Читать книгу The Atheist’s Guide to Christmas - Ariane Sherine - Страница 12

My first encounter with religion was when I was six years old. At school one day, my teacher told me that I couldn’t be in the Christmas nativity play because I wasn’t the ‘right religion’. I remember returning home, crying, devastated that all my friends were going to be having fun in rehearsals, and I would be left alone without their company at break time. And, more importantly—to a six-year-old wannabe actress—I would miss out on the fame and stardom from acting in the play, which was to be performed in front of the entire school. Not to mention not receiving the free sweets used as bribes by the staff for good behaviour; I would do anything for a strawberry cream, me.

Brought up in an atheist household, I didn’t understand what my teacher meant by ‘religion’: for some reason I thought it suggested I had the lurgy or that something was wrong with me. If I was the ‘wrong’ religion, then surely I could try to become the ‘right’ one and then be part of the school play?

That night, my parents patiently tried to explain the concept of ‘God’ to me. I must admit, being the snotty-nosed brat that I was, who absorbed books like oxygen, I was slightly impressed by their bringing out a copy of the Bible to show me, whilst they attempted to condense a few thousand years of religious doctrine into a six-year-old-child-friendly atheist version. But even then I was cynical: I’d learned early on that the Tooth Fairy was pretend; I’d recently discovered that Santa Claus was purely fictional (and was pretty devastated by that); so why should I believe in this God bloke? It’s not like I’d ever seen any evidence of him—and he’d certainly never left me any coins under my pillow or filled the stocking at the end of my bed with presents. What had God ever done for me—besides prevent me from getting a starring role in the Christmas play? Even then, I knew I didn’t like him. And that whole burning bush thing scared me a bit, if I’m honest.

The following day, my mum grabbed me by the arm, stormed into the school, and had a huge argument with my teacher; I remember lots of heated words being exchanged. Back then, I just thought my mum was sticking up for her wannabe actress, prima donna, daughter; it was only as an adult that I learned she had accused the teacher of discrimination. I now understand and appreciate the importance of my mum sticking up for her atheist beliefs, and the rights of her child not to be subject to prejudice because of them.

The teacher finally caved in to my mum’s persuasiveness, and agreed to let me have a part in the play. I was joyous with happiness: now I would have fame! Glory! Attention! Me, as Mary! (Whoever she was: I didn’t care—she had the lead role and I wanted it.) Or as an angel! (Again, not sure what/who they were, but if they got to flutter around in a white tutu, I was more than game.) I was so excited: I could almost see my name in lights. Almost.

I bounced around the rest of the day and, like the precocious diva I was, looked forward to my costume fitting. And, when it came, I lined up with all my friends and waited for my name to be called as the roles were divvied up in alphabetical order. (NB. This has been the bane of my life, given my name begins with a Z. Last in line for everything.)

‘Ashling!’ my teacher called, and my friend was given the role of Mary.

Damn. Lost the lead role. Oh well, I will still be a pretty angel!

‘Cathy!’ the teacher said, and proceeded to make my best friend an angel.

I grew ever more excited though: I couldn’t wait to try on the tutu!

‘Fiona!’ the teacher barked, and my friend went off to get her tutu fitted.

It would be me soon! Tutu, here I come!

‘Helena!’ shouted the teacher, and yet another friend was sent to the angel queue.

This went on for a while, until there were a dozen angels, as well as a few wise men, and only a couple of us left standing in the queue.

I think I knew, at that point, that my hopes of having a starring role were about to be severely dashed. But—ever the (noneternal, reincarnation-cynical) optimist—I thought that perhaps I would be made a Special Angel: a lead angel who was in charge of all the other angels and who got to boss them around and stuff. Maybe I could wear a black tutu instead, like in Swan Lake?

My name was finally called: I was back of the line; there were few costumes left; I was the last pupil to be given a role.

‘You’re going to be a villager in the choir,’ my teacher informed me.

I stared at her, gobsmacked.

‘Tell your mum that you will need to bring a scarf, gloves and hat with you to wear to all the rehearsals.’

Oh great, I don’t even get a costume. My dreams of stardom vanished in a second.

‘And,’ my teacher continued, ‘you get to hold this lantern: isn’t it nice?!’

I think, even back then, I knew she was being sarcastic.

My teacher handed me a long wooden stick, with a pretend lantern dangling on one end.

And it was at this point that I had a stroke of genius: a way for me to decline this minor, irrelevant role, and be promoted into a proper acting part.

‘I can’t hold that,’ I said.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m allergic to wood.’

I don’t know if she was more surprised by the absurdity of what I had said, or the fact that it had been said by a smart-alec, upstart six-year-old, but whichever it was, she wasn’t pleased: she wrote me a huffy note, which I gave to my mother later, that said I had been offered a role but was now making up lies to get out of it.

My mum sat me down that night and asked me what I wanted to do (whilst sniggering about my wood-allergy comment, I should add). My only options, it seemed, were either not be in the school play at all, or accept the role of an ‘extra’ and perform in the choir. With all my friends already practising their lines, and not wanting to be left out, I chose the latter.

Photographs taken of the play, when it was performed some weeks later, just before Christmas time, show a very cheery Mary and Joseph; some happy wise men; many elegant, joyous angels; and, standing in the back of the villagers’ choir, one extremely pissed off, scowling six-year-old, holding her lantern fully askew. Let’s just say I was not at all happy.

Years later, when I look back on that event, it seems clear to me that that was the defining moment when I realised I could not believe in God. Sure, as an adult, surrounded by science and reason, it’s obvious to me that God doesn’t exist. But, as a starry-eyed six-year-old, my disbelief in religion came down to three simple facts:

1. I never got to eat a strawberry cream, because being last in line all the time meant everyone else had already nabbed them. (God can’t be that cruel, surely?)

2. I did not achieve international stardom from my role as a ‘villager’. (God can’t be that mean, surely?)

3. Anyone that would allow a child to be forced to sing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!’ is a sadist, not a deity. (I am assuming God is not into S&M.)

Although, I suppose it could be argued that God might exist, for the world at large was prevented from being exposed to my performing at a professional level. Given my singing voice, that really is something to rejoice and say ‘Hallelujah!’ over.