I was 10 in 1962, when the supreme court ruled, in Engel v Vitale, that the officially sanctioned recitation of prayer in public schools violated the constitution’s first amendment, which prohibits the establishment of a state religion.
Before that, my school day started with the Pledge of Allegiance, followed by an appeal to God. We rose and pushed our chairs under our desks. Then we stood erect, gazed at the flag sticking out at an angle above the blackboard, and placed our right hands over our hearts. After the pledge, we bowed our heads and said a prayer composed by the New York state board of regents, which held authority over the schools: “Almighty God, we acknowledge our dependence upon Thee, and we beg thy blessings upon us, our parents, our teachers and our country.”
As far as I could tell, none of this presented a problem for my classmates, almost every one of them Italian, Greek, or Irish Catholic. Many kids clasped their hands during the prayer.
But as the only Jew in the class and the daughter of militantly atheist socialists to boot, saying these words every day was no simple exercise.
To my parents, both the pledge and the prayer constituted authoritarian brainwashing. They had reason to suspect oaths of allegiance. Under the anticommunist regime of Senator Joe McCarthy, my father, a high school teacher, was required to sign a loyalty oath disavowing membership in the Communist party. He refused, and, like other government employees on the left, resigned rather than be fired.
Although the Pledge of Allegiance contained no such explicit ideology, in 1954 Congress added the words “under God” to the pledge, a rebuke to godless communism. My parents weren’t thrilled by this conflation of patriotism and theism. But even if the US deserved fealty – and my mom and dad were not convinced it did – they objected to children being trained to give it by rote.
It was the prayer that really riled them, though. Its authors called it “non-denominational”, but that did not distract the supreme court, or my parents, from the law’s intent: “to further religious beliefs”, said the justices – a clear breach of the separation of church and state. “In this country, it is no part of the business of government to compose official prayers for any group of the American people to recite as a part of a religious program carried on by government,” they wrote.
I’d been attending civil rights and Ban the Bomb demonstrations since infancy. I was an unswerving non-believer as far back as I could remember. I was proud to be different, because nonconformity meant rejecting lies and standing up for what was right.
Still, a kid wants to fit in. It was hard enough being Jewish. Hurtful to endure casual antisemitism (“I hate Jews,” an erstwhile friend announced one day, out of the blue). Uncomfortable to be left alone with the teacher and the one Protestant girl on Wednesday afternoons, when the Catholic kids were excused for “catechism”.
It was dicey being an atheist. In third grade, I was consumed by terror after my three best friends convinced me that if I didn’t start believing in God I would end up in hell, which they described in ghastly detail. Anti-communism also threatened my family’s security – I kept that part of me a secret.
Mom and Dad assured me that the law allowed me to remain silent or leave the room during the prayer, and they’d support my doing so even if it were illegal. I wanted to. But didn’t they understand that either act would only call attention to my apostasy?
I was destined to betray something or someone – America, God, the truth, my family. Or myself. But what elementary school child knows who that is? What child should be compelled to figure it out?
Jeff Landry, the Republican governor of Louisiana, recently signed a law requiring that the Ten Commandments be displayed in every classroom. “If you want to respect the rule of law,” he said, “you’ve got to start from the original lawgiver, which was Moses.”
It was a nod to the “Judeo” in the “Judeo-Christian values” the Christian right is forever invoking – never mind that some people are neither Jews nor Christians, but Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, or none of the above. The Republican state representative Dodie Horton insisted that the law “doesn’t preach a certain religion”, but merely “shows what a moral code we all should live by is”.
These statements recall New York’s statement on moral and spiritual training in the schools, in which the “non-denominational” prayer was published three-quarters of a century ago. “We believe that this statement will be subscribed to by all men and women of good will,” the officials wrote, “and we call upon all of them to aid in giving life to our program.”
Civil libertarians are challenging the Louisiana law. Its supporters are keen for the challenge, betting that the justices who have begun removing bricks from the constitutional wall of church-state separation will demolish the whole thing this time. Republican politicians in Texas have already indicated they plan to follow Louisiana’s lead.
Government-mandated religion is patently unconstitutional. It reproduces the religious coercion that Europeans came to this continent to escape. It is no boon to children’s spiritual or civic education. Rather, it is harmful to children – or some children, as it was to me. And legally and morally, even one is too many.
Judith Levine is a Brooklyn journalist and essayist, a contributing writer to the Intercept and the author of five books
