Church Tales: The Easter Honey -aka- Posin’ or Frozen?

East Chicago, Circa 1980

If there was one thing my siblings and I could be counted on to do, it was participate in the holiday programs at St. Mark AME Zion, my family church. Not that we had a choice. Our parents ensured we were the first to volunteer whenever Program Coordinator Ms. Cora Bradford announced that volunteers were needed for the upcoming annual Easter program.

Then again, as far back as I can remember, the Davises were always directly involved in almost everything at that church. My mother served on the Usher Board, among other things. My older sister Denise was always leading some project. We all participated in the Young Adult Choir and assisted in Summer Vacation Bible School. I even remember my grandmother being greatly revered for her many contributions long before I was born, which included being one of the founders of the Phyllis Wheatley Club.

This particular year, volunteer responses were incredibly low, and time was running out before the date of the program. Miss Bell made mention of it frequently at the beginning and end of Sunday School, but for some reason, they weren’t seeing the usual turnout. My siblings and I had already signed up, so no one looked in our direction when the reminder was made. It wasn’t until the pastor mentioned it during church service that it seemed to get serious.

When he motioned to Ms. Bradford and asked about the total, she shocked us all by standing and replying, “It doesn’t matter WHAT the total is. We’ve got the Davis kids, and they can do a whole show by themselves!”

The audience joined in with laughter and a barrage of “AMENs” because it seemed to be a general understanding. But my sister, two younger brothers, and I half slunk in our seats, looking at each other in astonishment at the bold claim. Meanwhile, my mother’s chest swelled as she smiled, chin raised high.

The Easter Program

By the day of the event, several of the regulars had signed up, having been pressured by Ms. Bradford and their respective parents. However, no modifications were made to make up for the lack of personnel. We later learned that several of the usual participants’ families had travel plans, thus making them inaccessible. As a result, instead of shortening or spreading out the functions, you guessed it, the Davis kids were asked to pick up the slack.

I had already agreed to take the longest speech of the night, but Miss Bell, the program assistant, said she was sure I could take two more. Neither was as long as the first, but each was longer than the rest of the recitations. Combined with my own, it made me feel as if I’d be up there for a good hour all by myself.

But that was fine. All that mattered to me was that Vanessa, my Sunday School crush (for more about her, click here to read one of my most embarrassing Church Tales of all) was in attendance. We were just friends, and even though our lifelong association had always been through church, she had often been the object of my affections (and many a dream). Not to be confused with the crushes I had on the girls in public school. Vanessa went to a school in Gary, Indiana, so my time with her was restricted to Sunday mornings, sharing the same table in the Fellowship Hall.

With her long, flowing hair and soft, kind eyes, her every word to me each Sunday, when she did speak, sounded like hymns of their own. The fact that she never wore makeup made her that much more beautiful. It was natural, it was organic, it was pure. I had never told her about my interest in her. That would guarantee that she’d always think of me fondly, even if only as a friend. Besides, the embarrassing thought of possible rejection was always enough to keep my intentions at bay, mild as they were.

It’s a no-brainer that I fought to keep from hugging her when I learned that she would also take part in the opening of the program. After that, she would be spared the remainder and released to sit in the front row of the audience, which was reserved for all involved in the show.

Lucky her.

Still, with my extended stage time, that meant all eyes would be on me for a considerable length of time, which included hers. My brown-eyed, fair-complexioned, one-day-a-week caramel nougat twist. Watching me and only me.

Lucky ME.

And with her in the crowd, I could subtly work my 13-year-old magic on her.

I had spent several hours over the final days rehearsing my lines, as well as one additional speech Ms. Bradford asked me to memorize as a backup. My brothers had the more comical performances, while Denise had little to no preparation because she was the young Mistress of Ceremonies, as she often was. That was fitting because she had always been the center of organization and structure, no matter the affair.

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The program went without a hitch, with each person performing their tasks flawlessly. My brothers stole the show with their skit, improvising and making it even funnier. I sat back in my chair, smiling, glancing a few chairs over to get a glimpse of “my girl”, even though she wasn’t. As the person two acts before me neared their end, I calmly stood and bent over as I walked to the stairs at the side of the stage to wait behind the next in line. My sister Denise winked at me as I passed her.

As the next performer took the stage, I turned my attention to Vanessa, who seemed to glow by herself, amidst the audience of unrecognizable dark faces. It was as if he had a spotlight on her, seated near the center of the front.

My mind began to stray with thoughts of kissing her in the back row, or even outside of the hall in the parking lot, or by the wall. I could hear her saying my name in between kisses. “Kenny… Kenny…”

“KENNY!” Ms. Bell forced, louder than the two times she had said my name before, as she slightly shoved me to get my attention. Shaking off my fantasy, I noticed everyone in the audience looking directly at me at the base of the stairs. I quickly ascended them as several people in the audience laughed in amusement.

Half-stumbling along my way to the microphone, I noticed Denise looking at me with a wide grin on her face as she rolled the script in her hand, then made a subtle swatting motion in response to my perceived antics. I smiled back as I adjusted the mic honor the Lord, while seducing my flower simultaneously.

God don’t like ugly.

Opening my mouth to speak, I found myself completely blank. Not that I couldn’t speak, I COULDN’T REMEMBER THE FIRST WORDS.

God don’t like ugly.

Fighting hard to avoid any illegible utterances, I stood there, lips slightly parted.

I dug deep, deep into my mind, looking for the opening words as I stared silently into the audience. I knew each speech like the back of my hand, but sadly, that hand had been amputated.

Looking down into the front row of the audience only made things worse. There she was, looking at me…

Just as beautiful, but in bewilderment, as I stood, besmirched. At least I felt that way, looking back at her.

Standing directly beneath me on the floor below, Denise mildly cleared her throat, half-gesturing in disappointment that I take the program script. I don’t know if it was pride or fear, but fists clenched in frustration, knowing that the moment had finally come. I felt like a complete imbecile.

Imbecilians Chapter 3, Verse 12: “He who grabbeth the script knoweth not his lines”. 

That was something only the unprepared did.
The frightened. The bumbling.
But never a Davis.
Never me.

This time, it WAS me as I begrudgingly reached down and took it, placing my thumb at the section she had indicated as she passed it upwards.

“That’s alright, young Davis! You handlin’ a load!”

The audience erupted in laughter as my head slightly dipped for a moment, wishing I were anywhere but there.

Clearing my throat, I saw the first word of my speech on the paper and pressed my eyes and lips together firmly for a good second, knowing I had it, knew it, and blew it.

I could have saved face, somewhat, by handing it back to Denise and going from there, but panic overtook me as I held the pages tightly, reading my speech word for word as if I were doing a first-time table read with TV show co-stars at a round table production meeting.

Imbecilians Chapter 3, Verse 13: “He who knoweth not his lines, forsaketh quality time in the parking lot with his love”.

Imbecilians Chapter 3, Verse 16: “He who even dreams of quality time in the parking lot will be cursed with forgetfulness for his lustful thoughts”.

I told you — God don’t like ugly.

The applause I received at the end was tremendous, partially because it was clear that my passage was significantly greater than others. I suppose another reason was the fact that another Davis had made an appearance. Neither mattered as I handed the material back to my sister before slithering off the stage. People could and would believe that it was too much for me. It wasn’t. I knew my stuff, people. Really, I did.

I returned to my seat, not looking once in Vanessa’s direction. God only knew what she had thought or was continuing to think. She had seen me throw those lines out during rehearsals like they were nothing, which was what I felt like. Nothing.

Curiosity eventually got the best of me, and I slowly angled my head to the right, only to find her looking at me with a comforting smile.

God, I want to kiss that girl, I thought to myself as I returned my gaze toward the stage.

Later that evening and multiple speeches later (WITHOUT the script), I stood out in the parking lot, staring into the evening sky as the crowd noise continued. Unrecognizable voices rose and fell as everyone communed in the hall, the program having long since ended.

I stood against the very wall, wondering how it all went wrong. It wasn’t a big deal, but it was to me. Whether it was pride or embarrassment, the blow to my ego was enough to distance me from all humanity.

I knew the lines. I KNEW them. But I had drawn a complete blank.

Exhaling slowly, my thoughts went back to Vanessa and what it would be like to have her in front of me, facing the same sky with my arms around her.

Imbecilians Chapter 3, Verse 16: “Ignorant lad. Hast thou not learned thy lesson yet?”

We all do at some point.

This has been another Church Tale.
Happy Easter, everybody!

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