The Crown

I was ten the first time I attended an exorcism.

I wasn’t the one being exorcised—

at least not officially.

Mississippi.
Summer.
Tent revival.

The kind of place where folding chairs sink into dirt

and grown men scream in tongues

while someone plays the same three chords on a Yamaha keyboard,

pounding the keys like they’re holding back a flood.

I wore a yellow dress

and carried a velvet purse.

It was deep purple with gold rope drawstrings.

It made me feel important—

like someone God would wave back at.

Inside were my treasures:
a shiny rock,
a broken keychain,
something glittery I probably stole from a parking lot.

I spun that bag around my head during worship
like a Pentecostal ribbon dancer,
fully convinced I was moving the Spirit.

Turns out,
I was twirling a Crown Royal bag.

I had no idea.
I just thought it was regal.

Later that night,
after multiple people had flopped to the floor like landed trout
and the preacher declared victory over Satan,
my dad finally noticed.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.
“Have you been carrying that around this whole time?”

“Yes,” I beamed.
“It’s my princess purse.”

I watched his soul leave his body for a second.

He looked like he’d just realized
I’d been waving around a flask
at a sobriety ceremony.

He didn’t say much—

just nodded slowly,

My mom was somewhere nearby,
probably muttering in tongues
like she was trying to tune into a divine AM radio.

My dad, meanwhile,
had already shouted his way through
three languages
and a minor existential crisis.

No one took the bag from me.

I kept spinning it.

I looked great.
Regal, even.