Faith Camarena (17)
Be Still
In the beginning, I didn’t realize that Faith was a family name. When the revelation finally came to me, I was alone in my room, wrapped in the orange glow of my desk lamp and submerged in the soft incense of a linen-scented candle. Finally I saw, and a breath departed from my body, and as it left, my guilt went with it, and as my shoulders fell, and my heart slowed, I understood why the word epiphany had its origins in religion.
For years, my father had lied to me. From birth onwards, he told me that my name was the same as his, and his the same as his father’s. He told me that records of our family stopped at the nineteenth century, painted over by colonialism and poverty, but that my name went all the way back to the last man. And in his lie, as in most, there was a truth. Throughout generations the name had been passed down through my blood, from father to son, to father to son, to father to son, a piece of history undying. And though my father had not had a son, he told me that he had, that I was him, and though his name was not my inheritance, he told me that it was. And, made blind by faith, I accepted it.
My father was a Southern Baptist, and he raised me in his image. He brought me to a church every Sunday, an emptied-out middle school cafeteria where the congregation sat on brown folding chairs and stared up at a pastor speaking from a bright projector screen that stung the eyes. The chairs made backs ache and the worship singers paid ears the same courtesy, but I learned good things there. To hate the sin and love the sinner. To have faith and be still and know that He is God. To look on everything He had made and see that it was good.
I also learned that I was born from the sin of Adam, that it was in my blood. That I was small in the face of an infinite Creator, and that I was destined for damnation, and that only through His unending grace, His light that shone like the white sun, could I be saved. At fourteen, I left the church.
I was still in bed on the Sunday morning when I told my father that I didn’t believe in God. The lights were still off, and the violet of my old bedroom walls seemed to thicken the dark. “We’ll talk about this later,” he told me. It must have been too large a blow for him to acknowledge because that talk never came. I wondered if he felt like he had lost something too, as I had lost my faith. It was one of the few connections we’d been able to retain as I’d grown older. More distant. I wondered if he comforted himself with the thought that, if nothing else, at least we still shared that old family name. I slipped back into the void of my covers. I cried.
Changing my name didn’t feel like a betrayal, at first. When, after fifteen years, I finally discovered the lie that I’d been raised on, I was angry enough that I thought nothing of my father, or his father, or the dozens of fathers that came before them. Cleansing steam rose in a hot shower, and as it hit my face I saw the truth of me, and I forgot my family, and I christened myself Faith.
For some time, I remained blind to the betrayal. I kept the name because it sounded true, and because it was mine, but a year after my baptism I had doubts. In sixteen years I had grown to resemble my father in only the smallest of ways. I was no longer religious. I had thrown away the lie that was my inheritance, the name of the men who’d been forgotten by the rest of history, spilt Adam’s blood from my right thigh in the desperate, selfish hope that Eve’s would take its place. I had his eyes, his nose, his curls, but my skin and my hair were many shades lighter than his, and my face was sculpted by the same hand that had made my mother’s. My father came from a family whose history had been all but erased by European settlers and slaveowners, and in a cruel irony I had decided to honor that legacy with a name my father’s parents couldn’t even clothe in their own accents. At a time I could have considered it a kind of revenge—my father had lied to me, and the lie had been terrible. But the year of darkness had reduced whatever fire was inside of me to a coal, and I hated the deception more than I ever could the deceiver. Even the prodigal son had accepted his inheritance, and to turn my face at my father’s one gift to me seemed little more than cruelty.
I wanted to change it, then, and I held on desperately to the hope that I could make amends for my faithlessness. The harsh light of my laptop screen stung my eyes as, for months, I scrolled through endless lists of names. Sylvia. Viviana. Nina. Maria. Alicia. Eliana. Beautiful names, names that my father might have given me had he not believed the lie my body and blood had conspired to tell him. They should have been perfect names.
But Faith clung to me. Its water, clear as crystal, flowed from my fountain, and it filled a river inside of me, and the river shone under the glow of a setting sun, and I saw that it was good. It was me, and it was mine, and I could in good conscience betray it no more than I could the dozens of fathers before me, all bearing the same name as the man who was my own. And in my guilt, and in the warm light of a linen-scented candle, I finally remembered the lessons that had been taught to me those years ago. The kind ones, the ones that I hadn’t had to forget. The ones I had continued to tell myself without even realizing. Hate the sin. Be still. Look on what is made, and see that it is good.
And in remembering, I saw that I had not lost my faith with my religion. Even as the harsh light of its projector screen faded to a dim wash, the church’s teachings remained with me, just as they had remained with my father, and his father, and the dozens of fathers before them. The blood of Adam was the blood of Eve, my fathers’ blood the same crystal water that flowed evermore in me, and leaving behind their deception could no more make it dry than a single candle could make the night day. I saw, finally, that Faith was a family name, and in that revelation I was still.
Faith Camarena is a transgender student currently majoring in Creative Writing at the University of Central Florida. She enjoys acting, listening to jazz songs about love, and standing outside in the rain.
Be Still
In the beginning, I didn’t realize that Faith was a family name. When the revelation finally came to me, I was alone in my room, wrapped in the orange glow of my desk lamp and submerged in the soft incense of a linen-scented candle. Finally I saw, and a breath departed from my body, and as it left, my guilt went with it, and as my shoulders fell, and my heart slowed, I understood why the word epiphany had its origins in religion.
For years, my father had lied to me. From birth onwards, he told me that my name was the same as his, and his the same as his father’s. He told me that records of our family stopped at the nineteenth century, painted over by colonialism and poverty, but that my name went all the way back to the last man. And in his lie, as in most, there was a truth. Throughout generations the name had been passed down through my blood, from father to son, to father to son, to father to son, a piece of history undying. And though my father had not had a son, he told me that he had, that I was him, and though his name was not my inheritance, he told me that it was. And, made blind by faith, I accepted it.
My father was a Southern Baptist, and he raised me in his image. He brought me to a church every Sunday, an emptied-out middle school cafeteria where the congregation sat on brown folding chairs and stared up at a pastor speaking from a bright projector screen that stung the eyes. The chairs made backs ache and the worship singers paid ears the same courtesy, but I learned good things there. To hate the sin and love the sinner. To have faith and be still and know that He is God. To look on everything He had made and see that it was good.
I also learned that I was born from the sin of Adam, that it was in my blood. That I was small in the face of an infinite Creator, and that I was destined for damnation, and that only through His unending grace, His light that shone like the white sun, could I be saved. At fourteen, I left the church.
I was still in bed on the Sunday morning when I told my father that I didn’t believe in God. The lights were still off, and the violet of my old bedroom walls seemed to thicken the dark. “We’ll talk about this later,” he told me. It must have been too large a blow for him to acknowledge because that talk never came. I wondered if he felt like he had lost something too, as I had lost my faith. It was one of the few connections we’d been able to retain as I’d grown older. More distant. I wondered if he comforted himself with the thought that, if nothing else, at least we still shared that old family name. I slipped back into the void of my covers. I cried.
Changing my name didn’t feel like a betrayal, at first. When, after fifteen years, I finally discovered the lie that I’d been raised on, I was angry enough that I thought nothing of my father, or his father, or the dozens of fathers that came before them. Cleansing steam rose in a hot shower, and as it hit my face I saw the truth of me, and I forgot my family, and I christened myself Faith.
For some time, I remained blind to the betrayal. I kept the name because it sounded true, and because it was mine, but a year after my baptism I had doubts. In sixteen years I had grown to resemble my father in only the smallest of ways. I was no longer religious. I had thrown away the lie that was my inheritance, the name of the men who’d been forgotten by the rest of history, spilt Adam’s blood from my right thigh in the desperate, selfish hope that Eve’s would take its place. I had his eyes, his nose, his curls, but my skin and my hair were many shades lighter than his, and my face was sculpted by the same hand that had made my mother’s. My father came from a family whose history had been all but erased by European settlers and slaveowners, and in a cruel irony I had decided to honor that legacy with a name my father’s parents couldn’t even clothe in their own accents. At a time I could have considered it a kind of revenge—my father had lied to me, and the lie had been terrible. But the year of darkness had reduced whatever fire was inside of me to a coal, and I hated the deception more than I ever could the deceiver. Even the prodigal son had accepted his inheritance, and to turn my face at my father’s one gift to me seemed little more than cruelty.
I wanted to change it, then, and I held on desperately to the hope that I could make amends for my faithlessness. The harsh light of my laptop screen stung my eyes as, for months, I scrolled through endless lists of names. Sylvia. Viviana. Nina. Maria. Alicia. Eliana. Beautiful names, names that my father might have given me had he not believed the lie my body and blood had conspired to tell him. They should have been perfect names.
But Faith clung to me. Its water, clear as crystal, flowed from my fountain, and it filled a river inside of me, and the river shone under the glow of a setting sun, and I saw that it was good. It was me, and it was mine, and I could in good conscience betray it no more than I could the dozens of fathers before me, all bearing the same name as the man who was my own. And in my guilt, and in the warm light of a linen-scented candle, I finally remembered the lessons that had been taught to me those years ago. The kind ones, the ones that I hadn’t had to forget. The ones I had continued to tell myself without even realizing. Hate the sin. Be still. Look on what is made, and see that it is good.
And in remembering, I saw that I had not lost my faith with my religion. Even as the harsh light of its projector screen faded to a dim wash, the church’s teachings remained with me, just as they had remained with my father, and his father, and the dozens of fathers before them. The blood of Adam was the blood of Eve, my fathers’ blood the same crystal water that flowed evermore in me, and leaving behind their deception could no more make it dry than a single candle could make the night day. I saw, finally, that Faith was a family name, and in that revelation I was still.
Faith Camarena is a transgender student currently majoring in Creative Writing at the University of Central Florida. She enjoys acting, listening to jazz songs about love, and standing outside in the rain.