A Conversation With Delta's Mother

Delta over at Freethought Weekly has posted a great article explaining some of the pain and frustration that us atheists go through in conversations with our loved ones. I was especially moved by this part:

[link] I felt that I was torn between attacking something that I hate (religion) and protecting my mother. I wanted to explain why I was an atheist, and make her understand that I had good reasons to be one. But after every comment I was afraid that I would make her very sad, and I really didn't want to do that.

Wow, Delta. Thank you for articulating this. I've been there, my friend. It's extremely difficult to get through an emotionally charged conversation with a loved one about your atheism when they are coming from a religious point of view.

I remember talking to my own mother about my atheism, many years ago. It was a doubly bad situation because I was newly-divorced and had moved into my parent's home for a few weeks until I could save up enough to get another place. It was the weekend, the house was empty due to my parents being out of town, and I decided that it would be a good time to sample the 2-year-old bottle of homemade honey-mead that I had been saving for a special occasion, or a thought-crushing depression. Whichever came first.

I don't know if you have ever partaken of a good mead, but it's a drinking experience quite unlike any other. It's similar to sake in that it sneaks up on you, but it tastes a hell of a lot better. "Ambrosia" is not far off from what I'm getting at.

In any case, I'm about 400ml into a 750ml bottle when - surprise! - Mom and Dad come home. Mom zeros in on my bottle of mead (which I am clutching protectively to my bosom) and sits down to engage me in a little chat about my life, the universe, and everything.

I'm happy as hell to oblige. (The mead, you understand, is an aggressively happy drunk.)

Suffice it to say that after half an hour I'm stone cold sober, struggling for control, and I'm actually raising my voice to my mother.

Not good.

Back up, apologize, rewind, and make nice. Nothing excuses raising your voice to your mother. Nothing.

The gist of the conversation was much the same as Delta describes. I was attempting to break through literally thousands of years of social and religious programming while sitting on my Mom's couch, and it just wasn't working. The mead didn't help, either. My Mom kept accusing me of being drunk (which I was), and saying things I didn't mean (which I wasn't).

It ended amiably enough due to the massive quantities of crow I consumed, and the multiple assurances of my undying, unconditional love for my mother. Plus reassuring her about fifty times that I was not a Satanist, regardless of what she heard at her Ladies Auxiliary meeting about atheists.

It's confounding. The arguments were the same, even simpler, really, as the ones that I had been reading and responding to for years on the nets.

But I couldn't verbally body-slam my own Mother. It just wasn't right.

I suppose that we all have moments when our protective and defensive natures conflict, and that's OK. Striking that delicate balance between your beliefs, your ideals, and your societal and family obligations is part of what makes us human.

The sad thing is that I haven't had a good mead since.