In Honor of Every Time I Should Have Punched You In The Face But Held Back
by Amy
Leonardo DaVinci, Rosie O�Donnell, William Shakespeare, Eleanor Roosevelt, Andy Warhol, Alexander the Great, Elton John and I all have something in common. We�re gayer than a bag of purple m&ms. As a bisexual with the pure luck of owning a matching set placid, hippie parents, I dodged the heart-wrenching emotional turmoil that often accompanies the coming out process. My friends, instead of coldly abandoning me, glued themselves tighter to my side. Never merely accepted, I was embraced at every turn for my sexuality--a happy reminder that America is slowly, steadily becoming a safe place for gays to live. I helped myself out by making the �discovery� early, at the ripe age of eleven, and outing myself in the same year. Being out at eleven years old is admirable in today�s gay community because the act requires a level of confidence, emotional strength, independence, and faith that has no comparable equal in the straight world.
Of course, I knew someone inevitably would cut me out of their life for my sexuality. One can hardly consider themselves a part of the gay community in America until they are told by a heterosexual that gays should get AIDS and die, that they�re going to Hell. My turn came, when I was still young and green. The same year I came out, Ms. Judy Joints threatened my life one day in Sunday school class.
�When heaven catches on fire, the angels don�t fall. They jump,� I scribbled my new poem over and over again in my notebook. Tucked away in the back pew, I cozily ignored the booming voice of Pastor White. A banner--stretched across the front wall--read, �An Obedient Women is a Jewel on Her Husband�s Crown.� If you know nothing else about the Southern Baptists, know that they boycotted Disney for hiring gay employees. The religion has been fixated on oppressing minorities for over a century.
The church service wound down with a one-verse song. I gathered my notebook, bomber jacket, the canary yellow pamphlet called �The Case Against Immigrants,� given to me by the youth minister (which I�d defaced before throwing on the floor) and left the safety of the back pew to find my mom. She didn�t sit with me for Big Church; I didn�t let her. But she was always nearby. Mom always wore dark green and very little make-up, setting her appropriately at odds with the rest of the women in the congregation. Karen Keening�s gigantic floral dress and thick eye shadow--both the color of Windex--represented the Wal-Mart look that most church ladies were going for. I found my mom unfortunately trapped by Karen in an �adult conversation� about the pregnancy of a 15 year old girl who�d dropped out of church.
�Doesn�t surprise me. Nothing surprises me. They always get pregnant, or addicted to a drug, and who�s to blame? Not the church. Not their parents,� Karen ranted. She looked like an angry blueberry, �If they don�t want to know God then I say get rid of them. If my little one gets pregnant before she graduates high school, I�ll kick her out and not look back. And I�d recommend you do the same with Lynn, here.�
I felt the temperature rise in the room. Mom couldn�t stand being told how to raise me, especially by Karen who�d had years less mothering experience. Though I can�t help but make fun of her, Karen was one of my few friends in the church. I nobly decided to save her from my mom�s wrath by innocently interrupting.
�I like your hat,� I told her, making a vague gesture toward the hideous thing. Karen, oblivious, smiled down at me. Mom relaxed on cue. Crisis averted.
�Thank you. They say orange is in this year. You should stock up,� And miraculously, Mom and Karen were off on a different topic and moving towards the doors. I took the chance to roll my eyes at their backs and glance around the church. Big Church, as the members of the First Baptist Of Racine affectionately called the ugly room, was coated in lead paint. The walls, ceiling, carpet, Bibles, pews, and curtains were the �It�s a boy!� blue that lacks any atheistic value. The only other color permitted in the room was the one gray pew in the back of the church, where I sat and meditated every Sunday. I smiled fondly at my pew before running outside to catch Mom. Black sheep should stick together.
A week later, I was feeling grinchy in the Corinthian--the Sunday school room for 5th and 6th graders. The class of ten sat in a cramped oval, with Ms. Judy Joints presiding. She was an eight-time divorcee with a teeth-gritting nasal voice and permanent comb marks through the sides of her frazzled hair. Judy�s appearance was like a highway wreck: so scary and ugly that you couldn�t help but stare and keep an eye out for casualties. Far from loveable, Judy had intense paranoia that focused on the advent of Jesus and believed that gays, if allowed to live, would persecute Christians. She wore harvest moon yellow costume jewelry that, coupled with her stained teeth and jaundiced skin, cast a paranormal glow around her. Judy had a magnificent following in the nine other members of our Sunday school class. Mark, Matthew, David, Luke, John, John, John, and Judy�s twin daughters Mary and Ruth were enviably simple kids. They slept when they were tired, ate when they were hungry, avoided fire.
That morning, while searching desperately for a good enough reason to convince Mom to let me stay home and sleep, I told her exactly what church meant to me. I thought of the two hours every Sunday as killing time just to have something to kill. Surprisingly, the frequent sermons in Big Church addressing the evils of equal rights didn�t send me running into God�s hands. I loathed the hour I spent locked away in the Corinthian with the Homophobe of the Year and her lemmings. Predictably, Mom told me that if I was uncomfortable then I could stop attending at any time. But then she hit me from behind with a pout, �Though I�ll feel very lonely without you there.� I couldn�t bring myself to abandon Mom. I vowed to stay in church for as long as possible.
Ten minutes later, I was ready to give up.
Judy entered the room with a filthy smile and proceeded to write in screeching yellow chalk the topic of the week: �God and Homosexuals.�
�Fags,� John #2 assured John #1 in a stage whisper, as if there was any question.
�No, Judy laughed condescendingly, �They like that word. We tried to make them ashamed of themselves, but they�re proud of being dirty. They made �fag� something to be proud of. They turn everything good to evil. Luckily, God sent AIDS to kill them and stop the devil�s work.�
My nails dug into the palms of my hands.
�So what should we call them?� chirped Luke, eager to please.
Ruth smiled, proud of herself, �Child molesters.�
Everyone laughed.
�85% of child molesters are straight men, jackass,� my voice split their laughs in half. I smiled on the receiving end of ten glares.
�How do you know that?�
�I read.�
The kids all sneered. I made them feel bourgeois and idiotic. They were. Judy adjusted her glasses, trying to keep her cool, �Well, I read too, Lynn. And I�ve never heard of that.�
�Then I�ll bring you my copy of Prayers for Bobby. About a mother who drives her gay son to suicide through religious fanaticism. Its got all kinds of fun statistics. Can you imagine a mother killed her son because of the crap you�re teaching-�
�Well, that�s a start,� Judy shrugged. The disciples snickered.
�What?!�
�Gays are better off dead. And I�ll do everything I can to kill the ones that cross my path, Lynn,� hearing her tone, I understood that she saw me as prey. And I experienced a sickening tingle down my spine as my insides froze and the blood rose to my skin. The real horror of having your life threatened is this feeling. Our fight, now over the shallow heads of the Johns and company, rendered them quiet and dumbstruck.
I knew enough not to challenge a homicidal fanatic (and if you learn nothing else from me, please take that tidbit with you). With my fresh promise to Mom in mind, I took some steps to relax. Breathe deeply. Unclench the fists. Think of something positive. Count to ten.
�Lynn�s been dealing with lots of uncertainty lately. Don�t hold her opinions against her, however wrong she is,� Judy assured the class. �She probably made friends with a gay and was brainwashed to defend homos as �normal people.� Like I said before, they turn good to evil. Satan is powerful. And this is a great example. Don�t go near gays. Homosexuality is a disease that can spread.�
10...
9...
�If God sent AIDS to kill gays,� said one of the disciples. They were all the same to me now that I was seeing red, �What about the straight people who have it?�
�They�re prostitutes, mostly. There isn�t much difference between prostitutes and gays. Immoral.�
8...
7...
�I think my uncle is gay �cause my parents won�t let me see him, and they throw away the cards he sends for birthdays.�
�You�re parents are doing the right thing. If you let him into your life, he�ll destroy your family. Gays aren�t fit to be near kids. Like Ruth said, they�re child molesters.�
6...
5...A part of my mind warned that I was counting the wrong way. To calm down, I should count up. I didn�t listen.
�I heard that Disney World has a Gay Day.�
�Yes, that�s why we don�t watch Disney movies in our house. If I�m ever at Disney world for Gay Day I�ll bring a gun.�
4...
3...
�What should I do if I meet a gay person?�
�Tell them about God. Tell them that they�re going to hell unless they turn straight.�
2...
�The most important thing to remember about gays is that they aren�t like real people. They�re deranged, godless, and can�t control themselves. If you think you know a gay person, the best thing to do is tell your mom and dad or someone else you trust, so they can make sure you are never near them again.�
1...
I stood up, opened my mouth to speak. My forgotten Bible fell from my lap and landed with a heavy thud.
The walk home was chilly and bright, bright white. The winter sun on the snow blinded and distracted me from the inevitable. After managing to delay the great display of emotion for all twenty minutes of the walk home, I finally slipped into our locked house through the doggie door. I went hysterical: laughed and laughed, the sickest and most empty laughter you can imagine. I was scared out of my mind.
For a questionable amount of time, I was out cold. Mom, after hearing the rumor of her youngest walking out of Sunday school, came home and found me asleep on the couch. That afternoon, the phone rang. Pastor White requested that I �find another church.�
Jaded and bruised, I put organized religion behind me. Predictably, I had trouble visiting any church without breaking down in tears or anger. With time I recovered. Slowly, I could laugh and make fun.
Three years later Mom dragged me, kicking and screaming murder, back to the First Baptist Church for their annual pig roast. I was fourteen, a vegetarian, dating a girl from Milwaukee, and a thoroughly scarred atheist. Mom wanted me to give church one last chance. She swore that if Judy came we would leave immediately. But Judy didn�t show.
Karen came. She waddled over to me, while my mom talked to the sewing circle. Out of breath after the 10 foot walk, she gasped out a greeting between puffs of breath, �Lynn, you�haven�t been� to church� in years.�
�They kicked me out.�
She pulled a lawn chair underneath her and fanned herself. I leaned against a table. �You�ve still got that attitude. Makes us all feel like peons,� she accused.
�Sorry.� I tried again, in apology, �No Karen, I haven�t been to church in a very long time. My beliefs have changed and I don�t feel welcomed because of past events.�
Karen wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand and sent me a calculating look,
�Your mom says that you�re an atheist now. And that you want to be a writer.�
�Uh huh.� I didn�t know where the conversation was headed. Hesitantly, I offered, �I just sent in a batch of poems to some magazines for publication.�
Karen shook her head, �No, no. You think you know so much. But you aren�t even strong enough to believe in God. And you think you�re going to be successful? Without God, you�re just a speck on the globe.�
�I�m just a speck on the globe anyway. But without God I�m a happy speck,� I interjected.
�You�ll never be a writer. You�ve got nothing. How can you use your God-given talents if you don�t even believe in Him.�
�That�s ridiculous. Not every successful person in the world is Christian, Karen.�
�I think you�re just a dumb, little girl who doesn�t know what she�s talking about. I hope my Julie doesn�t turn out like you.�
I fought the urge to shove my plastic cup down her throat, �Like me how? I�m a straight-A student. My family is proud of me. You don�t want your kid to turn out like me? How intelligent of you.�
I didn�t understand, and I didn�t care. My life is mine. I live for me.
Two weeks before my sixteenth birthday the phone rang. I�d just received my twelfth acceptance letter--this time for the publication of five of my poems in Poetic License Magazine. I twirled the editor�s business card in my hand as I picked up the phone, expecting one of my friends.
�Hello?�
�Sally?� the voice sounded lost, desperate for a bearing.
�This is her daughter.�
�Lynn? It�s Karen,� she found my cold silence painful, �I-Is your mom home?�
�No.�
�I just�I need to tell someone. Remember my little girl? Julie?�
The one she prayed wouldn�t turn out like me. I remembered, �Mmhm.�
�She�s pregnant.�
I hoped Karen could hear my smile. �Wow,� I said, my voice disinterested, �How old is she, again?�
�Eleven.�
�I�ll tell Mom you called. Bye.�
�Lynn?� She waited for a response. I remained silent, anticipating an apology in a desperate attempt for comfort. �Well,� she spoke quietly, �I just needed someone to talk to.�
�And I�ll tell Mom you called. Bye.�
There was something so infinitely satisfying about hanging up on her call.
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