This is for the daily prompt.
It’s no wonder my relationship with religion has always been skewed. My first taste of outside repression came in the form of my first babysitter, Phyllis. Phyllis was a very nice Sunday school teacher. I didn’t go to her Sunday School classes, but I spent time at her house, where there was a piano. I think she may have been a piano teacher as well. I loved to play the piano, which meant either pounding it with my fists or slapping it with my palms. This was not allowed to continue for very long and she made me play the piano with only one finger of each hand at a time, which was not very fun. And thus can I pinpoint the very first repression of my youthful exuberance; my joy at being alive.
I’m not saying that her forcing me to play piano one finger at a time was somehow overtly tied up in religion or a religious lesson. It wasn’t. But for me, the fact that she was a Sunday School teacher and a piano teacher was basically the same thing. So for me, everything that Phyllis told me authoritatively was a direction from God. Thus, “Don’t pound on the piano like Jerry Lee Lewis,” became “God commands you to stop banging on that piano!” followed by, “Good little girls play the piano gently, like this,” and she made my hand into a fist, pointer finger extended, and showed me how to tap the keys daintily.
I’m pretty sure in that moment several parts of my character were born. First of all, I had my first inkling that God was a bossy killjoy. Second, playing that piano was much more comfortable and less awkward with my middle fingers extended instead of my pointer fingers. Third, “good little girls” could take a flying leap.