Sunday mornings for some kids brought just another day to sleep in and stretch languidly between the sheets. In the Young household, Sunday mornings belonged to the Lord and no one else. My parents pulled us out of our beds early, tearing our clutching hands from the pillows, to get us ready for church services. Cotton dresses, white cuffed socks with little embroidered designs, patent leather buckle shoes, millions of hair barrettes, clip-on ties—all of these were hauled out of various drawers and closets in order to prepare the three of us for an entire morning spent at the Denver Gospel Hall. I was usually too sleepy to even realize what was occurring around me, but as soon as my mother pulled whatever prissy dress over my head, I would run to my parents’ room and watch my father go through his intricate Sunday morning routine.
My mother would inspect all of us meticulously. No one could leave the house with ashy elbows and knees, or with sleep still cowering in the corners of our eyes. For chapped lips and dry faces, she took out a round bottle of petroleum jelly and smeared it over everything in large quantities. I would quickly run to wipe the excess on my mouth onto a washcloth, but the oily taste of the Vaseline, as it was known in my house, stayed on my teeth and tongue.
Most children learn that appearances are superficial and that it’s what’s on the inside that counts. Not in my family. If you are a good person on the inside, they said, then you damn well better look and act like one on the outside because I didn’t work this hard so you could go out there traipsing around looking like a ragamuffin. Somehow the way I looked transcribed to how my parents looked as parents.
It was a theory of decency and propriety that I subscribed to without questioning. I was expected to greet the church elders properly—“Good morning, Brother Reynolds …”—and to stay quiet during services. I wore clothes meant for my age and appropriate for the occasion. I didn’t talk back to adults, ever. If my siblings and I acted up, it made my parents look as if they hadn’t raised us properly. When my little brother threw a temper tantrum in the middle of JC Penney’s, my mom dragged him into a changing room and spanked him until he repented. Young children did not embarrass their parents for any reason.
