“Put on your missionary smile!” my dad would always say.
As oversees fundamentalist missionaries, my family had to travel back to the US every four years to secure and raise financial support by visiting hundreds of same faith churches all over the country (although most were in the Bible Belt.) I have a lot of memories from these years on the road.
These trips were often very long, crowded, and uncomfortable (when there was no AC.) Many times we were expected to do our schooling in the car and rarely stopped for fun things. While I technically traveled to or through many states, I didn’t experience much. (Or maybe I did in my own way.)
At the end of a long day driving we would arrive at a stranger’s house (where we would stay) or straight into a church service. We could rarely just be ourselves and rest. We had to be “on.” We were expected to pile out of the car, uncrumple our dress clothes and hair, and put on the most pleasant expression we could muster. “Put on your missionary smile!” meant adhering to an unwritten set of rules. The better we behaved, the better chance of money. Be pretty (but not too pretty), be polite, be sweet, always eat what you’re served, and don’t talk negatively about your family’s experiences. Sometimes we would sing on stage because that would score more points. (This would make me absolutely sick with nervousness.) There would usually be a greeting line formed at the end of the service when everyone would come and shake hands with us, the foreign missionaries, and ask us bizarre questions. I truly felt like a freak. A successful trip would score us a “love offering” at the end in which people were prompted to raise money for us poor missionaries on the spot.
I didn’t really grasp back then that this was a great deal of pressure to put on a kid. Our parents income was often directly related to our performance. I was an incredibly socially anxious child and would spend almost every Sunday morning sobbing, begging my parents not to make me go to yet another new Sunday School class. Being the “new kid” almost weekly was too much for me. My other siblings were all close in age and could go to new classes or youth groups together, but I was often left on my own. I don’t remember them complaining about any of this during or after our childhood which made me feel more alone.
While I have long since left that life and ideology behind, I still see how prevalent it is in those circles and the performance of it all makes me sad. I am pretty skeptical of that specific brand of “joy” and feel I know what’s behind those empty smiles.
When I was painting “Smile,” I was not even thinking of this specific personal experience, but today I was wide awake at 5 am remembering my dad always saying this to us, so I decided to come downstairs and write about it.
Dad died this Summer. We were estranged, and I was not informed by family of his passing or invited to the funeral. (I chose the estrangement so I do not hold this against the family.) I found out accidentally by receiving surprise condolences from an old acquaintance, and googled it only to learn I had missed it all. It felt really surreal and terribly sad, and in my own way I’m still processing all of that. I think about him a lot. I don’t owe anyone forgiveness, but I think I do understand the impossible weight he carried, and I forgive the choices he thought he had to make.
I smile a lot, Dad, truly I do. :)
