Losing My Religion...

Okay, so I must be honest about a few things... I used to be one of those damn conservatives...

[Gasp!!! No!!!! Goodness gracious!!! The horror!!!]

Please, please calm down everyone. Granted, I finally dumped it after dropping out of Appalachian Bible College in 1997, when I realized that there was no way, after 16, 17 years, that God wasn't suddenly going to make me un-gay. But I think I gave him a fair shot. I mean, hello? How many times do you have to berate yourself, cry yourself to sleep at night because you hate who you are, lie to everyone, and consider suicide before you come to terms?

I was sitting in my apartment (okay, okay, trailer, if you must know) that I was renting in West Virginia at the time. My sophomore year had just ended. I pretty much had broken off my third quasi-engagement (I was trying really really hard to not be gay). It was dark, I had just gotten off work at Walden's at the local mall. The stars were gorgeous, and (as a side note, I have to say that even though West Virginia is beautiful, there's always a mountain in the way, no matter where you're going or what you want to do, there's a mountain), staring at the stars on the gorgeous fall evening, I realized the thing that made me evil, the thing that made me hate myself to no end, wasn't going away.

I was raised by really conservative parent's. Myself and my four siblings went to a private school that taught God created the earth, he loves everyone, oh, and here's a story about how he smote the Philistines because they were squatting on the Israelites supposed land. But he loves you, don't worry. He killed his kid so that, if you give him enough props, he'll save you from eternal fire and brimstone. Of course, don't give him props, hell it is for you. But, oh yeah, he loves you. He also let's people kill others in his name, maim, torture, lie, extort, rape--all in his name. He loves you, though, so don't take any of it the wrong way.

Within all this evilness, I had what I realize now was my first crush. His name was Ryan. He never made fun of me, always asked how I was. Didn't make fun of the way I ran (like certain brothers who shall remain nameless), didn't make fun of how I couldn't hit a baseball to save my life (like certain gym teachers who shall remain nameless), didn't mind that I liked to draw instead of run on the playground. He even asked me to draw him a picture once, and I did so--very willingly.

Once we each in turn hit seventh grade, my parents sent us to public school, as private school is really expensive. I never saw Ryan again, and public school was a complete culture shock for me. I had never heard of MTV, or anything remotely like it. Rock music, as I'd always been taught, was from the devil. Oh, and so was alcohol and dancing. I became shy, overweight, and generally introspective. I had crushes on boys come and go, but I always made sure to ask a girl out, just so I could say I had one. I didn't even have the balls to kiss a girl until tenth grade, and that was only because I thought people were talking. Of course, I realize now, everyone who didn't fit in back then was called fag and dyke. They didn't know my secret, the secret I wouldn't even admit to myself. But I was afraid they did, and tried my best to hide it.

I had an uncle named Tim who was gay. He was kicked out of the family by my great-grandfather. I only ever met him once, I think when I was about 10, maybe 11. He was dying of AIDS, and that was back when not to many people knew what it was. I remember my grandmother making him eat on paper plates, drink out of paper cups, and then throw away his own garbage. She didn't want the "gay disease." That made up my mind there that I wasn't going to be "gay." I started praying for my evil sin to go away.

I joined the military right out of high school, which shocked the hell out of my father. I was the only boy he had that didn't like sports, was very anti-violence, never rough-housed with my brothers, but rather, enjoyed redesigning the layout of my sister's Barbie house, building homes with my lego's, and such. (I'm still surprised that they didn't know before I did.)

And of course, this move was to reassert my manliness (the joining of the military), that I wasn't what all the boys in the locker room talked about, a "fag." And of course, the land of "don't ask, don't tell" is where I had my first real homosexual experience. Ironic, isn't it? His name was ... well, I won't out him, just in case. Anyway, he was from Idaho, a real farmer's boy, and the body of Zeus. I had lost a good share of my baby fat and water weight, and wasn't looking to shabby, if I do say so myself. See, exercise is good for something. :D

I dove into church after that, head first, convinced that maybe I hadn't really gotten "saved" the first two hundred times I had asked Jesus to "come into my heart." I knew it was my evil nature that had made it happen, that it was my "inherent sin nature" that caused me to sin so badly. I signed up for Bible college. I would become a pastor.

Of course, my parents were thrilled. As were their parent's. I was following in the footsteps of both my grandfather's, one a Baptist preacher, and the other a deacon for a Protestant church. Two years of studying the "word of god." You learn a lot about the Christian mind set, let me tell you. Of course, I already had the mind set. I had been raised on it. Even when in public school, it was church twice on Sundays, Wednesday's, and youth group stuff any time it could be fit in.

I should have known bible college wasn't a good idea during orientation. Not only because of "Jason," the hot guy on the soccer team from the meet-and-greet crew. But when the Dean of Men got up and laid out the rules for dorm living. The one that really got my goat was "no beards." It may seem like an innocuous little rule, considering there was "no pre-approved CDs," no talking to girls between certain hours and in certain locations, no pre-approved off-campus destinations, no movie theaters, no playing cards, no dancing, no radios, no pets, no anything pretty much. But "no beards" got me. I raised my hand.

The dean looked up, all smiles, and said, "Yes?"
"Why no beards?"
"Some people just don't look good in beards."
(And this part was totally out of character for my shy, inward, self-loathing, self-esteem self, but basic training had done a lot for me.) I said, "Yeah, and some people don't look good in pink shirts. Should there be a rule against wearing pink?"
There was silence. A clearing of the throat. None of the other guys seemed to now want to be associated with me, as chairs shuffled and people leaned back at my table.
"Well, no, that's doesn't seem necessary." And he moved on.

But I was peeved. But I swallowed my anger, moved on. I spent the next two years sneaking in movies, sneaking out of the dorm to try to figure out what my life was and was going to be.

I called Rachel and broke up with her that summer of '97. She didn't handle it well. But I knew nothing would be changing about myself at that point. I called my parent's and told them I needed to move home. They were down the next weekend. I never told my landlord I was leaving, but I'm sure by now he's figured it out. (This was in 1997, so I really do hope he has figured it out by now; of course, this was in West Virginia... No offense, Tammy :D)

I didn't do so hot after that for a while. I transferred my job to the Walden's up that way. I was lonely. I was too afraid to go out anywhere as I might run into someone I know. I had a few one-night stands (and thank my lucky stars I didn't get anything--I was so young and stupid!) I moved out of mom and dad's house 3 months after moving home. Unfortunately, I could not afford my own place in the suburbs of Philly--standard of living or something. So a church friend and my older brother moved in as well, and we all pretty much kept to ourselves.

The first person I came out to was my sister Sylvia. She was having a rotten time of it. She had just given up her child for adoption; she was working part-time at the video store; and she was being ostracized by the church for not only being a teen pregnancy, but then giving up Sam and not "dealing with her sin." It was awful how mean they were to her. The pastor made her get up in front of the church and apologize. APOLOGIZE!!!!!! for being a bad witness of Christ. Assholes.

Anyhow within the comfort and tranquility of a booth at Michaels Diner, she was lamenting about my perfect life, and so I opened up to her (I thought confidentially). When I went home that night to my apartment in Allentown, I was feeling pretty good that, even though Sylvia had been shocked and awed by the awfulness of my "sin" compared to hers, I felt good knowing I had alleviated her sense of aloneness in the world.

I get a call that night, like 3 a.m. or something. It's my stupid brother Mike.

---

Mike: Hey, Jay, what's happening! (He sounds slightly drunk)
Me: Dude, it's three in the morning...
Mike: How come we never talk?
Me: What? (I try to rub the sleep from my eyes. When Mike gets drunk, he also gets long-winded)
Mike: How come you never talk to me about ... stuff?
Me: Mike, I have no idea--
Mike: You know, about stuff?!?!
(Fuck! No-no-no-no-no-no, goddamn Sylvia!!! I am wide-awake now, but just want to get off the phone)
Me: Listen, Mike--
Mike: No, it's all cool! I just want to know why we don't talk?
Me: Listen, it's 3 in the morning, and I have to be at work at eight, okay? So we'll talk later...
Mike: We'll talk later?
Me: Later! Good night!

---

Gradually (and by gradually, think 2 days), everyone but my dad knew. And that's only because my mom told me not to tell him. She would do so when she thought he could handle it.

I, of course, threw myself into dancing, drinking, and socializing, convinced I would never hear from anyone in my family again. I knew the horror stories, both from my own families experience and from others.

But this post is getting really, really long, so I'll save that story for another time.