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0929-health-confession-cancer_vgRTD: I have a confession to make: I’m a PK. In case you’re wondering what weird thing that is, it stands for preacher’s kid. Well, technically I’m an “elder’s kid,” but you get the drift. Why didn’t I tell you before? I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression of me.

For whatever reason, people think that all people who have fathers who are ministers, elders, or deacons in the church are the worst people ever. People think that PKs are the sluttiest, nastiest, most drug abusing, lying, cheating, stealing, violent people that God ever made. They think that when I am not fornicating, I am stealing from the collection plate or robbing old folks. They never bother to assume that I’ve been “trained up in the way that I should go” and have not “departed from it.”

I’ve already expressed how much I love my mother. My mother is a fabulous woman. She made sure we had food, clothes, and a place to stay. I had a good stepfather. My home life was very stable. But what my mother didn’t really bother to teach me was how to be a woman.

My mother was always very strict. It didn’t bother me because at first I didn’t have any interest in the opposite sex, then I assumed they had no interest in me, and finally I became a Christian and made firm and concrete my vague notion to stay a virgin until I married. I didn’t mind coming home early; I didn’t have that many friends any way. I was the smart girl that had a lot of friends around test time, and precious few at others. After my brother was born, it seemed my mother thought it was unnecessary to actively parent me. That would have been fine, if I wasn’t eight at the time.

I didn’t know that a girl needed to shave the hair from under her arms until seventh or eighth grade, and only then when a sixth grade boy called me out on it. I took my mother’s razor and shaved off what had to be an inch of hair. (That grosses me out now). I never waxed my eyebrows or had a pedicure before eighteen. Never wore makeup before nineteen. Never had heels or any consequence before twenty. I wasn’t a salon baby; my mother did my hair in the kitchen with a straightening comb you put on the oven. Once, one of my white classmates in the dorms in high school asked me if straightening my hair with a straightening comb hurt.

I feel as if I am behind on how to be a woman. I don’t know any of those niceties some women teach their daughters about how to “catch” a man, keep a man, understand a man. I don’t know how to maintain that supermodel on the catwalk flawless look 24/7.  I was raised old-school. I’ll tell you what I do know: I know how to be clean. I know how to cook. I know how to have my own opinion about things. I know how to be by myself.

I was an only child until I was eight, so being by myself is something I learned very well. I have no problem going to the movies, out to eat, or to clubs/parties on my own. In fact, I rather enjoy it. I am an independent woman in that sense. It is a stretch for me sometimes to tell someone where I am going, when I will be back. When I don’t want to be bothered, you won’t hear from me. I assume all other human beings are the same way. If you wanted to talk to me you would call or come by, right? But this isn’t true. I don’t know how to play any of the games that people play with one another.

Sorry this isn’t one of my ultra stylized, completely flowing and together entries. The next few will be just as messy, unfortunately.