Religion … Gabriella Orozco

by Gabriella Orozco I’ve always had a hard time connecting myself to spirituality. A part of me is a firm believer in a stronger, greater figure watching over us. Another aspect of me is to believes that the universe itself has planned out my life. The insecure part of myself tells me that I’m fooling myself into believing anything at all. I was always told to believe in God, Jesus, and the Saints when I was younger. I’m not going to say I grew up in a solid Catholic household. We didn’t go to church every Sunday, and we didn’t pray before meals. Yet, my mother was an advocate for doing all my spiritual sacraments. When I started going to communion classes, I felt anxious about having to learn prayers to perfection. I was confused as to why, all of a sudden, we started attending church on Sundays, only to discover it was mandatory attendance to pass these classes. It was hard to hear the priest through the muffled sounds of prayer. I always thought I was doing something wrong when I couldn’t understand the lessons at church that day. When I moved up to Confirmation, we were required to go on a spiritual retreat. The day we left, we got to know each other, interacted with all the other girls, and learned about ourselves. We also ate snacks and prayed. It was a good time, and it was the first time I had an excellent religious experience. The next day, we hiked and talked about God’s creations. We splashed around in a nearby lake and ate some snacks under a shady tree. It was almost a picture-perfect setting. After a long day, we came back and had dinner. We all got in one big circle, and we were to introduce ourselves to everyone in the group. Once we

Creative Works… 100 got through the what’s-your-name-and-your-favoritecolor portion of the conversation, the instructor started asking the hard-to-swallow questions: Tell us what you want to learn from this spiritual journey? I sat quietly and reflected; I had no initial response, but the instructor talked about her trauma and how God saved her. Every other girl confessed something raw. Tears and silent sobs quickly spread through the room. I started to panic internally. What did these people expect from me? I had no idea how to be “saved” and why I had to tell total strangers my story. When it came to my turn, all I said was, “How to be closer to God.” I got a blank glare from the instructor. All she said was, “Maybe there’s something you’d like to share?” No, there isn’t anything I would like to share. Your trauma-dumping triggered something in all these girls. I don’t want to be anywhere near here, and I wish I were far away. All I could do was nod and bow my head in defeat. All those tears and lifelong secrets didn’t just stay in that room, they left with thirty other people. We never really got to know each other; all I know is that these girls, and probably now women, were coerced into telling their stories. Older women prying into young girls’ lives for, what seemed to be, for “spiritual release,” but all I saw was manipulation. I don’t want to say I have religious trauma. I do, however, have a sensitivity to opening myself up to religion. The vulnerability that it seems to require has blocked me from approaching with confidence. There was no reason for me to explain myself to anyone. God knows who I am and why I remain silent. There was no reason for me to learn prayers to perfection or go to church on Sundays for a year to prove my loyalty. Neither was the retreat neces-

Creative Works… 101 sary; all those tears and life-long secrets and moments of stress could’ve been avoided. I believe in God, but I don’t believe in a church that preys on the vulnerable.