Issue FiveSpring 2009

“Dogma, Darth Vader and My Sexual Awakening”By Maria Alexander

When I was six, my parents converted from the Greek Orthodoxchurch to Judaism. They’d heard the church was giving money to transsexuals.Or was it terrorists? My father was Greek. My mother was Scottish. They converted as if that’s what one does: When the going gets nutty, the nutty goes Jewish. Little did I suspect how our slide through the vast realm of shalts andshalt nots would mold my sexuality. The only temple that would take us was a Reformed one near ourcramped apartment in Burbank. I never knew the difference. My younger sisterand I gladly traded pepperoni for netted bags of chocolate coins. I danced withgrownups at temple on Friday nights, where bemused rabbis askedloudmouthed kids like me what we thought of Old Testament stories. And the$5 for finding the hidden matzos on Passover was far greater than a basket of bunny junk.For the record, my mother hated Easter baskets. She ranted that theeggs and bunnies were symbols of the goddess Ostara, the pagan deity of streetwalkers. Pagan equaled sex equaled not-in-this-apartment-you-don’t. Withthis taboo, the black leather gauntlet began to close over my sexuality.Despite their newfound conversion, my parents held onto theirChristian beliefs – and then some. Thanks to Hal Lindsey’s

The Late, Great Planet Earth

, they talked nonstop about how the Anti-Christ from the Book of Revelations was coming to destroy Israel, take over the world and make us wear barcodes on our foreheads. I took this to heart and convinced my Jewishfriends that, if they celebrated Halloween, the Anti-Christ would "get" them. They cried and stuffed their store-bought costumes in the garbage. It was the

1M. Alexander/Darth Vader

Late, Great Halloween Costume Massacre. That Christmas, my parents surprisingly succumbed to our pleas for atree – another “pagan” symbol – which they wrapped with silver and bluetinsel. As our menorah burned on the mantel beside it, we had the best of both worlds.Shifting fortunes then moved us to a house in the suburbs, which is where I saw

Star Wars

. As Darth Vader strode through the Death Star with hismagnificent black cloak flowing behind him, I felt funny in my panties. I likedDarth Vader.

A lot.

While my girlfriends drooled over Luke Skywalker and HanSolo, I was gaga over Dada Vader. The most exciting scene was when Darth Vader took Princess Leia into a room for interrogation about the rebel base.My pre-adolescent body quaked as I wondered what happened next with theandroid and his menacing needles.I immediately thereafter started tying up my Barbie dolls – with rubberbands, black twine, even bathrobe belts. I never tortured them, but kept themstripped and restrained. I turned my Barbie Townhouse into a Barbie Brothel, which Ken visited regularly. I didn’t know what sex was – something to do with Easter and being naked – but I rested Ken on top of a Barbie in herplastic bed like I’d seen couples do on TV. Whatever sex was, the tied up Barbies got to watch. After a lull in religious services, my mother announced one morning,“We’re going to temple!”“Temple? On a Sunday?” I asked.“Just get ready,” my father ordered. We dressed and drove to a part of town where a building toweredbefore us like the Ark of Noah had run aground at Hollywood Boulevardinstead of Everest. There were no Stars of David, no Hebrew letters or stonetorahs hanging over the front door. Just sparkling glass walls, a peaked roof,and a dizzying spire topped by a trumpeting angel.It was temple, all right. The

Mormon

Temple.Instead of reading the Torah, we drank watery grape juice forcommunion and talked about Joseph Smith. Two Mormon missionaries cameto our house twice a week to tutor my family, since we hadn’t been raised in thetheology. I had crushes on them both as their white shirts and black pantsreminded me of Storm Troopers. The rich stories they told captured my imagination and I became the Hermione Granger of Mormonism as I gorgedon their mythological smorgasbord.Eventually we were baptized in a pool at the temple. My parents driedand deposited me in a chair outside the Bishop’s office. I was to be tested onMormonism as they conferred with Elders. After a bit, I heard a clatter downthe hallway. My mother had scooped my sister under one arm as she ran

M. Alexander/Darth Vader

towards me, my sister’s legs wagging behind her. My father trailed.“We’ve to get out of here!” she howled.“But why?” I asked.She narrowed her eyes and hissed, “These people believe you canbecome gods!”I guess we all have our limits.My parents then ricocheted between orthodox and heterodox Christiandenominations. They explored the Lutherans, Seventh Day Adventists – andmore. They kept whatever they liked of each, no matter how contradictory. They still believed Native Americans were a lost tribe of Israel and didn’t eatpork.Dada Vader returned when I was 16.NPR was playing a radio series adaptation of

Star Wars

that includedthe scene alluded to in the movie – where Darth Vader tortures Princess Leiafor information about the rebel base. While Leia shrieked in agony under thesadistic interrogation of Darth Vader, I saw something other than God in my burning bush...I decided that this dark sexual response could promptly get out of control and ruin my life. I needed to shove it as deep into Beelzebub’s gullet asit could go. I knew of only one way to do that:I became a born-again Christian. And not just an evangelical, but a Pentecostal who sang, cried hard andclapped her hands in church services. I “danced in the spirit” and spoke intongues -- a bizarre, nonsensical language that has to be “interpreted” by another member of the church.I was, in short, nutty.My parents followed suit, but continued their syncretism. Me, Ishunned anything that didn’t come from The Bible. Because, you see, TheBible was

consistent

. Sort of. At any rate, Jesus was Somebody Seriously Important, and if you believed in Him, you were Right. Plus Jesus was aneffective chastity belt. That crazy Darth Vader stuff had no chance of getting out now, no sir!But the more I tried to control these impulses, the stronger they became. They fed on each other – control and denial breeding more fantasiesof control and denial.In all this madness, I found a boyfriend. Unfortunately, he was a calmand sensible Methodist. He disliked Pentecostal churches because they weretoo emotional. We settled on the Covenant Church, a

via media

denominationthat sang the Pentecostal songs, but with butts planted in the pews. And that wasn’t the only compromise. Instead of vaginal sex, we dry humped and felteach other up. The control and denial was profoundly exciting; I could orgasm