Religious Prejudices Today

I remember the last day I ever wore my favourite necklace to class.

The glaring sun beamed through the wide double paned windows as I cast a glance to the field beyond the empty school parking lot. The No Frills across the street was busy as usual. Women, who were pushing their baby strollers, casually perused the florist displays. Other teens who appeared to be my age were enjoying their summer rollerblading nearby. The grass was emerald green, the sky was cerulean blue, and outside everything and everyone looked genuinely happy. This contrasted with the stark white walls that enclosed me and 29 others inside our small classroom. The atmosphere was solemn and we sat quietly behind desks in neat rows arranged almost as meticulously as grave stones. It was a grade 11 English class. I was there because I wanted to fast-track it by taking the course in summer school.

It was two weeks into the four-week course: too late to drop it, too late to turn back. We were at the mercy of a teacher who brought her strict by-the-book Catholicism into an environment that was supposed to be religion-neutral.

My eyes returned to the front of the class, meeting with the stern gaze of my teacher, Ms. Roque. The only comfort I found was in the fact that my friend Margaret sat beside me.

Ms. Roque was young and smiled often. She dressed casually and appeared just like any other person I would pass by on trips downtown.

In her class, my marks were at least decent for a while. That didn’t last long.

The mistake that I made? Well, it wasn’t so much a mistake as it was an accident. My necklace slipped out of my jacket.

She caught sight of it immediately and the moment, now playing itself back in my mind, seems almost surreal. The action played in slow motion, the anger and the glazed-look in her eyes lasting what felt like a century or longer. In reality, the ire lasted probably only a split second, wiped away almost as fast as she shot out the words:

“You’re going straight to hell.”

I sat back down. Did she just say that? I turned to Margaret to make sure I wasn’t dreaming it, but I knew I wasn’t because she sat staring just as blankly as I, mouth gaping. Little did Ms. Roque know, I didn’t believe in hell, heaven, or Satan, and if I rebuked by saying it, she would have surely recoiled. Nonetheless, her words still stung. I could’ve said something. I might have been able to get our teacher fired, but I didn’t. I simply sat shocked and confused.

Ms. Roque, however, casually continued the lesson as if no words were exchanged.

That was the last day I ever wore that necklace to class.

The necklace depicted a dragon wrapped around a silver pentacle, a symbol of my religion, Wicca. I tried to keep it hidden whenever I was in public because I knew that there were people like Ms. Roque out who had never taken the time to learn that my religion has nothing to do with Satan worship, human sacrifice, cursing people with magic spells, or summoning spirits to fight for me in World of Warcraft-esque fashion.

After my experience with Ms. Roque, I was always spooked with the idea of a person finding out about my religion. I was afraid to be judged, branded as evil, and then tossed aside like yesterday’s garbage.

When I was 18-years-old, I was given the opportunity to visit Ghana on my own.

In Ghana, religion plays a very active part in people’s lives. It was my second day there, and already I stuck out. At the moment, I was squashed to the side of the tro tro -- a cross between a small bus and a van -- that reeked of body odour and was stained with sweat. Uncomfortably, I was baking at the very back beside a man in a yellow baseball hat named Abednego and behind a couple who listened intently to the evangelist at the front. I was the only one who looked obviously foreign. If it wasn’t my “Canada, eh?” t-shirt, then it was definitely my pale skin and my transition sunglasses.

I was traveling with Abednego to a Liberian refugee camp named Buduburam. As we were exiting station 37 at Kaneshie Market, we passed rudimentary, dilapidated shops named things like, “Lord’s Blood Computers” and “Our Lord and Savior’s Cleaning Supplies.” Small shrubs dotted the rural landscape, but I was unable to get a good look at anything. Every so often, our tro tro fell into another pothole in the dirt road, shaking my line of sight.

“Praise the lord! You! Can you begin the Lord’s Prayer?”

The female evangelist interrupted my train of thought. She wore a bright green and purple traditional dress.

“Me?” I asked meekly. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead. “Yes, you!”

I smiled politely.

“I’m shy,” I said.

I bowed my head respectfully as someone else began the prayer instead.

In fact, I did know the Lord’s Prayer but it simply felt wrong for me to begin it. I thought if they knew my religion, they wouldn’t have asked me. In fact, I thought they would’ve told me I was going straight to hell like Ms. Roque did so long ago.

I assumed that I was lost in a sea of intolerance, while all along I was the one who was ignorant at how accepting strangers actually were to religious differences. When I was in the camp later and I was asked what religion I believed in, I admitted that I was a Wiccan. I thought the locals would’ve thrown holy water on me, because I learned that whenever something bad happened (ie. A person’s house catches on fire), they usually blamed witchery. Still, they were more curious than angry or upset. I was told that they reacted in such a kind way because I treated their religion respectfully and participated in their prayers with an open heart.

I was touched. Here were young men and women, who were impoverished and uneducated after having to flee their home countries often due to religious purging at the hands of rebel forces. Still, they accepted me with open arms.

I thought the world was inhabited by Ms. Roque’s and people who argued about the petty differences between religions, but in those refugees, I saw that the differences between our beliefs were trivial. Who cares whether you worship one god versus an entire pantheon of gods? Who cares if you believe in reincarnation or not? I realized that these are the trivial differences between religions. When taken back to their roots, however, all religions preach the same basic ideas: be kind, killing others is wrong, stealing is wrong, be generous, and love each other. Therefore, it is ridiculous to argue over the trivialities.

In those refugees, I saw that we all live under the same sky and breathe the same air. We all believe the same things whether we acknowledge it or not. Most of all, in their eyes, I saw hope.

I wear my pentacle necklace today with pride, although I still don’t wear it to class. Occasionally, I still get the love potion questions and people asking me about whether I own a cauldron, a black cat, or a broomstick. I’m happy though that they’re open enough to hear me out.