I confess, I don’t know much about religion.

I grew up Protestant with a grandfather who

was a minister, and I still don’t know much about religion. I stopped going to church at
the age of 12 when my grandfather died, and up until that point, religion was waking up
every Sunday morning to get ready for the 10 o’clock service.

Religion was my mother delivering a freshly ironed dress to my bedroom door, and the
smell of shoe polish in the kitchen. It was something that interfered with watching
cartoons. It was a dark, windowless room in a basement where preteens drew scenes
from the life of Jesus with crayons on paper plates. I didn’t know much about Jesus
except that I could never get his beard right.

Religion was the Banquet Burger Combo afterward at the Bo-Peep Restaurant,
sometimes accompanied by red Jell-O, sometimes chocolate pudding. It was begging
my parents to ask the Bo-Peep hostess if we could sit in the banquet section where the
chairs were padded with red faux leather attached by brass studs, the walls covered
with dark wood paneling and the stern expressions of British dukes in full hunting
regalia.

Religion was picnics at the park—deviled eggs, macaroni salad, potato salad, and Dixie
Lee chicken. It was escaping the adults when the food was packed away and exploring
the perimeters of the forestry station’s “experimental forest,” a thicket of scraggly trees
that invited games of Truth or Dare. Religion was Grandpa giving my two older brothers
a dollar to go to the arcade and telling me to help Grandma in the kitchen.

I never quite realized that only the kneeling, praying, and hymn singing counted as
actual religion. I thought they were just things that we did before the real religion—the
business of living—began. Don’t get me wrong, I knew they were important; I did them
voluntarily, with relish even. I even had a favorite hymn—“Onward, Christian Soldiers”—
that I’d sing while I walked to school. But the actual words of the hymns were as
meaningless to me as my grandfather’s sermons. I looked for a catchy tune underlying
the words in both. I discovered it by watching the stained-glass windows blaze in the
late morning sunshine. I saw how the artist had perfected the curls of a sheep’s wool,
the gentle gaze of a cow. I discovered it observing the actions of the congregation: the
nose picking, the napping, the fondling couples. It was during these moments that I
found enlightenment.

I wasn’t aware that my ignorance of the true meaning of religion was disrespectful or
irreverent. The only time I seemed to breach the contract I apparently signed with my
baptism was when my grandfather scolded me for exclaiming something remotely
blasphemous (“Holy cow!”) or too close to the Lord’s name (“Geez!”). If you had asked
my 12-year-old self if I believed in God, I would have replied yes without a moment’s
hesitation. Of course I believed in God. At that time, I believed in everything.
I especially believed in Sunday—those spring Sundays when crocus shoots appeared,
robins pecked at ground still damp from snowmelt, and the scent of rural Ontario filled
the air. I believed in the look on my mother’s face when I walked down the carpeted
stairs in something other than corduroys and a sweatshirt. I believed in the hostess at
Bo-Peep as she lifted the barrier to the banquet room and laid five heavy faux-leather-
bound menus, one by one, upon the round table. I believed in sitting there,
uncomfortable in my dress, passing around the ketchup and not wanting to be
anywhere else. And when my older brother, after a week of torturing me in a subtle, big-
brotherly fashion, laid his prized slice of dill pickle on the edge of my plate, like an
offering, I even believed in miracles.

Summary
I confess, I don’t know much about religion.

I grew up Protestant with a grandfather who was a minister, and I still don’t know much about
religion.

Religion was the Banquet Burger Combo afterward at the Bo-Peep Restaurant, sometimes
accompanied by red Jell-O, sometimes chocolate pudding.

Religion was Grandpa giving my two older brothers a dollar to go to the arcade and telling me to
help Grandma in the kitchen.

I believed in the hostess at Bo-Peep as she lifted the barrier to the banquet room and laid five heavy
faux-leather-bound menus, one by one, upon the round table.

And when my older brother, after a week of torturing me in a subtle, big-brotherly fashion, laid his
prized slice of dill pickle on the edge of my plate, like an offering, I even believed in miracles.

HOW TO PERFORM A TRACHEOTOMY

by SARAH WALKER

First, go to a fancy restaurant that has waiters with accents who wear tuxedos and a rolling dessert
table. Be with a significant other and clink your glasses of red wine while staring lovingly at each other,
across the single tapered white candle in the middle of the table. Then, notice a person who is choking
on food, probably a fancy meat. This person should be a husky middle-aged man, preferably balding,
whose equally husky, curly-haired wife is looking on, horrified, clutching her pearl necklace and
screeching, “Somebody help him! He’s choking!”

Excuse yourself from your date, throw your white linen napkin down on the white linen tablecloth, and
rush over to the choking man. Attempt to give him the Heimlich, but when this fails, calmly realize what
must be done. The fancy meat is lodged in his throat and this man requires a tracheotomy. Always
address the wife as Susan.

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“Susan, Earl requires a tracheotomy.”

Always address the choking victim as Earl.

Assure Susan that you are a doctor and be sure to have made up a doctor badge that you can show her.
It should be made of pure gold with something like five snakes engraved on it. You probably aren’t a
doctor. If you are, good for you. That must’ve taken a long time. You must be very proud and possibly
wealthy.

Susan will nod her head in assent, too scared to speak. Place the back of your hand on her cheek and
say, “Don’t worry, Susan. I didn’t go to doctor school for 11 years to let Earl die.”

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Then lay Earl on his back on the floral-carpeted floor.

Make sure a hushed silence falls over the restaurant as waiters and diners and kitchen staff peeking out
of the kitchen look nervously on.

Remove from your breast pocket a custom-engraved Tiffany sterling-silver pen, which was given to you
on your 17th birthday and which you always carry around for such occasions. It should say something
like “Happy Birthday, your name” and then the date of your birth.

Before you go to the restaurant, but only after you’ve secured your paisley ascot, replace the pen tip
with an X-Acto knife.
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Raise the pen above your head and click the button so that the X-Acto knife pops out and wait for a gasp
from the crowd and for a young boy to drop his fork and have it clatter on his plate. Twist the “penknife”
just so, so that the candlelight gleams off it. It would be nice if, when the light hits it, there could be a
ding sound effect. Maybe you could arrange to have your significant other tap a wine glass with a fork at
that moment.

Then, in one swift movement, jab the pen into Earl’s neck, more or less around the throatish area.

Earl will pop up, gasping, the pen dangling comically from his neck. Do not be distracted by this, as you
will have to catch Susan, who, with her hand on her forehead, will be falling into a swoon.

Wait for applause, then pull the smelling salts out of your other breast pocket and revive Susan.

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Then signal to the waiter and say, “Check, please!”

Pause for relieved laughter and applause from the crowd.

Be prepared for a bear hug from post-smelling-salts Susan. And for an endless pumping handshake from
Earl, who will also give you $200 because he’s a wealthy industrialist and carries hundred-dollar bills in
his pockets.

Wear an extra shirt so the hearty pats on the back from the kitchen staff and waiters don’t hurt you too
much.

Develop calluses on your hands beforehand by doing a lot of pull-ups, so all the handshakes you receive
from your fellow diners don’t chafe your carefully manicured hands.
No need to bring your wallet, as dinner will obviously be on the house, so make sure you’ve ordered the
most expensive things on the menu. Plus, you have two hundo from Earl.

Don’t forget to ask for your pen back.

Summary
Excuse yourself from your date, throw your white linen napkin down on the white linen tablecloth,
and rush over to the choking man.

“Susan, Earl requires a tracheotomy.” Assure Susan that you are a doctor and be sure to have made
up a doctor badge that you can show her.

Place the back of your hand on her cheek and say, “Don’t worry, Susan.

Make sure a hushed silence falls over the restaurant as waiters and diners and kitchen staff peeking
out of the kitchen look nervously on.

Do not be distracted by this, as you will have to catch Susan, who, with her hand on her forehead,
will be falling into a swoon.

Wear an extra shirt so the hearty pats on the back from the kitchen staff and waiters don’t hurt you
too much.