It's Not Me, It's You

“Ask, and it shall be given you,” Jesus says in the Gospel of Matthew. In 2004, at the age of 10 in Scarborough, Ont., all I did was ask. For starters, my then boyfriend had begun holding hands with other girls at recess, meaning marriage was nowhere in sight. There were other things, too: I wanted my adult relatives to stop fighting over land like the stars of African soap operas back home in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and I also wanted human braiding hair but my mother kept buying synthetic.

I kept praying for very specific wants, but none of them were coming true. I was anxious almost every day. One afternoon, I decided I was done waiting. So, I broke up with God. Coming from a religious family that believed in the power of the Trinity, this was a big deal.

As a preteen, I was your worst nightmare: I read, I understood how words worked and, of course, I was always right. If God wasn’t going to answer any of my prayers, so be it. I wrote a brief letter outlining what this breakup would mean:

1. No more praying before bed.2. No more going to church.3. I’ll wear what I want to wear when I want to.4. I could try cigarettes.

I felt electric. Nevertheless, when my mother came to my room before bedtime for our daily prayer, I still kneeled, I still brought my hands together in a waffle hold and I still said “Amen” after 10 minutes of just sitting there.

When I arrived at school the next day to break the news to my friends, I didn’t get a reaction at all! But what did they know? The true test was how my parents would take the news.

I was a PowerPoint presentation person. At the time, it was how I had convinced my parents to let me pursue a (failed) career as a child actress. And with that same bravado, I stood at the top of the stairs adjacent to the dining room, and I announced that I was in the middle of a breakup.

“I have something to say …” began my latest declamation.

My dad quickly looked up from his plate, the way one might notice an airplane flying a bit too close. My mother, meanwhile, sat deeper in her chair. Did breaking up with God mean I was leaving my religion as well, my mother asked. Was I no longer going to be in the choir? Was I no longer going to be an altar server during mass?

Obviously, I hadn’t thought this all the way through. And then, together, they burst out laughing.

When I told other adults—my uncles and aunts, even the lady next door—they laughed too. But I was unfazed. On Sunday, I brought the letter to church. I had no plan, it just felt like the right thing to do to make the breakup official. I put on my altar girl coat, I did all my regular mass duties, and when it was over, I knew that I was too. This would be my last hurrah with spirituality. Or, at least I thought it was, until I began meditating in my mid-20s.

Ultimately, I didn’t do anything with my letter to God. I brought it back home and slipped it back in my journal where all real breakups live. I wish I could remember what I was thinking during my last communion, but knowing me, it was probably something like: I’m sorry it has to be this way. It’s not me, it’s you.