There’s a time in every child’s life when they play with a toy for the very last time. Action figures decommissioned, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and not from the explosive worlds of that child’s imaginative play. Dolls, with their weekly hair appointments canceled so many times the false fibers of their fabulous hairdos become so tangled they resemble the discarded weave of a kankeleon tumble weed winding through the wind of a Walmart’s parking lot.
Children, no longer children.
A time for growing up.
A time for real-life to take over its place.
In Deesha Philyaw’s debut novel The True Confessions of First Lady Freeman, I was reminded that for many girls, our Ken dolls transformed into human ones. Beautiful boys who talked back to us, took us by our hands, told us that we were loved, and that an “I do” one day was all but certain.
As young girls growing into grown women, we began searching for what could be considered God. We marveled at the delight of these boys. Real boys not plastic ones. God in the flesh and not in the form of a prayer to an all-powerful who was somewhere, anywhere, everywhere all at once but also untouchable.
In Philyaw’s The True Confessions of First Lady Freeman, freshly-forty, happily thriving in hallelujah holy matrimony, and with a dream acceptance to participate in The First Lady USA Pageant—Scharisse Freeman soon finds herself at the heart of some status-ending scandals, where both the women and the men have their placements to compete and protect.
The roles of the men and boys are akin to gods. They function as the protector of the women characters, their executioners, their Valentines. Women are the disciples.
These false gods include:
The Father: David Freeman (and the protagonist, Scharisse Freeman’s, husband).
The Son: Jeddiah Lancaster (Somebody’s son. Not Scharisse’s, to be clear).
The Holy Spirit: For the sake of spoilers shall remain unnamed but this is the kind of male god that somehow manages to cause destruction from beyond the grave.
The issue is that behind these gods love and respect are conditions. Offering them up as to precious gold stickers to place on the forehead. Only the most worthy of women are acceptable enough to receive.
Scharisse Freeman, the protagonist, first lady of God is Light Church, the wife of Pastor David Freeman, and the loving mother to Gabrielle Freeman, has all the gold stars from the right gods. These titles are like medals to Scharisse that she proudly shines and wears, daily. Showcasing that she is one of those few, worthy women. That she is a champion. In the names of the father, the son, and their holy spirit: A champion must always protect their earned titles. As Scharisse exquisitely puts it, “And keep everything from my past safely in the past where it couldn’t fuck up those wins.”
This past that Scharrise must guard from the sights of toxic gods, include:
- Unsavory female friendships.
- Unsavory womenfolks from her family.
- Unsavory woman that she used to be prior to her marital devotion.
And a good champion, a good disciple customizes to the wills of their gods.
Female friendships often take second place, or become nonexistent, once relationships (usually this happens in cis-gendered, heterosexual relationships) come into focus. Scharisse is both indirectly and directly taught that the truest relationships of all were not friendships, but the man she would ultimately marry (even surpassing the relationship with God). Friendship becomes nothing but a way to bid time until the real relationship comes along. Friendship, only able to be maintained alongside other married, church-going folks, otherwise that friendship may pose a threat: questioning the legitimacy, health and happiness of all marriages. Silence, a much “better” alternative than some truths.
It would seem that in marriage, even women who are related to these gods’ wives are a threat. Because by extension, they are their women, too. This is why Scharisse’s mother’s name is handled with a whisper, her aunt’s presence like a ghost. Scharisse understands that for her, and her husband’s worth, these women are not just unfit but unsightly.
Finally, even Scharisse herself becomes something she must protect her god(s) from. Upon meeting David, she quickly understands who he is and what he values. As traditional dating begets, she quickly edits herself from everything that does not measure up to how she sees David, and how she wishes to be perceived by him and the world he comes from.
As a champion, Scharisse is hypervigilant. Smart (a Yale graduate, after all). Sexy. She has her gold stars, and her golden life. Scharisse learns what we all learn in one form or the other: the best way to meet God is to be a disciple of our own selves. Choosing and treating ourselves with grace, play, protection, and goodness.
Ever the late bloomer, I didn’t get why as children we had to stop playing with our toys, why we had to do away with our dolls for the dazzling looks of boys. Gods weren’t men to me as an adolescent. God was play. God was outside, and so in my mind, why couldn’t these beautiful boys, our beautiful us, and our beautiful baby dolls all exist together? There was room for it all, I was more than sure.
When I began to learn of men as gods: the hows and the whys, I understood why we were conditioned to believe that there wasn’t enough room. Why it felt impossible.
When men are made to be the gods of us, there is no room for other people or things to be idolized.
Much like Scharisse, it has always been easier for girls and women to put our dolls down, store them in the attic, and let them collect their ashes to ashes, their dust to dust, for the god-like boys who talked, walked and loved us right back.
Boys, as our religion.
Girls, as answered prayers.
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