The Cross in the Closet (17 page)

My mom walks into the restaurant with an expression of relief on her face. No doubt she is relieved to know that her second born is not in fact a gay man. Maybe the simple fact that I am straight is enough to cancel out her frustration and hurt resulting from my having lied to her. Once more, she has a second son who will marry a nice young woman and have cute little babies (I hope). I resent the idea that anyone would be relieved to know that I really am the same heterosexual man they always believed me to be. Would it be the end of the world if I really were gay? Is the crass, bigoted, straight Tim somehow more valuable than the softer, peaceful, more loving gay Tim? Why do we put a higher value on one orientation over the other? Why have I always valued straight people more than gays and lesbians?

When she sits down, she puts her hand on mine on the table, and I tell her all about the how and why behind my drastic experience. She listens and doesn’t interrupt, but I am leery of her motives. Maybe my cynicism is the result of the standard responses that I have gotten from the average person when I tell them I’m gay. Maybe I am just becoming more naturally defensive. It could also be the constant paranoia that is present even now. If I was not guarded with people, would I be more wounded by now? But this is my own mother, and I know it is only fair to try to give her the benefit of the doubt.

When I tell my mom about seeing Jesus in drag, her eyes betray a surprise much akin to the surprise I felt that beautifully jarring evening. She apologizes. I ask why, and she says she knows there were times she did not treat me the way she probably should have. “I was just so surprised and shocked, and I needed a lot of time to process what you were telling me,” she says.

I know this much is true: It takes longer for individuals who have been inundated with conservative religion to “come around” than others that have not been taught about the “unnatural and abominable” gay lifestyle or “evil gay agenda.” Lord knows I cannot judge. It has taken a great deal for me to question and realize that things aren’t as I was taught they are, too.

More than anything, my mom is concerned about my relationship with my brother, who told me on the phone that because of my lying to him, he would distance himself from me until my experiment was over.

“He feels thrown under the bus,” I tell her, “and all for gay people.” I can tell she’s distraught. “Mom, I’ll tell you what I told him. I
did
throw all of you under the bus for ‘gay people,’ but only because there isn’t a gay man or lesbian woman I’ve met who hasn’t been thrown under the bus just because of the label of their orientation. The only way I could understand was to risk my own relationship with all of you.”

“It will all work out,” she says. “I just hope it’s sooner rather than later. It hurts me to know that my babies aren’t speaking.”

“It’s hurting both of us too. Maybe one day all of you will understand.”

The Pharisee smirks at me from a nearby table. He’s been fairly silent since the night at karaoke, but his expressions have said the thousands of words they’ve replace. Right now, his face says,
Maybe one day you’ll understand how much it hurts to be lied to by your own sibling.
And he is not too far off base. I don’t understand what I have put them through, but it was a price I had to pay.

“For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“I do think I understand, and I really am proud of you.” she says. My mom is handling this whole thing much better than I anticipated, and I thankful for it.

Her words are comforting, but I wish that she would have told me she was proud of me while she thought I was gay. I cannot judge her motives, but it seems that because she knows I am straight, she is somehow more open to me than before. My heart aches for the beautiful men and women who are denied something as simple as familial support just because of their orientation. I cannot fathom how painful life must be for them at times. This year is probably a cakewalk by comparison.

After small-talk, food, and iced tea, I leave the restaurant feeling comforted but more isolated from my family than ever. My mom is taking the news well, and the impact of my actions will probably diminish with time, but I have to let go of the idea that I can change their minds. Only they can do that. Only they have the power to attempt to understand or to write me off for what I have done. Worse still are the
what ifs
that I am left with. They never got to meet Shawn or see us together. They never had the opportunity to meet my new friends whom I so desperately wish they could have. With them knowing that I am not really gay, I cannot risk those encounters anymore. I can’t risk them slipping, as I slipped with my brother’s friend. The news would spread through the community and expose me. Coming clean to everyone is my cross to bear.

The family aspect of my experiment is now tainted, and I have to move forward in the other areas that are still available to me. The chances that my family will tell anyone about my project are slim, and I am not afraid of being outed to anyone else, for now. My family life and my new social life are worlds apart. I am saddened that I have perpetuated this ideological divide for so long, and sadder still now that I have to knowingly live in one world or the other, cut off from one group or the other at any given time. This whole “issue” of homosexuality is only polarizing because conservative religion dictates the standards of religious people. It controls their motives and their reactions. It especially controls their politics. I hope to see the day when my conservative Christian brothers and sisters realize that separation is not the way of Jesus.

I drive to a café to meet my friend Thomas, ill-prepared for my next encounter. I met Thomas at a café a few blocks away from my dad’s house, several months ago, and we instantly formed a rapport. His humor and insight into the mundane details of life makes him easy to be around, and since we’re from the same neighborhood we know a lot of the same people. We are sitting at a table making small talk and sipping coffee when I see my former pastor, Frank, and his wife, Cindy, walk into the café. The last time I heard from this man, he rebuked my “decision” to be gay in the name of Jesus and told me to get counseling at another church. We haven’t spoken since. Thomas sees the visible discomfort on my face but plays it cool. He is friends with these people, too. I hope they don’t come over to talk to us.

“You okay?” he asks, sensing my uneasiness.

I nod my head yes but flush red the very next moment when I see Cindy walking over to our table.

I feel as though I’ve been pinned beneath a magnifying glass. What is she going to say to me? Should I get up and conveniently use the bathroom until they leave? The instantaneous terror I feel is soon replaced by the realization that she does not want to talk to me. She doesn’t want to talk to me at all. She’s looking only at Thomas, not even acknowledging my existence, speaking only to Thomas, accepting only Thomas as a person. I am invisible to her.

I am angry. No hello? Not even a smile? After three or four minutes of small talk, she politely says goodbye and walks away without have said a single word to me. They leave the café and my heart is racing.

Thomas looks incredulous. “Did that really just happen?”

I smile and sigh.

“That’s not the first time this has happened to you, is it?”

“No it’s not, but it’s the first time with them. I haven’t seen them since I came out.”

“That wasn’t even veiled contempt. It was blatant and abrasive.” He shakes his head disapprovingly.

“I hope she doesn’t treat the members of their church like that.”

“No shit,” he says, visibly shaken. “I just can’t believe she would be that rude.”

“I’m used to it,” I say. “I have never felt more alone in my life than I have in the recent months.”

“I hope you find peace, my friend. I really do.” Thomas is a sincerely empathetic man, especially to those whom mainstream Christianity has turned its back on.

“I do too,” I say, trying to shake off the humiliation.

This has not been the easiest day. I don’t feel disconnected from just my family; I feel disconnected from my entire past. But maybe that is a divine parting gift of sorts. Maybe God has blessed me by removing these people from my life—but I don’t think I will ever get used to awkward situations like the one I just experienced. What really frustrates me is the rudeness that conservative beliefs seem to engender, more even than the beliefs themselves. It is one thing to hold a literal interpretation of the Bible, and another to treat others as lesser. Shawn and I have talked a lot about this recently. “Believe what you want, but don’t oppress me with those beliefs,” he said. And admittedly, I have almost always been the oppressor. Only now do I understand that my methods did more harm than good.

With my birthday coming up, I really wonder: Will the friends I haven’t heard from finally reach out to me—or will I continue to be ignored? Will my brother reach out? The gravity of everything that the label of gay has changed in my life is being revealed, and the loss of everything that has been robbed from me because of that label is becoming more difficult to process. Part of me is slipping, and with it my ability to cope with the loneliness. For so long, my identity has been wrapped up in the opinions of others, especially those walking the in the same religious circles I always walked. I feel invisible, like I did at the café with Thomas, all the time. While one facet of my social life is thriving, the life I once knew is clearly dying. Only my self is left, praying that the anxiety and depression that are beginning to surface will not take root.

Today is my twenty-second birthday. I am working a fourteen-hour shift at Revive for customer appreciation day. Add the double shift to the emotional turmoil of being at odds with my brother, and I have little to celebrate. Last year, my brother and his wife threw me a party. This year I don’t know if he will even text me a happy birthday. Oh, how things have changed. I am serving coffee and food for fourteen hours to hundreds of gays and lesbians, kicking off the two-week-long celebration leading up to Gay Pride Day. I should be more excited about the conversations I’ll have and people I’ll meet, but I cannot seem to muster any genuine enthusiasm. I am broken. I ache for my family, though it has only been a few weeks since we’ve spoken.

Last night I drank enough beer that I passed out on the couch at my dad’s place, after drunkenly singing “Happy Birthday” to myself about a dozen times. I cried until I couldn’t cry any more. It was not one of the prouder moments of my life.

I make lattes by the dozen as customers peruse the attached bookstore. My regulars see though my phony smile and try to cheer me up. Scott and Jason sip sweet tea and flirt with me as usual; when my face betrays the occasional smile, they act like they’ve won the lottery. Admittedly it is nice to be around friends, even if I am in such a shitty mood. I am not sure how it happened, but these people have become my family…or the closest thing I can have to a family right now. Scott tries to give me twenty-four spankings and promises that the one to grow on will be something I’ll “always remember”—but I retreat behind the coffee bar, narrowly avoiding his hand as it whizzes through the air towards my ass. I am so thankful for the counter!

Between every drink I make, I check my cell phone, hoping for at least a text message from my brother. Nothing. No texts, no call, no contact.

Shawn shows up, and I feel my spirits rise. His smile and hug remind me how lucky I am right now. On my break we sit on a couch listening to the live music, and I tell him about the depression I am struggling with. I spill it out, and, as ever, he is kind enough to listen.

“Oh, baby, that’s terrible!” He pulls me into a hug, holding me tightly to his chest and rubbing my back reassuringly. It’s all I can do not to cry.

I take a deep breath and steady myself. “I’ll be okay, really. It’s just going to take some getting used to.”

“I’ve been there, hun. A lot of us have. If you need anything, you know I’m here for you.”

“Yeah. I know. Thank you,” I say, still choking back tears. I check my phone again. Nothing.

Shawn’s empathy and genuine concern for my well-being are a beautiful example of his greater grace and masculinity, as he continually plays the role of servant to me on this journey. My guard disappears while Shawn is around, and I realize something inside of me is changing. His friendship is changing me, softening the rough edges. Shawn grabs my hand and holds it as we talk. The physical closeness doesn’t bother me anymore. I am lucky to have him. What I have with Shawn might actually be more real than anything I ever had in past relationships. He personifies what I hope to have in a romantic partner one day, and oddly enough, he has become an essential part of my life. His love is so tangible and beautiful that I am beginning to view him not just as a beard, a pretend boyfriend meant to fool those around me, but as a legitimate partner in my life—for a time, at least. Our relationship is limited by the degree to which it can develop, but I try not to think about that. Instead I focus on the moment, on what I can learn from this dear, sweet man whom everyone believes to be my boyfriend.

I love Church Street during the day. I love seeing families emerge and enjoy the gayborhood. A lot of the same families from softball are here. Everyone who knows it’s my birthday makes a point to hug me or tips me generously as I make their coffee. The community is as tight-knit a group as I have ever beheld, and I cannot help but wish for a church that was as close in community as this one on Church Street. The Christian communities of which I have been a part could learn a lot about organic fellowship from the gays and lesbians I am lucky to call friends. I never feel pressure to be what I am not, never feel like I am not good enough or unworthy of company and camaraderie. Whether my Christian friends believe it or not, these people are happy and content. They are not more guilt ridden or rebellious than the average Christian. Befriending them has shown me that my projection of morality on others has never been an accurate litmus test of their hearts. I do not quite know what this change of heart will mean for me, after this project ends, but I hope I won’t forget.

The hours of my shift pass and my birthday dwindles to a close. Mopping the floor is therapeutic. I watch the dirt tracked inside throughout the day wash away as if it never existed. I wonder what it would be like if the crud and muck in our lives could be washed away as quickly, if we could harness the truth and follow it back and forth in broad strokes, wiping away everything that is undesirable or false. Growing and changing takes effort, and the process is wearing on me. But I feel cleaner, somehow…more pure, even, like a child learning about life for the first time. I hadn’t anticipated this return of innocence; but then again, I didn’t anticipate a lot that has happened so far.

I did not anticipate having to face my family this early in the year, and, worse, being rejected by some of them. I did not anticipate the loneliness, the bleakness of the average moments that pass more slowly than an episode of “The Old-Time Gospel Hour.” I did not anticipate the crushing weight of the closet, the inability to confide in others, the pressure to maintain my cover, or the ever-present paranoia of that cover being compromised. And I hadn’t really thought that people would actually reject me because of a three letter word. I mean, who
does
that? I glance at my own reflection in the glass door and laugh.

If perception is reality and our realities dictate our view of life, my life and my brand of religion has been based in a perception that makes the
Twilight Zone
look normal by comparison. The implications of this perception, the unspeakable judgments that were my constant companions, have shown themselves to be more potently evil than anything I was taught to avoid growing up. At least I have nothing to hide behind, anymore. My faith has been stripped to the foundation, and I am not sure of anything I used to “know” to be true.

At 11:25 p.m. I clock out. Still no messages. I drive to my mom’s, where I will spend the night, filled with anxiety. A potent fear that tells me that, come midnight, I still will not have heard from my best friend and only sibling. I hope irrationally that I’ll pull into my mom’s driveway and my brother’s truck will be parked there, and my whole family will be inside, waiting to spend time with me—even though it’s almost midnight. Then they’ll tell me they love me and that everything is going to be okay, and we’ll spend the last minutes of my twenty-second birthday eating cake and celebrating together.

But I reach the driveway of my mother’s house, and the truck is not there. My last traces of energy leave me. It is only my birthday for another five minutes. Please don’t let me down, brother. Don’t leave me hanging. I look over to the Pharisee, and his frown is the only confirmation I need.

He didn’t leave you hanging. You left yourself hanging. What you sew, you are going to reap. This is your fault.

Our narrow-mindedness left us both hanging. Left us crippled.

Think what you will, but stop lying to yourself. You know what is absolutely true and what isn’t. The Bible isn’t so hard to understand, and you are deviating from it. What do you really even want?

All I wanted was a text message! The mere acknowledgment that he remembers me. I just wanted a happy birthday from my big brother.

Happy birthday. Happy now?

Fuck you! I open my car door and walk up the stairs to the house.

My mom is waiting with a cake, and beer, even though she never stays up past 9:00 p.m. I am happy to see her, at least, in the waning minutes of my birthday.

“Happy birthday, baby!” She hugs me tightly. Then she sees my face.

I look down at my phone and the display changes from 11:59 p.m. to 12:00 a.m. He didn’t even text.

“Are you okay?” she asks, concerned.

“No, mom, I’m not. But at least I understand. At least I get it.”

Her eyes begin to water and I realize I am hurting her, so I smile and tell her about my day instead of venting. We eat cake, and my mom walks upstairs to her room, once again believing a lie. First I told her I was gay. Tonight I acted happy. I am tired of playing parts for her—but tonight it is what I had to do.

“Don’t drink all of that beer!” she yells down the stairs, her voice laced with concern.

“I won’t, Mom!” I yell back in an upbeat voice. Another lie.

I look down at my phone and stare at the empty screen. Nothing. I drink my open beer in a matter of seconds and toss it in the garbage. I open the refrigerator door, see eleven longnecks waiting for me, and grab three of them.

I look at the Pharisee leaning against the entryway to the kitchen. Want one? He doesn’t speak. Didn’t think so.

The hiss of carbonation escaping the bottle is the only discernible noise I can hear. I am all alone in my mother’s living room. I sit on the couch and look one last time at my phone.

Nothing.

Tonight I won’t sing to myself, and I will try not to feel sorry for myself, either. Is it really worth it, this pain and heartache? I walk back to the couch and open my messenger bag to get my laptop. Inside I see a wrapped present and a card attached that says
Hotness
in big letters on the front.

I open the beautifully wrapped present and find a book I have been eyeing for weeks at the bookstore. It’s perfect. I take another drink of my beer and take a deep breath, amazed by the goodness of people and the impact that goodness has on me. I don’t feel so alone anymore.