I was five when my father and I moved to a tiny town in southwest Missouri. Mount Vernon has a population of just over 4000, is approximately 4 miles in diameter, and allocates for a graduating class of roughly 100. The town's people mainly consist of white Americans who are very religious and strongly conservative. Though Christianity has surrounded me my entire life, my father is Muslim and therefore Islam is the religion I've been raised within. This wasn't a huge divergence when I was younger and the realization that I was different didn't even occur to me until my first visit to a church. It was something all the kids in Mount Vernon do. So, when my friends told me I should come with them one night, I jumped at the idea. It all sounded so fun "playing games and spending more time with my friends! I went home ecstatic to tell my father the good news, but I was met with an unexpected response. He had a very calm and unsure domineer, almost as if he was reluctant to let me go. This confounded me, as I couldn't fathom why he wouldn't want me to go have fun. It was only with much begging and my overwhelming puppy-dog eyes that I was able to convince my father of my mandatory attendance and at 6:30 pm I walked into the church expecting all the fun and excitement promised by the tales of my friends. .
My apprehension faded however, because I quickly came to the realization that I had no idea what anyone was doing or talking about. It started when we began the evening with a group prayer. I have watched my dad pray on multiple occasions, but this wasn't what I had been expecting. Instead of a rug there were pews, instead of kneeling everyone was standing with hands clasped and instead of a memorized chant there was an open, dialog like speech with someone known as "God."" My confusion only further developed as we spent the rest of the night listening to stories of Moses's parting of the seas and the tales of Jesus "the great "son of god.