Paper Cranes

Blue light shined through the cracked door and the projector hummed as “The Polar Express” captivated my fifth-grade class. My classmates laughed and played, enjoying the Christmas party they had waited a year for.

Outside, I sat cross-legged on the cold hallway tiles, folding paper cranes. I exiled myself, taught that movies about Christmas or magic were unholy. So, I sat there, creasing my paper bird in the silence, listening to the muffled sleigh bells through the drywall—smiling vaguely, convinced that God was proud of me for being alone.

Raised as a Jehovah’s Witness, I learned early that the fortress of our faith was built to keep the “secular” world out. Birthdays were pagan, holidays were dangerous, “the world” was destined for destruction and we’ll inherit a paradise earth. I didn’t question the organization. I just kept folding myself smaller to fit inside it.

I kept only within the community of Witnesses because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Birthday candles were seen as pagan altars, theories of evolution were temptations from Satan, people who weren’t Witnesses were devil worshippers and those who spoke out were apostates. These notions were creased into my mind, part of who I was. I never questioned, never entertained ideas that challenged the “truth”, and began my weekly bible study with Brother Martines.

Brother Erick Martinez, a Jehovah’s Witness, moved here from Mexico with his wife and three kids. I spent days with him and his family, felt like a part of it myself. For Kingdom  Hall meetings I saw them Wednesdays and Sundays, bible studies on Mondays, and door to door ministry on Saturdays. But it wasn’t enough, nothing ever was. Our community was small and observant. Anything you do—or don’t do—was used against you and gossiped about.

Erick’s own sister, Chelsea, got disfellowshipped. Presumably for premarital sex but I never knew for sure. For her sins she was disfellowshipped. Through God’s just decree we all abandoned her, her family included. Disfellowshipped and therefore ostracized for the second time in her life. I never saw Chelsea again.

By eighth grade, the pandemic hit, and my spiritual mortar began to crumble. I was twelve, a boy slipping into curiosity, distracted during meetings, which were held on Zoom at the time. I folded more paper cranes during God’s time. Then, I stumbled.

I fell into the temptations of a normal teenager, something unacceptable. No son of God can be unrighteous. I was failing to live up to God’s expectations. No matter how many times I repented, the fear and guilt overwhelmed me. Many nights I wept on my bedroom floor, folded over my bed and begging for forgiveness I couldn’t feel. I had become the very thing I was warned about a stumbling block. A burden.

The shame developed into a single, terrifying thought: The community is better off without me.

My family did not deserve this; Erick and his family did not deserve this. I was bringing them down again. Just my being there was cynical. I tried to become God’s perfect servant, but I could never succeed. Already torn and garbage in God’s eyes, I did not deserve to be part of my community anymore. So I planned to fix that.

I decided on the only things I could control—the time, the place, and the knot in the rope.

I hanged myself. The basement of my house—cold, dark, and damp—my feet scraped the floor as my vision faded away. Black, blacker still as the sound of rain became a muted rumble. My senses left me, feeling nothing but my head bulging with each pulse, and the emptiness my childhood naivety covered up.

I didn’t die that day, but my faith did.

The basement door creaked open and, in a panic, I failed to untie myself. I was terrified—not of death, but of hurting my family. In the nick of time, I escaped. My sister, who’s just two years older than me, began walking down the stairs, into the basement, and straight past me into another room. I laid on the cold white tiles, the world deafeningly silent, gasping for air on the floor. This time without the approval of God.

Forced to live, my shame turned into anger, first at myself and then at God. Was I so bad? Was Chelsea? If God decided so, is that a god I want to serve?

No, I could not stand the thought.

First I had abandoned the world, forced myself into isolation from my peers, and now my congregation. I was truly alone. Without God and without friends, my relationship with my family quickly fell apart. One day I was the youngest child, the next began a fight without breaks for the last five years

I told them I no longer believed. Then I convinced myself that God doesn’t exist to save me the pain of hating Him. But until recently I never brought myself to think about it. Only last year did I open up to a new possibility. I attended a church, did research into more mainstream Christianity. I read the Bhagavad Gita, a Hindu epic featuring a moral code that was new to me, but my prejudice remains, forever creased into me. I keep looking, longing for something to fix the torn pieces of myself.

My origami collection has grown. A fleet of paper birds, dragons and buildings adorns my bookshelf. I blew out birthday candles for the first time, and I’m looking forward to celebrating my first Christmas. None of it should matter, I have no purpose, no reason for living, and yet I’ve become happy. I’ve found freedom in meaninglessness. My life doesn’t need the approval of a God or a grand purpose. It doesn’t have to be beautiful or poetic, it just has to be mine.