Stush
growing up as an awkward, anxiety-ridden church girl
Adjective
stush
(Afro-Caribbean) posh; classy or stylish
(Afro-Caribbean) snobbish or stuck-up
“When I first met you, I thought you were stush,” my friend, T, likes to remind me.
Stush. Tight-lipped, standoffish, cold.
My mother was raised in the Church of God in Jamaica. As part of the conservative holiness movement, the church emphasised humility, purity, and holy living: separation from the cultural trends and practices of the world, just as Christ was ‘in the world but not of the world’. For church-goers, this non-conformity to the world outwardly manifested as a rejection of bodily adornment and ‘worldly fashions’. Women wore their hair natural, face make-up free, and ears unpierced. They were to keep their hair ‘long’ and wear plain, long skirts or dresses, distinguishing themselves from men, who kept their hair short and dressed in simple suits and trousers.
By the time I was born, my parents were faithful members of, soon to become ministers in, the Assemblies of God, part of a global body of over 170 Pentecostal denominations. While the church still focused on modesty, I have vivid memories of attending services where women donned the most magnificent hats and managed to Holy Ghost march in impressive six-inch heels. Still, those holiness foundations never really left my mother, and threads of them ran through our daily lives.
On Sunday mornings, before leaving the house, my mum would test drive her immaculate church dress with a twist and bend to make sure that, when moved by the Spirit, her modesty remained intact. Meanwhile, I wore colourful, ribboned frocks with matching baubles in my hair. In many of the photos from this time, my face is crumpled in discomfort, the frills and lace scratching at my legs. But I remember this time fondly. Church was my home. Each Sunday, my dad drove his minibus up the meandering country roads, picking up smiling, chatty, and extravagantly dressed passengers along the way. We’d arrive at the small church building, where our exuberant, jubilant singing would cause the zinc roof to tremble. I would fervently pray and keenly listen to the sermon until my stomach would inevitably start grumbling, while my father—the preacher—1promised the congregation, for the third time, that he was “about to finish.”
By the time I was a teenager and living in the UK, we attended a Newfrontiers church, part of the the British neocharismatic evangelical movement. Worship leaders wore t-shirts, the pastor preached in jeans, and women—much to my mum’s dismay—wore skinny jeans and jeggings (it was the 00s). The style of worship felt modern and freeing: we sang songs from Hillsong and Bethel2, and the congregation was as diverse as the city itself. There was a huge and growing youth group with teens that managed to be normal and, dare I say it, cool. They wore the latest fashions, went to parties, and knew all the trending songs on the charts.
It was at this church that I met T. At the end of service, I would stand awkwardly by the tea and coffee station, smiling politely at whoever looked my way. My mum eventually allowed me to wear trousers to church, but that was where my success at adolescent conformity ended. I struggled to maintain conversations with the other teens, who all went to the same schools and hung out at each other’s houses. No, I hadn’t heard about the huge fight between the two girls’ schools in town. No, I hadn’t watched the TV show they were all talking about. No, I hadn’t heard Kano’s new single because we did not play secular music in our home. At a time when it was cool to be Caribbean—and Jamaican, no less—I was too nerdy, too shy, too gangling and tall. I was painfully out of place at my selective grammar school and, even more painfully, at my church.
So, I stood awkwardly in the corner, seemingly tight-lipped, standoffish, and cold. Riddled with anxiety.
Stush.
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During this time, modern worship music was largely dominated by songs from Hillsong, Bethel Church, Jesus Culture, and Elevation. However, scandals involving sexual abuse, fraud, and more led some churches (sadly, only a small minority) to stop using their music.