest in baseball. After her sister whispered to her one night at dinner, Momma insisted that Dad take me to worship. So, he did. We went inside, knelt, hung our heads and prayed. On days we went to pray, Dad would take me for ice cream or to the movies. I think he took me so he could tell Momma that we’d gone. Dad didn’t talk about his beliefs. But he got excited about going to the ballpark. He never seemed happy in prayer.

I made new friends in track at school. Wendell was my best friend. After school, I’d come home, where Momma was usually sitting in the kitchen, listening to religious broadcasts and praying on beads. Sometimes, she read the holy book with Dad’s mother—a stern, quiet woman with a thick scar on her cheek—and her sister. They sat at the kitchen table eating with their mouths open while reciting holy verses and holding hands in prayer. 

Dad started working long hours. He never came home to eat. That’s when Momma started listening to morning sermons, too. I felt stifled and withdrawn. I felt lonely. I was angry.

I searched online, finding sources that made me feel welcome—like I was part of a group—and learned that being selfish is poison. Momma told me that, too. So did religious elders. They didn’t say to do anything about it. Leaders of the groups did. They guided me to holy places where people pray, learn self-sacrifice and choose to have faith in God.

I mentioned these places to Dad. One was a holy center south of home. We went down. We kept going. In the months that followed, I felt part of something larger than myself. I felt called upon—as if God, the only God, God the great and merciful chose me—to serve.

This changed everything. I soon realized that, whenever I won a race in track, did well in school, or played games with Wendell, I was being tempted by the Devil. Whenever I’d played, scored and won, I felt great—I felt proud—I felt like I was God.

I came to accept that I am God’s servant. I don’t matter. Only God is great, not me, especially when I win. I came to believe that worshipping something greater than myself and disavowing my own achievements is everything. All the teachers, priests and politicians told me so. I worshipped God the merciful. I began by worshipping with the holy leader, who recruited me for acts of service—pure selflessness.

I stopped shaving. I stopped wearing team gear. I stopped noticing myself in the mirror. Day after day, I felt isolated and alone. Classmates avoided me. Wendell stopped coming by my locker. Teachers stared ahead as I walked by. I became invisible, which made me sad until I realized that selflessness was bringing me closer to God. My mind was going blank.

One day, when Wendell saw me in the hall, he looked at me with pleading in his eyes. He had tears in his eyes. This made me sad. My sorrow made me angry because sadness makes me weaker. For a time, I dreamed of hurting Wendell—which made me feel guilty—yet I wanted to comfort Wendell. Everyone—not just Momma, my aunt and grandmother—encouraged my faith. My teacher, Ms. Lieberman, asked me to stay after class one day. “You believe,” she said. “With religion, you can become a leader.”

I knew that Ms. Lieberman had noticed me. She always called on me when she wanted to make a point. She singled me out, which made me feel uncomfortable, not part of the class. She praised me for things I had neither done nor earned—for things I knew I could never earn.

Whenever I started feeling like I belonged in society—if I liked a song, a game or a movie everyone liked—someone who was eager to invoke my faith in religion would appear. My coach made a point of making allowances for my daily prayer in front of the track team. I hadn’t asked for time to pray. I’d never mentioned it. Everyone stared at me. I was embarrassed. Whenever I started feeling part of school, school cast me out—ever eager to prove a claim of diversity.

I became used to being used as a prop for some purpose I don’t understand. School officials acted like they were doing me a favor. Being favored made me feel worse, humiliated and separated. I wanted to be part of the school, not singled out for my religion. After I became religious, I was put on display. I didn't want to feel like I was being exhibited. Being favored and showcased made me feel as if there’s something wrong with me. This made me feel angry—and gave me the urge to pound on someone.

Someone like Momma. As she listened to holy broadcasts, leading her sister and mother-in-law in prayers and counting beads, Momma became distant from Dad. At dinner, she'd slam her fists on the table if I talked about school or sports.

“School!” She yelled, pounding the table. “The unbelievers tempt you. Why you hold yourself so high? All you think about is baseball, running—and yourself!!” She screamed, reaching over to smack my face with her backhand. She exclaimed: “May God have mercy on you!”

My father paused, looked down and murmured: “Leave the boy alone.” Momma turned red, grabbed a plate and flung it at him. “God take pity on you, husband.” She seethed.

A bond formed between me and my father. He took me to prayer every week to escape Momma’s wrath and my aunt’s ire. We’d go, pray, listen to elders and pray more. My father wasn't religious and, though he'd been raised to pray and he believes in God, he prefers going to work or to the ball game. I think he thought that praying with me spared me. In a way, I suppose it did.

Being there separated me from day to day life. Being led in prayer made me fixate on an afterlife. Prayer let me come under the holy leader's guidance. I don’t think my dad figured I’d become a martyr for holy vengeance. I found myself going deeper into religion. It was around this time that Wendell appeared at my locker after practice. He was the same Wendell I’d known since we were boys making snow angels. Something had changed.

“Hi, how’s life?” He greeted like he always did. “I am at peace,” I answered, which was not true. “You still into baseball?” He asked, adding, “‘I have tickets to Friday’s game.”

“I can’t go,” I lied, as if saying so made it true. “I must attend prayer on Fridays.” Wendell sighed. I saw the pain on his face. He asked: “Can you skip prayer this one time?” I looked at him. His eyes were wide with innocence. “No,” I said, trying to spare him the ugly sight of me. Wendell moved in closer. He asked: “Why?”

“It is forbidden.”

This is what I believe. Wendell choked up. He turned, closed his eyes and his back fell against the lockers. His head dropped and he looked at his sneakers. He looked deflated.

“Dude, what happened?” He softly asked. “You were my friend.” I didn’t know what to say. If Momma knew I was talking with Wendell, she would go into a rage. I was suddenly struck by the desire to let Wendell know that I liked him. I said nothing. When the bell rang, Wendell turned. I saw his hand go up to his face. He walked away. That was the last time I saw him.

School was a fog after that. People avoided me—except teachers, who fed off me being religious. Everything started to hurt. My teammates’ and friends’ distance made me hate them for ignoring me. Rejection made rationalizing hating them easier, though I know I made it easier for them to hate me first. Every day was a test—not to notice Wendell—not to show emotion—not to care. I willed myself to go blank. Everything hurt. Eventually, the pain went numb.

Denying myself is easier than I thought it would be. Swimming across the lake last summer was challenging. Acing the algebra exam—that was hard. Beating state champion Central High at the divisional track meet was difficult. Going egoless is not hard.

It was easier after Uncle Eddy came to visit. I didn’t know he was coming until my mother told my father the day before he arrived. Momma’s brother—we call him Eddy—often travels to Michigan, Minnesota and Oregon. And Vermont. Exactly where he goes and why is a secret. Uncle Eddy rarely visits. When he does, he shows up without notice. He makes himself at home.

That’s what he did again last week. When my brother and I came home, I could tell that Uncle Eddy was there. My brother went to his gaming console. My father was on the balcony smoking a cigarette. My sister was at school. With everyone scattered and Uncle Eddy in the apartment, I went looking. As I stepped into the hallway, I heard voices in my sister’s room.

I crept toward the door, which was ajar, straining to hear what was being said. It sounded like an argument over money. As I came closer, I heard a whack. I knew that my aunt and her brother often fought so that wasn’t unusual. I heard Momma sobbing, so I opened the door.

Uncle Eddy stands six feet two inches with broad shoulders and a beard down to his belly. His arm was raised—towering over Momma and ready to strike—when I entered my sister’s room.

“Eddy!” Momma cried. She was huddled on the floor. My aunt was there, too, naked from the waist down, pants around her ankles. She had rolled herself into a ball, covering her head and rocking back and forth. I could see that her face was bruised. I saw rage in my uncle’s eyes. My mother looked at me and yelled: “Out!!”

I darted into my room, my mind swirling. I heard thuds, cries and moans. My brother kept playing games. My father puffed away on the balcony. Everyone acted as if this was to be expected—everyone but me—or was I choosing to deny the past? I did nothing to stop what came next.

My sister came home and went straight to her room. The fighting had stopped. I could hear the muffle of hushed chatter. When everyone emerged from my sister’s room, filing into the kitchen, where my grandmother sat fingering beads, things went quiet. Then they moved to the front door, where Uncle Eddy paused, clasping my sister’s hand. My aunt stood wrapped in a blanket, as Momma gathered ice from the freezer.

I noticed Eddy with my sister and made a move toward her. In the next instant, Momma shrieked like an animal: “Leave her be!!” Confused, I looked to my aunt, who was trembling and chanting in prayer to God for my sister. Realizing what was happening, in desperation, I looked to my grandmother, who’d been watching and listening. Without looking up from her beads, she said: “Accept God's will.”

I stood motionless as my sister’s large, hazel eyes locked with mine at the doorway, Momma’s command echoed in my head. I froze, knowing that, in that moment, I gave myself to blankness. I surrendered myself and submitted to the situation. I moved from the front door. The door flung open. Uncle Eddy exited. My sister was swept away.

I dare not speak my sister’s name. She belongs to Uncle Eddy. Given in submission by our parents and taken by Uncle Eddy, the sweet girl is gone. I remember when the front door closed. I looked into the den and caught my brother’s brown eyes staring up from his slumped, skinny frame on the sofa. His arms were like sticks attached to two hands holding a control for video games. He looked at me with terror.

Gesturing to the holy book, I told him: “Brother, put down the Devil’s games and pray to God, the great and merciful.” I won’t soon forget the look on his face. He, too, was fallen. His eyes looked down, then, slowly, up again, as he said: “Yes, my brother.” He fell to his knees, opened the book and started to pray. I went to the balcony. I don’t know why I wanted to see my dad. I looked up to him. Whatever happened, Dad always seemed to know what to do. I slid the balcony door open. I stood in the doorway.

On the street below, the neighborhood pulsed. The man who once brought my mother, then pregnant with me, here to this land sat flicking a cigarette ash into a planter. I stood watching as he smoked while looking over the city, past a bridge to the skyline in the distance.

After a minute, which seemed like an hour, Dad spoke. His words came evenly: “Your sister will suffer. This will give your mother another reason to be martyred. Your aunt will want to punish your sister for tempting your uncle.” He added: “I will be heartbroken.” This last word came with a crack in Dad’s voice. “Your brother will follow you. You,” he plainly said, staring at the skyline ahead without looking at me, “become a soldier of God.” His words were a command. He looked up. Our eyes met.

This he believes in me, I thought to myself. My father continued without hesitation: “I wanted you kids to be happy, not martyrs. I wanted to live. I wanted to realize the American Dream. Whenever I tried to raise you that way, every part of our lives—religion, school, teachers, neighbors and friends—” his voice went flat in despair—“your mother—conspired against me.”

He went on: “I let go and let God. I came here to escape death,” he said, bereft of emotion, “I wanted you to live. But your mother, your country and the world wouldn’t let you be. Go to your doom, my son. Know that I wanted you to live as a man, not die as a martyr. I loved you…I honestly don’t know how.” At that, my dad closed his eyes, a cigarette dangling between his fingertips, burning to its filter. He did not flinch. I wanted to go to him, to comfort and console him. Dad was a good man. He was weak. He was right; it was time to die.

I turned from my father, walking back into the apartment, passing my brother, whose eyes I sensed were following me. I opened the front door. As I left, I heard Momma call out “God is great!” and saw a flash of my violent past—and my sister’s horrified eyes—and I pushed these visions out of my mind. I dreamed of what awaited in Heaven.

I kept walking, an empty vessel staring ahead believing in nothing but the will of God, the just and merciful. I want to remember that moment as peaceful. I know it is emptiness which follows the contempt for life which settles into the soul and reveals what must be done.

As I write these, my last words, I believe in God. I am no longer alive—I believe I am God’s messenger. The rest is what you can expect, what today’s world accepts, expects and solicits from the believer. After leaving that home and rounding the corner, I saw the highest point of the holy place. I knew there were two more blocks until I reached the house of God. I heard an elevated train screaming in the distance. Soon, I would enter, see the holy leader and begin to follow orders, eventually entering the afterlife, God willing.

I stood before the holy spire and walked into the place, deciding that I would have to plead my way into Heaven. I entered and saw the leader, whose eyes caught mine. He came to meet me. “Blessings of God, the great and merciful, be upon you, my brother,” he greeted. “Come with me,” he whispered. “Paradise awaits.”

The leader told me what to do. I knew the plan by sundown. I went into training that day, returning home that night, saying nothing to anyone, conditioning myself for martyrdom. I learned how to conceal, to lie, and how to use weapons. I learned how to kill.

It took me five days to study how to enter paradise. Now, I crouch in the space beneath a dugout in the stadium where men play baseball. I wear two bands of explosives embedded with nails, vials and toxins. I will go to Heaven by making hell on earth.

I peer through the crack to the outside. Seats are filling up. Men from the holy land tell me that martyrdom is a great blessing—that this type of bomb has never been used against the infidel. Only my mother and holy leader know that I am here. It is time to lift this board, spring from this hole and enter the field of play. My misery will come to an end. With it comes the end of the world I once wanted to know. I listen to the cheering. Instead, I believe: God is great!