Chosen for Something
River Teeth, 2019
Sometimes as a child I would brush my grandfather's thinning hair. He was a long haul trucker turned Pentecostal preacher who mostly showed affection through prayer and cash money, both of which he handed out at random to his grandkids. The chance to be physically close to him made me feel as though I’d been chosen for something special. I sat straight on his gray couch, and he leaned his back against my childhood knees, while all of our family sat turned toward the wood-panel-lined TV watching Trinity Broadcasting Network where Benny Hinn channeled God’s great power and cast demon after demon out of the lame, the financially broke, and the cancerous. With a baby blue, Avon soft-bristled brush I would sweep the thin strands into tiny bunches and wrap them awkwardly with elastic bands, while large women fainted onto those in line behind them hoping for a miracle. “Glory hallelujah,” my grandfather would say with six or seven gray ponytails rising from his head, his baritone voice vibrating in my knees, “Glory hallelujah.”