DEIRDRE SUGIUCHI

Certificate of Affection

The following is an excerpt from Deirdre Sugiuchi’s memoir, Unreformed, a Captivity Narrative, which takes place at Escuela Caribe, a now-defunct white evangelical reform school in the Dominican Republic, and at its sister school, New Horizons Youth Ministries in Marion, Indiana.  

 We sat by rank at church. Church was held on the lower patio. Since I was the new girl at our religious reform school, and had been automatically demoted to zero level, I had to sit an arms’ length from my housefather, the man in charge of the house where I now lived. He watched my every move.  
             Olivia and Rachel sat next to me. Since they were also low-rankers, we weren’t supposed to acknowledge that each other existed, even when one of us spoke or got into another’s way, but Olivia and I watched each other from the corners of our eyes whenever we thought we wouldn’t get caught.  
             The Director conducted services from the podium. Behind him, mountains lush with pines and palms arced into the distance. The Director had a broad smile, a ready laugh, a thick Kentucky accent, and a thicker beard. His blue eyes were hidden behind tinted frames. He was married to a former student who was at least a decade younger than him. He'd been a staff member during her time, something I thought was strange, but also knew not to mention, given that the Director, was in charge of the school and that all the housefathers, the men overseeing the four houses of my new school, reported to him.  
             The Director had a divinity degree from Kentucky's Asbury Bible College, but before that, he’d been an emergency medical technician. Some Sundays, he told us about being an EMT, how he tried to save all those godforsaken weaklings who ruined their lives with drugs and alcohol, how sometimes he had to scrape their remains off the road. Some Sundays, he told us about how he drove his EMT buddies home from the bar. The Director said that they were so weak that after work they had to annihilate themselves with drugs and alcohol to forget what they had seen, a choice our director didn’t make because he was strong. Some Sundays the Director told us about his sister who made poor choices, including marrying a husband who was worthless. He told good stories—I took notes. 
             However, my first Sunday at church was like none other, because after the sermon the Director paused and told us we were now going to celebrate a special occasion. He called for my high ranker Kirsten and her boyfriend Ben to join him at the front. 
             I turned to watch as they rose from their seat three rows behind us. It was a high ranker privilege to sit away from the house. Ben grasped Kirsten’s hand as they rose. Since I was on zero level, this was my first look at him—those of us on zero level, like me, weren’t supposed to look at members of the opposite sex. Minus his acne, Ben looked like what I’d imagined. He and Kirsten were both conventionally attractive October blondes. They almost looked related.  
             As they walked up the aisle, someone wolf-whistled. Another person cat-called. My shoulders creeped towards my neck. I focused on masking how I felt. The Director asked their housefathers to join them at the front. 
             With each step my housefather took away from me, I breathed easier. He and Ben’s housefather stood on either side of their charges. Behind them the emerald mountains stretched. Puffy clouds floated in the sky’s blue.  
             The Director cleared his throat. “As most of you know,” he began, “when a couple reaches third level, they have the option of applying for Certificate of Affection.”  
             Hearing the term, my stomach twisted. The Director cleared his throat and explained that a certificate of affection granted couples—third level and above—permission to kiss. My mouth gaped. I felt my housefather looking at me and forced it closed. The Director told us that even though any couple on third level could apply for this certificate, it wasn't always granted—the couple had to be seriously committed to dating each other. The Director showed us the certificate, explaining that it listed certain responsibilities, which he listed: "Kissing is allowed only when staff is present. Kissing cannot last more than 10 seconds. Kissing can be only on the lips, mouth closed. Hands must remain at shoulder level during a kiss." 
             My stomach rolled as he spoke. I stared off into the mountains behind the Director as I realized how the certificate echoed restrictions on dating taught by Bill Gothard and other right-wing fundamentalists, the kind of men my father believed were “true leaders”—preachers who taught that men were animals who could not control their sexual urges, who preached that women were to keep themselves pure for marriage, setting sexual boundaries in relationships, yet who also taught that women were to be submissive. My jaw again dropped. I realized Olivia and my housefather were looking at me and forced my mouth closed.  
             The Director asked the couple if they were prepared to abide by the certificate's guidelines, warning them that if these guidelines were violated, their certificate could be revoked. Kirsten and Ben nodded their heads. Kirsten’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears. I wanted to roll mine but focused on looking straight ahead. The Director handed Kirsten a pen, which, after signing, she handed to Ben. Next, their housefathers added their signatures as witnesses. I bit my lip, hard, willing the pain to focus me, shifting in my seat. “And now comes the moment we've all been waiting for,” the Director announced. “Drum roll, please.”  
             Catcalls rang out. Feet stamped. Beside me, Olivia was smiling, clapping her hands. My eyes were saucers. “You may kiss!” the Director yelled. 
             The whole crowd clapped and cheered and even though I was disturbed I joined in, smacking my palms together as Ben leaned over and my high ranker pressed her lips to his briefly, then moved her face back. I stared, thinking of how there were only 40 students in the school, how dating someone at the school was almost like allowing your parents to choose your partner for you. Ben pulled Kirsten in closer and their mouths met for an instant longer, his housefather leading his housemates in a cheer. The sound was sickening, but I tried to keep my expression neutral. 
             “I'll never date anyone here. No one is choosing for me,” I promised myself.  
             Just telling myself that I had this choice made me feel a kind of freedom. I sat there basking in that feeling, staring off into a future where, even under captivity, I maintained a modicum of control. I kept staring past the fence surrounding the school, past the fields in the valley, far past the range of mountains, until I felt someone watching.  
             I looked up and saw my housefather, standing at the front of the patio. His icy blue eyes met mine, scowling.  
             I took a deep breath even as I lowered my eyes. I made my face go blank.  

DEIRDRE SUGIUCHI is an assistant editor at The Rumpus, a contributing writer at Electric Literature, a 2023 recipient of a Barbara Deming memorial grant for feminist nonfiction, and a former public school librarian. Her essays and excerpts have been featured in Action, Spectacle, Literary Hub, Salon, the anthology Empty the Pews: Stories of Leaving the Church, and other places. Sugiuchi is currently exploring the history of white supremacist violence in a project called Two Mississippi. She recently completed her white evangelical captivity narrative, Unreformed.