A child of two atheists, I was four years old the first time I set foot in any house of worship. It was at the urging of my then-best friend Caitlin, also aged four, who had dunked her head an extra time for my sake during her Mormon baptism to ensure I wouldn’t end up in Hell. (This gesture cemented our status as true best friends, even though I didn’t know what any of it meant.)
But Caitlin also had a mischievous side; when I joined her at church on that unprecedented Sunday morning, she took advantage of a pause in the Jesus hymns to announce to the congregation: “Kira doesn’t believe in God!” That was also the first time I learned that my upbringing was, apparently, unacceptable.
My parents were raised Jewish, but both rejected religion altogether as adults, so my childhood was utterly devoid of God and all the traditions that go along with a religious faith: weekend prayer, Bible reading, fasting, etc. Some people might then believe that I was raised without a moral code. After all, isn’t religion’s purpose, at least partially, to teach you how to be a good person?