on being gothic: breaking the norm

This is a paper written for my sociology class,
following a very unusual assignment, called
"Breaking the Norm"

All my life I have attended church, and not until I was in jr. high or secondary school did I even consider wearing pants to the Sunday service. Even a pony tail in my hair was taboo when I was young, because that was much too ordinary. I was the Pastor’s daughter and supposed to set an example for all other Sunday School children. We were meant to dress our best when going to church, and if anyone dared to wear jeans - shame on them!

As I grew older, the Lord taught me that Christian spirituality is more than just appearing religious by doing and saying all the right things, and never something out-of-place.

I see now that I was very Pharisaic, ensuring the outside of the tomb was whitewashed, and never minding the decomposition inside.

Now that I am gradually coming to realize the truth of the matter, I have started looking beyond myself, to the church. Often I have wondered if a community of believers would accept me just the same if I was real. Could I be vulnerable in sharing all that I am: the passionate visions for life, the deep hurt of insecurities crushed, the anger I felt whether justly or unjustly? Why, after arguing with my mother, did I “have” to answer people’s methodical questions with a “Fine, thanks, and you?”?

The issue I sought to address was not merely dealing with clothing or personal openness, but more generally: would I be accepted if I acted differently from the Christian “norm”?

In order to stop wondering and find an answer, I took this issue on as my “Breaking the Norm” assignment for sociology class at The King's University College.

I began by settling on a persona, a character to act in order to address a specific aspect of Church religiosity. Eventually I decided to be gothic, as this was the furthest from the “happy Christian in a flowered skirt and blouse” that I could think of.
or bad. Having visited many different denominations growing up, the Anglican church always struck me as one of the most traditional of all protestant denominations. This summer I visited a typical, small Anglican church which distilled many negative prejudices I may have previously held, leaving more of a respectful intrigue as to the sociological response. Anglican services, as I have known them, tend to hold an older, well-dressed population which prefers hymns to praise choruses and responsive readings to spontaneous prayers.

Attending this sort of church as a goth, I expected people to be horrified at my nerve to enter a holy place in sacrilege. The priest, I figured, would feel responsible for welcoming me to his parish, but I anticipated seeing only the backs of most of the congregation’s heads.

Often people are most uncomfortable around what they do not understand, and astounded by anything different from what they expect. The majority of the church being of an older generation, I assumed this to be magnified.

Knowing that I was bound to miss some of the people’s responses to my gothic dress, and that two are often more intimidating to approach than solely one, I brought on board my friend Amanda. Together we would break the typical church norm.

Being far from gothic myself, a trip to Value Village was mandatory for creating a suitable, convincing wardrobe. Not to be missed were the black nail polish and black lipstick, conveniently found in the Halloween section.

Sunday morning, October 2: Amanda and I arrived at St. Luke’s Anglican Church, somewhat late (as yet another norm-breaker, though quite compatible with us and the early morning!). Stepping out of the car in the crowded parking lot, I had many mixed feelings. Questions as to how I would respond to people, insecurities of appearing in public as someone I did not know or understand, and deceit for pretending to be something different (though we do this all the time when having a bad day).

Stepping through the large glass doors of St. Luke’s, the angelic-sounding choir reached my ears and made me squirm in shame to be putting the church to the test in this way. Despite my insecurities, we entered the sanctuary and found an empty pew near the back, as I expect a true goth would. A middle-aged usher eventually noticed that we needed bulletins for following the order of service, and brought a couple to us, surprisingly with a smile. A few minutes in and they had not kicked us out yet - so far, so good.

The service continued as was planned, including an infant baptism. Welcoming the small girl into the church family, the priest showed her to the congregation by carrying her down the aisle. He was a fairly congenial man, joking around and smiling frequently. As he approached the back, where Amanda and I sat, he paused long enough to look right at us and say a friendly “Hi!” I admit to being quite taken-a-back by this warm gesture. He had not intentionally acknowledged most of the other congregants, but would welcome two young women dressed like death. I had come expecting awkwardness and cold shoulders, but here the priest made an effort to make us feel special. Did they get many visitors, I wondered, or was the priest just eager to secure more members?

After a few more readings and hymns there came a meet-and-greet time, where people were to walk around to one another and say “Peace be with you.” I was eager to see how the rest of the congregation would respond, once they turned around and saw the ominous visitors on the back pew. North Americans are professionals when it comes to hiding our true feelings, but somehow it is often possible to glimpse the truth behind people’s masks. This was true when, as Amanda witnessed, a lady a few rows in front of us turned around in order to greet us, observed that we were goths, and abruptly turned to face the front once more, completely ignoring us from then on. This is what I expected from most people, as I mentioned earlier, but when I heard what she did I admit to being astounded at her judgmentalism (although I, too, was being judgmental in this assessment of her).
Some others, however, astounded me by their acceptance. I distinctly remember a frail, elderly man from a few rows in front of us slowly make his way back, solely to greet Amanda and I! Most people milled around, some having earnest conversations with one another, and others simply sharing the blessing. A handful of other people came back to greet us, smiling very warmly and shaking our hands firmly. After this time I was not sure whether to be disappointed or excited. My expectations were mostly wrong, but hope for the church was beginning to flicker again.

The next point of interest in the service was the Communion. According to the bulletin, all who were baptized believers were welcome to partake in the breaking of bread. And so, as the usher (the previous one’s wife) smilingly invited us to the front, we followed the other congregants to the railing. As did the others, we knelt and waited. As the priest approached with the small, tasteless wafers, he spoke to each person, “The body of Christ, broken for you,” as he’d been saying it for years. When speaking to Amanda and I, though, I noticed a distinct and intentional difference in his tone, as he reassuringly said, “The body of Christ, broken for you.” Did he view me as a heathen, or was he just trying to share the love of Christ for me no matter what my dress?

I wanted so badly to be able to know what people were really thinking, not only the priest, but the others too, especially as I walked back to my pew past all the prim-looking parishioners.

Finally the service ended and, after an announcement inviting everyone to a time of refreshments, the congregation arose and filed out. Amanda and I stayed seated, hoping to determine more of what the people’s thoughts were. Most ignored us completely, though we sat right next to the aisle. A young girl, no more than five- or six-years-old, stared at us in wide-eyed wonder, unabashed at her own rudeness (for she has not yet been completely brainwashed by cultural norms)! A few, probably the same ones who had greeted us earlier, smiled unreservedly as they filed past.

Deciding to get some juice and doughnuts, we followed the others toward a side room. A lady we had not spoken with yet came excitedly toward us, claiming to have met us before at that same church, but not remembering our names. We admitted that we had never attended St. Luke’s before, but she was still eager to know our names. I was “Mer” (I went by my most common nickname, because “Meredith” seemed too old-fashioned), which confused her some, but she shook our hands warmly while one of her friends introduced herself as well. They showed us into the adjoining room, and pointed us in the direction of the doughnuts, leaving us to ponder that a couple of goths must have visited there not too long ago. I wondered how well they had been accepted, and if they had ever come back.

We found the juice and snack, then stood to the side, observing the people in the room. I desperately wanted to know their thoughts, but understood their discomfort by their silence. I noticed one lady, the mother of the staring girl and another baby, glaring at us from across the room as we browsed through the crafts which were for sale.

Eventually the priest approached us. I was nervous to begin a conversation where I felt I might disclose my true identity, but I need not have worried. He came with a smile and accepting hand shake, curious as to where we were from. Following the small talk of where we were from and which school we were at, he wondered if we had grown up Anglican, or what sort of background we were from. Upon hearing that I attend an evangelical church at home in Ontario, the priest emphasized that the Anglican church must seem very traditional to us, but that some Anglicans even found their own church much too radical. That intrigued me, as I tried to see what he was getting at through that comment. He then offered his assistance if we ever needed anything, saying that we could phone him anytime. I had expected a brief acknowledgment and handshake from the priest, but here he was making us feel right at home! After he left, I felt I had enough information for my sociological study, and we returned our glasses to the kitchen. Upon heading out of the Church, an older lady sitting near the entrance greeted us. What she said next, however, topped off the study: “My, don’t you ladies look beautiful!” And then, to a friend sitting beside her, “Oh, how I wish I was young and beautiful again!” Since we felt the dark eyeliner and lipstick made us look ghastly, Amanda and I cracked up in laughter as soon as we were out of sight in the parking lot!

Overall, the experiment shocked me with just how wrong my assumptions had been. I had expected cold shoulders but instead received warm acceptance. I felt equally or maybe even more accepted at this church as a goth than I did when I dressed in accordance with the norm at another church the week previously. Though for many the outer appearance is extremely important, I was heartened to know that some in the body of Christ practised what they preached by loving and accepting others unconditionally.