Six years was my sentence, six years at a school that was the setting of my nightmares.
Years full of questions unanswered and bibles unread. Years of silenced music and discouraged thoughts.
Pray, they told me.
Why? I asked.
Those who don’t pray will never get to heaven. They answered.

They made us wear dark clothes and ties, forced to us wear shoes though we never wore socks.
The rules droned on pointless yet followed. The prayers without meaning, words spoken by someone else.
They told us that God was love then taught us hate.
Don’t ask questions, they told me.
Why? I asked.
Those who question will never get to heaven. They answered.

Others became ignorant, believing everything they heard. Their lies became truths. They cursed idolatry but prayed to statues.
I still questioned, still rebelled.
Animals don’t go to heaven, they said.
Heaven wouldn’t be heavenly without animals, I argued.
Those who argue will never get to heaven. They answered.
Six years gone. Every decade prayed, I was released.
We moved to a place where I could sing freely.
It was only then that I realized what I learned through those six years. Unknowingly I learned strength.