Sixteen Hours Stolen by the Boomers
The first sixteen Sundays of my life weren’t mine. They were already spoken for. I was drafted into an hour-long ritual of pews, sermons, and hymns. I didn’t believe in them, couldn’t choose them, and didn’t care to know them. Sixteen hours total. Doesn’t sound like much, right? But that’s not the point.
Boomers — those masters of “Do as I say, not as I do” — called it salvation. They sold it as truth with a capital T. But watch them long enough and you’ll see the contradictions stacked higher than the church’s steeple. One week it’s hellfire, next week it’s forgiveness. One moment they’re wagging a finger at “worldly temptations.” The next moment, they’re at the mall buying whatever made them feel holy enough for the weekend.
Choice? Forget it. Your Sunday wasn’t yours. Freedom of religion only applied once you were old enough to walk away. By then, the damage was done. Time was siphoned off. Meanings were twisted into knots. Belief systems were force-fed without a hint of consent.
Sixteen hours doesn’t ruin a life. It does leave a taste. It is the taste of someone else’s dogma shoved down your throat before you ever had a say. And that’s the legacy Boomers perfected: wasting your time while telling you they were saving your soul.