by Jonathan Dixon
My brother was eleven when his teacher told him that I would be going to hell. He came home crying, worried about his older brother. My mom tried to explain everything to him in a way that would make sense. He didn’t understand; he was just a kid. He pleaded with me later to believe in God – so I could go to heaven too. I didn’t know what to say.
He had started attending a Christian after-school program. Ninety minutes of games, socialization, and most importantly, learning how much God loves you – the ones who believe in him, anyway. He hadn’t much interest in the evangelical aspect of the group, but it was worth it for the activities. He liked hanging out with his friends; they went, so he did too.
Despite his lack of interest in the matter, my brother still listened. He wanted to learn, regardless of how invested he was in the subject. One lesson, however, caught his attention. This one was more personal.
The teacher enlightened everyone on the “dangers” of not believing in God; rather, not believing in his God. He explained that skepticism was a pipeline, one that led directly to hell. He warned against questioning and suggested everyone rely on faith.
My brother absorbed this information, as any child would, and his mind was overwhelmed with thoughts of the awful things that awaited non-believers in hell. The awful things that awaited me. He couldn’t stand the idea of his brother going through that. He wanted to save me.
Later that week, I told my brother I’d renounced my atheistic beliefs. Silently, I renounced my belief in our public schools.
I was twelve years old when I started questioning the beliefs instilled in me. I questioned my beliefs regarding God, sure, but this extended far past theology. I questioned the entire world I was presented with. I questioned why my parents complained about medical bills. I questioned why other kids had much bigger houses in much cleaner areas. I wanted answers.
To this end, I kept researching. I spent hours on the internet reading David Foster Wallace and George Orwell, listening to Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie, watching videos on absurdism and empirical reasoning, anything to learn more about this universe I had discovered. It was as though I had put on my glasses for the first time again, seeing new ways to look at the problems I had observed.
Suddenly, the world started to make sense.
Expressing my discovery of this new world came with issues, however.
As excited as I was to finally have the answers, it seemed as though everyone I told had known you could be skeptical of God for quite some time. They were not shocked to hear about Albert Camus or Arthur Schopenhauer or the millions of other people who had entirely different ideas of faith. Not only had they already known of these beliefs, they’d disregarded them as unrealistic at best, though some preferred to use the term “stupid.”
I, whether due to determination or naivety, could not be deterred. I kept doing my research, I kept telling anyone who listened, and I made a key discovery.
I must be in the wrong place.
Of course, that explained why nobody understood! I was not where I belonged. If nobody would listen here, this must not be the place for my new beliefs.
I felt pushed away by South Carolina. I felt pushed away from my home.
Improvement comes from within. The only people who could change South Carolina are the people who make up this state. From the rolling mountains to the lively coast, this state is full of incredible people. This state would not be what it is today without the artists, the dreamers, the writers, the activists, the workers – the people.
However, there is little room for new ideas in our state. Any flame of change is snuffed out when it’s little more than an ember. The idea of change is unwelcome. People who want to change the world, who want to make life better, are driven away. When you drive away the people who create change, you drive away improvement itself.
For every thinker in this state, there are a dozen people who regard the Bible as little more than a tool for fixing loose screws.
For every thinker in this state, there are one hundred people ready to listen: not to learn, but to criticize.
For every thinker in this state, there’s one more driven away by ignorance.
How do we encourage thinking? How do we encourage open-mindedness?
Answer me that, and I will tell you how we can improve South Carolina.
About Jonathan Dixon
Jonathan Dixon is a senior at Midland Valley High School in Graniteville, where Regina Turner is his English teacher. The son of Patricia Fulmer and Jason Dixon, Jonathan enjoys playing multiple instruments and learning new languages. He wants to earn a Ph.D. in mathematics, work in the computer science field, and pursue a career in politics.