Easter Sunday Memories

 As the Easter Weekend approaches, I dipped into my stash of essays that I’ve written for writing groups over the years, and pulled out one that centres around one particular Easter Sunday when I was around eleven and making my debut as a reader in church (I no longer go to church, except for weddings and funerals, but I do love visiting churches when I travel).

 I’ve shortened the original version of the essay a bit for this blog.

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It is Easter Sunday morning, although the routine won’t be very different from other Sunday mornings: put on our best clothes and catch the bus to the 9 o’clock Children's mass at the Sacred Heart Church.

But today, because it is Easter, good clothes mean new clothes for my sister and me. My younger brother dislikes new clothes, especially shirts, complaining that the collars are too stiff. But my sister and I delight in the new dresses we get for Christmas, Easter, birthdays and a tailor-made batch every other summer. This time I’ve convinced my mother that my dress should be different from my sister’s.

“Okay,” my mother said when I made my request. “But it has to be the same fabric. It’s cheaper to buy it that way. And the pattern cannot be very different or the tailor will charge us extra.”

I opted for a plain V-neck instead of my sister’s scooped neck with collar. I chose straight short-sleeves instead of her flared three-quarter length ones. And none of those fancy buttons.

“Isn’t Dad coming to church?” I ask, although I already know the answer. My father never attends mass, even though it remains compulsory for us. My mother is a devout churchgoer.

“Why is it a sin if we don’t go but it’s okay for him?” I’ve been asking this question for years without a satisfactory response. Like the dresses, I am testing the waters, wondering if I can get some leeway here.

“He’s been working all night. He needs to sleep,” my mother says. “But I am coming to the children’s mass today, to hear you read.”

At eleven, I am making my debut as a reader of the scriptures. Finally, something useful and exciting to break the monotony of the religious rituals. Whispering to friends in the pew only draws a stern look from one of the nuns, a finger placed on her lips. Because my mother is a well-respected teacher at my Catholic school run by the nuns, I feel compelled to behave with decorum. But secretly, I envy my younger brother who gets to be an altar boy, with much to-ing and fro-ing with the water and wine.

But now, now I am a reader.

A twinge of nervousness flutters in my stomach, but thanks to the nuns, I am well-rehearsed. When the moment arrives, I need no signal and march up to the pulpit, pulling the microphone down to my level. My voice is clear and smooth. I know instinctively that I am a good reader.

After mass, as people socialize in the church yard, an older English gentleman approaches me. I know him vaguely. He and his family have recently arrived in Bahrain from England. I remember that his son did a reading at mass the week before.

“Hello,” he says, shaking my hand with formality. “You read that very well.” He is speaking more slowly than is normal. “You’re as good a reader as my son, and he grew up speaking English.”

Ah, so that’s it. He thinks only English people grow up speaking English. He does not understand the cross-section of nationalities and expatriate communities that live on this island.

“Thank you,” I respond, equally slowly. “But I too grew up speaking English.”

In that instant, something solidifies in my young mind; something that had been swirling in my subconscious for a while, absorbing how the Western expat children and their parents were treated versus us, the brown expats. I know I will always have to try and be the best. To prove myself. I will grow up to be a doctor or scientist. I will be acclaimed for my intelligence and achievements. I will make my mark in the world.

Decades later, now in my third act, having become neither a doctor nor a scientist, having made no significant mark in the world, that realization has evolved and changed.

Being the best at something no longer matters.