Yes, my father is an Episcopal priest. That is the vocation he faithfully worked for over 40 years. So, my sister and I grew up as preacher's kids, or from my perspective, kids. I've always found it funny and sometimes perplexing that so many people expect and assume certain things about this apparently highly unique and predictable subset of society.
As a teen p.k. I was expected to be a reckless, rule breaking rebel. I missed the mark on that count, having never been arrested or expelled from school. In the years preceeding that, there were the far more irritating folks who felt any dirty jokes or racy conversational references needed to be uttered outside my earshot. And when I might have heard such salacious utterances, there came the worlds most cringe-worthy apologies. Apologies that always felt more like an insult.
The truth of my childhood existence included a father who worked full time at his chosen profession. An attentive, loving stay at home mom, a red Schwinn Stingry, new P.F. Flyers every summer and a gang of neighborhood friends. A little later on I dabbled in sports, played tuba in the band, and this one time, cut class to watch a ski meet. Pretty rebellious stuff.
Obviously there are far worse things than dealing with bogus assumptions which are based on the profession of a parent. But I think my experiences in this regard helped me to find an early understanding of the lies we call labels. I can remember being no more than six years old and hating having a label that just couldn't be ripped free of the fabric.
This is not a pity party. It's just a wordy description of one of the ingredients of the stuff that delivered me to this day as the person I am. And I never forget that if not for being a p.k. I would never have known the bishop's card playing skills, or discovered how far a balsa wood airplane will glide when launched from the top of the bell tower. Well, actually I have no idea. Turns out it's really....really far.
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