Your Mother is Not in Heaven
by Reggie Gilliard
[Editor’s Note: This piece is part of the “Topical” series, with each piece solely submitted to and chosen by the Final Reader Pietra Dunmore.]
She took every opportunity she could to mention Denice’s ex-husband. Though Denice was her “friend,” your mother resented her. Denice, who had everything: looks that captivated, finances that were stable, children that called her regularly—that loved her. Most of all, Denice whose charm drew everyone to her. Your mother would watch Denice’s confidence crescendo, bide her time as it neared its peak. And, when Denice was inches away from bliss, your mother would drop his name and watch Denice’s wave crash. Your mother cooed, wrapped an arm around her, reassured her that someone would come along to replace him. On the inside though, she smiled, basking in Denice’s misery.
Your father didn’t make it either. You never knew, but he cheated on your mother with Aunt Stacey for three years, beginning in your terrible twos. When she got pregnant, your father never said, but heavily hinted, that she should abort it. She did. Later, at Catholic mass, when the priest decried the evils of the pro-choice movement, your father fervently agreed. Your father only cared about women insofar as he could control them. The priest understood at confessional. Your mother never suspected a thing.
You may find it heartening to learn that the priest is in hell.
Your uncle Jimmy, who spent all of his days in your Baptist church also spent many of them loathing the choir director, Ronny, who played the tambourine a little too vigorously. Jimmy spent precious moments seated on pews reminding everyone near him of what the bible says of homosexuality. Jimmy was right, Ronny was gay; Jimmy was wrong, god loves gays. God doesn’t love hate. Jimmy was full of hate. He couldn’t explain that one away when his name was called.
Your grandmother, though, she made it. Sweet Gran-gran, who baked pies when she knew you’d be coming, and made warm apple cider, and worked her fingers to the bone. She truly was a kind woman, truly tried her best. Although, because she’d spent her life praying to white Jesus and believing in white angels, she couldn’t be expected to hide her incredulity when she saw that tan skin, that curly hair, at heaven’s gate. But what Christian—what person—isn’t dealing with a little internalized racism?
They permitted her to enter, but that issue of bias had to be dealt with. They didn’t want her quietly ogling heavenly couples, like she did when you brought home your Asian girlfriend. You didn’t notice, but your girlfriend (now wife) did. They didn’t want her feeling that mix of disappointment and guilt that she did when your daughter was Asian too. You didn’t notice, but your wife did. God accepts sinners and forgives them on earth, but he doesn’t welcome them into his homestead.
So, when next you see Gran-gran, she won’t have that tendency toward microaggressions you excused because of her age and her delicious apple crumb. It’ll make your wife more comfortable.
Though, if your grandmother has been changed so fundamentally—and she has—perhaps we can’t say it is the woman you know who has crossed that glimmering threshold. I suppose your grandmother didn’t make it.
This shouldn’t stress you. You won’t make it either.
Reggie Gilliard is a writer from New Jersey and a recent graduate of the University of Pennsylvania’s Master’s in Education Policy program. His work has been published in Down in the Dirt and Litro Magazine.
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What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Your Mother is Not in Heaven”? “Your Mother is Not in Heaven” has been in the vault for several months. I wrote the story during the summer, while in between school and a new job. I did some editing then, got busy with work, and had not looked at the story until about two weeks ago. The piece is a response to the culture of Christianity that I was raised in, (and that I think is pervasive in the United States) that assumes that all loved ones are going to, or are in, heaven, while at the same time putting heavy emphasis on the many ways one can end up in hell. The piece is really meant to be a series of vignettes, each paragraph or combination of paragraphs about a different ‘you’; the sum of them an acknowledgment that—no matter your denomination, race/ethnicity, or gender—you probably love someone who has done something hell-worthy (according to the Bible) and you are probably teetering on the knife’s edge yourself.
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