A Conversation About IFB's

There is a recurring theme on the internet, and in life in general, of the militant atheist who is just as pushy, and stifling in their beliefs as proselytizing christians. This reputation is well earned by many of us. I, for example, can be extremely intolerant of religion. This blog is not going to discuss religion, though. This blog is an attempt to explain to people who did not grow up in an IFB (Independent Fundamentalist Baptist Church) exactly why we approach the subject with so much hate, and anger.

I'm going to attempt to tell my personal story here. It's a story that is extremely common with IFB's, so you need to understand that this story is a good, and clear representation of why many militant atheists are so very militant. I've never told anyone a lot of this, and it's going to be hard for a few different reasons. One of those reasons is that I don't really want to say a lot of this out loud (although I think I should), and also I have a difficult time remembering a lot of it. I'm not saying that I blocked it out, but the abuse was so constant that it all just starts running together.

To begin, you need to understand that IFB's are cults. This is not a church that you go to. This is your family. They are your every day, and there is nothing outside of them. Most kids who get bullied at school, or don't like church have means to escape in their personal lives. They develop hobbies, or find neighborhood friends, and while they may still have a hard time because they are different, or whatever the reason, they have outlets. Not true for kids in an IFB. I was not allowed to watch television for more than an hour a day, and the only programs I was allowed to watch were made in the 50's. I was not allowed to read books that are not religious in nature. I was not allowed to be friends with neighborhood children. I was watched, and looked after every second of every day either by my mother, or by a church member. I was at church events typically four times a week. At the very least I would have to be there for three. And I went to school at the church.

Let's start with the physical abuse. Spankings are fairly common in almost every culture, but IFB's take it to the next level. I'm sure everyone has heard of the paddle with the holes drilled in it, usually as a joke, or as a tool to frighten children. I was acquainted with that paddle. Any transgression, no matter how small, was met with violence. And it was not just my mother, although she was where I received the majority of my beatings. Any adult from the church could perform physical punishment on any child for any reason that they saw fit. I remember one particular instance in sunday school when one of the teachers asked to have "Matt" come help him with something. I thought he meant me, so I got up to follow him, but then noticed that he meant an older boy (I was maybe nine). I sat back down, and laughed, feeling kind of embarrassed. My laughter was heard, and I was sent to the corner. Later, when the adult had more time, I was taken into another room where I was spanked. It didn't end there, though. My cousin told my mother what happened. When I got home I was taken to the basement and beaten with a bread board until the board broke. I had many wooden items broken on me but the bread board was definitely the worst. That fucking thing hurt.

As I got older, the beatings increased in intensity at the church, but my mother stopped using wooden items. She took to slapping. The first time that I remember being slapped in the face was when I was about eleven, and had a science report due the next day. I had written the report, but I needed to get some construction paper to draw the planets on for it. I told my mom I needed to get this, and she asked me when it was due. When I told her "tomorrow" she slapped me in the face. I have no clear explanation of why.

The last time that she laid her hands on me, I was either 15 or 16. I can't remember which. I had been asked about a year earlier to not return to the school after summer break, but I still went to church there. I'm actually going to digress for a moment to discuss this. My mother, and everyone else thought that I was a disturbed child. I stopped believing in god very young, and was not able to keep my incredulity in check after a while. It became obvious to everyone that I wasn't like them, and they began a ruthless campaign against me. I had to meet with the pastor of the church regularly, where I would be berated, told that I was a bastard in god's eyes, and often beaten. In one of these meetings something just snapped. I had had enough. Pastor Crabb (what a fitting name, I always thought) was just leading towards me receiving another beating when I stood up and just fucking screamed "Touch me! Put your fucking hand on me, and the first thing I do when I leave is find a phone, and call the cops". He stood up, his face beat red, and started spluttering about how dare I or some shit, and I just screamed "Touch me! Fucking touch me!". He told me to get out. I never had another meeting with him again, and no one at that church ever laid a hand on me again.

Back to that time with my mom. I sat down with her when I was either 15 or 16, and calmly told her that I would not be going to church with her anymore. I told her that that part of my life was over, and that there was nothing she could do or say that would change my mind. I told her that I was sorry if that caused her pain, but that I would never set foot in that church again. She just kind of laughed, and told me that I didn't have a choice. I told her that she was wrong. I've made the choice, and I won't change my mind. I could see that she was starting to get really angry, but for some reason I was extremely calm. She kept saying that I would, and I just kept calmly repeating that I wouldn't. She then got up off the couch, walked over to me, and started slapping me in the face as hard as she could. I lifted my arms over my face to protect myself, and heard her gasp. She started saying that I hit her, and that she couldn't believe that I hit her. It was at this point that I realized that besides being a religious zealot, she was also clearly unstable mentally. She called quite a few of the men from the church while I just sat there in that chair, dumbfounded, listening to her tell them how I assaulted her. None of them would come over, and deal with me so she called the cops. I then got to experience a lovely talking to by a police officer who was quite convinced that I was the worst delinquent ever, and that I was terrorizing my mother. I didn't bother giving my side of the story. What good could it have done?

She never touched me again after that day, and I only went back to that church twice. Once for mother's marriage, and once for her funeral.

I was going to write about a lot more than just the physical abuse, and I still may, but covering such a small portion of it took so long that I will probably hold back the rest of it for a different blog. Thanks for listening, or reading, or whatever.