The Cross in the Closet (19 page)

I am in the second act of this story now, and the novelty, like new-car smell, has worn off. The novelty of the closet wore off a long time ago, but I’m still inside it, alone. I cannot imagine living this way for much longer. It’s crushing my spirits to a degree I never anticipated. We were not created to be alone, you and I. We were created with a need for otherness, a need for community, and I am just beginning to realize how much the closet hinders community and even more than community, how it hinders love.

Two weeks have passed since Gay Pride Day, and boredom is killing me. No job and no money makes my time on Church Street less enjoyable. I am sitting on the back patio of my father’s with a case of piss beer, listening to “The Best of Puccini” and the sound of cicadas trying to mate with each other. I miss my friends, the regulars, and all of the conversation and laughter we shared at the café. Loneliness and desperation are growing as my social life deteriorates into nonexistence. I’m still living at my dad’s house, and I often resort to drinking alone. The realization hits me that this year is more than half over.

Losing my job at the café has turned my black cloud into a tropical depression. I haven’t felt this bogged down, this
trapped
, in years. The combination of pretending to be someone I’m not and the emotional distance between me and my family are taking a toll. I wonder, is this plunge into the melancholy unique to me, or is it a natural byproduct of the closet?

The green of the grass is topped with the light frosting of the freshly cut grass that lies atop it, and it has a distinctly Southern smell that I have never found anywhere other than Tennessee. I love Nashville…but even the city itself is starting to feel oppressive. The claustrophobia of my life is shattering any semblance of stability I’ve found.

And then the phone rings with a distinctive ring, and I know I might just be okay. It’s my good friend Connie, who could more aptly be described as a guardian angel or a second mom than just another peer. I met Connie through our mutual friend Jay from New York, but until recently, I was always put off by her brand of faith. She lives several hours away, in Memphis, so we rarely get to see one another. Jay told her about my experiment and she reached out. Connie is a very liberal United Methodist pastor; throughout her ministry, gay and lesbian issues have been a passion. Lately she has been calling me daily, and I wonder how she knows, or always seems to know, when I am struggling. I wonder how she knows just the right time to call and check up on me. Every time I hear that ringtone I know that at least for a moment, I’m not completely alone.

“Hey, kiddo. How’re you holding up?”

A few seconds pass and I don’t respond. I hiccup. “I was just smelling the grass. My dad mowed the lawn, and it smells great out here!”

“That bad?”

I can’t hide anything from her. “No, no! Everything is good. I was thinking about going to Tribe tonight to spend some time with the guys.”

“Sounds like you’ve already brought the party home. How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough.”

“Oh, hun…Have you seen Shawn lately?”

She doesn’t press me for details I don’t want to give. I like that about her.

“Not much. He’s been really busy.” Another hiccup. “I miss Shawn!” Everything comes to me like an epiphany when I’ve been drinking, even the smallest things.

“Sounds like you could really use a friend.”

“I’m okay, really. I’ve only got five more months of this thing, and then I’ll get my life back!”

I try to focus but I see a small yellow butterfly several feet away. I like the way it floats, bobbing up and down on the air like a kite, only more graceful. Part of me wishes I could float like that. I wonder if it will ever be possible. I would probably have to lose a lot of weight…but then again bumblebees have a body mass higher than any other flying bug and somehow it seems to work for them. Why aren’t there any bumblebees out here right now? It is summer, after all. I wipe my face with a wet rag.

“Hello? You there?” she asks.

“Connie, I’m not well.” Another drunken epiphany.

“Tim, just come here.”

“Where?”

“Memphis! God, I hate it when you’re drunk!”

“That makes one of us.”

“So is that a yes?”

“Can we visit Graceland?”

“Does that mean you’re coming?”

“I don’t know. I need to find a job. And what about softball?”

“You sent me your schedule months ago. After tomorrow, you’ve got the next three weeks off before your tournaments. Just come stay with my family and I’ll help you with your project.”

“How can you help?”

“Well, for one, Charlie and I are the only ones who will know about your project. We won’t even tell our kids, or anyone else for that matter. You’ll get to see what it’s like to go somewhere new, where the label of
gay
is connected to you from the first impression.”

“That sounds like a great plan! I’ll be there in two hours!” I stand up and start walking to my car. I don’t even have my keys.

“Hell, no, Tim! Are you crazy? Sober up, play your games tomorrow, and then come down
sober
!” She yells that last part and I have to pull the phone away from my ear.

“Okay, okay! I’ll stop drinking.”

“That a boy!”

I can hear her smiling on the other end of the line. I open another beer and hope the hiss of the carbonation escaping is not loud enough for Connie to hear. I have never felt so low.

After a little over two hours of driving, I pull into Connie’s driveway, barely able to park on the steep incline. I pull my backpack and duffel bag from the back seat and see a furry cat jump onto my hood. The cat turns in two quick circles before curling up and closing his eyes. What an oddly charming little creature. And then I feel it. For the first time in years, I feel
home
.

I see Connie through my driver’s side window, standing on the porch. It is an odd thing to leave Nashville without any plan or itinerary, awkward, but somehow good and comfortable. Connie gives me a huge hug and tells me it’s great to see me. She has the warmest spirit, and I feel instantly at ease.

“How was the drive?”

“As good as can be expected. Got to think a lot…and sing opera at the top of my lungs.”

“Glad I wasn’t there!” She smiles.

“You know, this is the first time this year I’ve done anything with
me
in mind. To get away and just breathe.”

“Don’t get too comfortable. My daughters are beyond excited to have a guy to talk boys with!”

“Thanks for this.”

“I believe in you, Tim. Just count the past month as a hiccup and keep moving forward. You know I’m here for ya.”

We sit in Connie’s study, and I put my feet up on the ottoman, exhausted, drained, paper thin. I look over and see myself in a mirror. I look like I have aged several years in a matter of months; the creases in my forehead are a preview of what’s to come. I’ve even lost twenty pounds. Between a softball and dancing diet, I have spent most of my summer running from bar to bar, and ball field to ball field. I sigh and Connie tilts her head, a look of curiosity on her face.

“What’s wrong, hun?”

“I’m just so tired.”

“You want to take a nap?”

“Not that kind of tired,” I say, taking a deep breath. “My soul is tired, and my heart has broken so many times this year for so many people, and for myself, that I feel like I’ve got nothing left.”

Connie smiles.

“Tim, you’re growing, and that’s never easy. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. It’s not your job to save the world.”

“No, but it’s my responsibility to make amends for my life. I feel so much guilt for who I’ve been all this time and how I’ve treated these people.”

“What’s going on with your brother?”

“Still no word, but I can’t push it. I’m just going to give him the space he asked for and hope things work out.” I retrieve the letter he wrote me before his wedding out of my bag, and I hand it to Connie. “This is what I’ve lost. I can’t believe it’s been less than a year since he wrote this.”

She reads the letter and I see tears in her eyes. Then she looks up and smiles.

“Trust me: your brother will be your best friend again before too long. He feels like he’s been played for a fool and that he didn’t have a choice,” she says, echoing the guilt that exists inside of me. She sees my face. “Tim, you’re doing the right thing, but you’ve got to follow through with respecting his wishes.”

She thumbs the letter and looks down at it thoughtfully. “What you’re doing is important, but you already know that. What’s left to doubt?” she asks.

“I think the reason I haven’t loved other people has just as much to do with not loving myself as if does with what I’ve learned growing up.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I’ve realized anything this year about myself, it’s that I am a pretty insecure guy. I used my religion to bully people, to feel superior to them. If I loved myself, I probably would’ve known better.” I lean my head back against the top of the leather chair and sigh.

“I’m so proud of you. You are getting to the point that you aren’t just carelessly pointing the finger. You’re looking inside first, and you need to keep following that path.”

“Someone else I know told me to start within. Why am I the last to figure these things out?”

“Don’t worry. Eventually your eyes will adjust to the gradient of colors that the black and white’s have cheated you from.”

Ana•s Nin once said, “We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” Connie’s words confirm that. As my perspective continues to be challenged, my view of others is changing. I look back on who I was before and feel humbled. All we really have in this life is each other, and I think that was God’s intention. The gospel really is simple: loving Him means loving each other.

Hours later, after running errands and eating dinner, Connie and I sit on her back porch. Before I arrived, she stocked the fridge with foods she knows I like and even purchased Captain Morgan and Coke for mixed drinks. So we sit, talking about God, and life, and faith, and otherness, and I feel…at home. I feel free to melt into my wicker chair and free to release every thought I have kept so tightly locked away from people in the past seven months. I release it. I share stories of all the people I have met and about the downward spiral I’ve fallen into since the beginning of summer. Connie does not respond; she just sits, listening while I talk, crying with me when I cry. And I know she accepts me for who I am. For the first time in my life, I feel a true sense of safety. This unexpected haven in Memphis has restored something I thought I had lost my hope and I know that Connie is right. Everything really will be okay, and I am doing the right thing. I just have to keep trusting God to direct my path. And this experiment is my cross to bear, my opportunity to learn empathy. Everyone has a calling in life, a cross to bear. I never anticipated that I would find my cross in the closet.

I wake up and stretch, trying to remember the last time I slept through the night without waking up in a cold sweat. Tossing and turning and dreams have been the bane of my nights for the past few months. I feel like I am in emotional rehab and Connie is my sponsor. I look down at my phone and see no missed calls or texts. I haven’t spoken with my parents in a week, and I wonder how long it will be before they call. I have all but disappeared. When will they notice?

Lying back on the bed, I pull out a book I got from the bookstore attached to the Revive. I long for the little café like a lost friend and wonder what all of the boys are up to. The book,
Thou Shalt Not Love,
is a compelling read. I feel fortunate to have been directed to so many books and movies that challenged my old ways of thinking and continue to challenge me as I question and re-question the assumptions that I clutched with white-knuckled pride.

I hear a tapping on the door, and Connie tells me that breakfast ready.
Breakfast
? How on earth could I have gotten so lucky? Two nights ago I was alone in my dad’s house, eating expired ramen. Now I am in a house with a family and Connie has made breakfast.

I throw a t-shirt on and walk to the kitchen, where I see eggs, sausage, and biscuits. The smell curls its way to my nose, drawing me as though two cartoon fingers were pulling me by my nostrils. Julia, Connie’s oldest daughter, just shy of seventeen, laughs at the expression on my face and the rabbit-like twitch of my nose as I smell real, home-cooked food.

“What’s wrong? Haven’t eaten breakfast before?”

“It’s been way too long,” I reply.

“You better leave some of that sausage for Becca, or she’ll eat
you
for breakfast!” Connie yells from the next room.

“We will!” Julie and I yell in unison.

“Have you ever been to a drag show?” Julie’s question catches me off guard.

“Are you really asking me that? Of course I have!”

“Have you ever been
in
one?” she asks.

“No! I would never want to subject anyone to that sight!”

“That’s too funny!” Connie laughs from the other room.

“Well, we’re all girlfriends here!” I say, leaning back far enough in my seat to wink at Connie in the other room.

After breakfast Connie tells me that she’s taking me to an LGBTQ potluck at a nearby Catholic church. I feel uncomfortable and picture the Catholic embassy in Lower Manhattan.

“Who knows, Tim, you might meet a boy.” Julie laughs, her smile infectious.

“I don’t think my boyfriend would like that too much, but there’s nothing wrong with flirting. Besides, I’m pretty picky about the boys I go out with.” I wrap my arm around Julie’s neck and pull her into a hug. I feel like I have a little sister, and it makes me feel warm inside, like I am needed.

“You should be picky,” Connie says. “All of you kids should be picky!”

The Catholic church is called Immaculate Conception. As we walk inside we hear a hundred voices deep in conversation. This is the first support group I have attended this year. Go figure, it’s at a church attached to the organization I protested against a few months ago. I know that not all Catholics are the same, that, like Protestants, there is a huge variety of paradigms contained within the whole, and that is okay. We set our food down on the table with the other potluck dishes, and a petite woman runs over to Connie. Her name is Beth and she is another deeply entrenched United Methodist. Her hair is short and brown, and her glasses fit snugly on the bridge of her nose.

“You must be Tim!” she says, pulling me into a tight hug.

“And you’re Beth?”

“That’s me. Now, I’ve heard through the grapevine that you just came out recently? Congratulations!”

“Thank you. It wasn’t easy but I’m making it.” I take a sip of the coffee Connie hands me.

“I’m not completely out yet,” she says, “but the time is coming.” She looks down at her shoes and takes a deep, calming breath.

In her tone there are hints of deep pain. Even though she puts on a brave face, I sense that her pain may only have just begun. She stands next to me with her arm around my shoulder, and it isn’t the embrace of a stranger or acquaintance; it is the gentle touch of an aunt or a sister. The immediacy of our connection catches me off guard, but not in a bad way. I feel a soul connection to this petite woman, this closeted UMC minister in training. I cannot imagine what it would be like to spend so much time training for a ministry, all the while knowing that if I came out, I would be expelled from that training and barred from ordination. Beth reminds me once again that to live a life in the closet is to walk on egg shells, especially if one is part of a religious institution. I look over at Connie, who smiles as she watches Beth and I talk.

I spend the next half hour mingling, eating, enjoying the company of a wide variety of people. I meet a guy named Mark who is pushing seventy and has been with his partner for just under thirty-eight years. I can tell he has spent the majority of his life navigating others’ opinions. Having been openly gay long before it was considered normal by anyone, his somewhat cautious demeanor is understandable. After our talk, he kisses me on the cheek and tells me that he is happy I have so many years ahead of me where happiness and safety are mine for the taking. I am fixated on what his words really mean. How many years did this good man spend afraid? How many years was happiness an unattainable dream? How many tears has he shed in loneliness and isolation, because the world hated him?

As Mark and I talk, a young man walks into the room. Mark waves the young man over and insists I meet him. “His name is John, and he’s a good kid.”

John introduces himself. He is extremely well built and his hair is cropped short, typical of a soldier.

“Military man?” I ask after he introduces himself.

“I was,” he replies.

“Is your contract up?”

“I was dishonorably discharged, actually.” A sullen look of frustration replaces his smile.

“What? Why?”

Mark sighs and puts his hand on John’s shoulder. He squeezes knowingly, and I catch a telling look on Mark’s face. And then it hits me. This young man is the first I have met that suffered at the hands of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT).

“One of my commanding officers attends my church. A few weeks after I confided in my pastor that I’m gay, he told my C.O. …and it didn’t take long for Uncle Sam to get rid of me. It’s been the hardest year of my life.” His expression is pained. “After two tours in Afghanistan, I am kicked out for being queer.”

“I’ve seen it happen too many times,” Mark says. “But times are changing. I’m excited for you youngin’s.”

“John,” I say, “you didn’t hook up with anyone while you were in the military or do anything to draw their attention?”

“I never so much as flirted with another person after I enlisted. That was my career, man! I was going to be in the Marines for the rest of my life. I loved it, and trained for it, and was good at what I did. The part that makes me want to scream is that my discharge was dishonorable. I didn’t do a single fucking
thing
that was dishonorable as a soldier!” John takes a deep breath and puts his hand on Mark’s, which is still perched on his shoulder. “Mark has heard my story too many times. Bet he’s sick of it by now,” John says as lightheartedly as possible.

“Never, my boy. Telling that story is part of your journey, and believe it or not, I’m more proud of you every time you share it.” Mark looks at me. “Tim, you wouldn’t believe how much more calm John is now. The first time we met, not long after it happened, I was almost afraid of him. He was so angry.”

“I can imagine,” I say, even though I don’t really have a clue.

“Yeah it was pretty rough,” John says, regaining his composure.

“All that danger and all that sacrifice, and we aren’t even able to marry our partners,” Mark says, his words betraying his own struggle.

“It isn’t fair,” I say. “So what are you doing, now that you are out of the military?”

“I’m just trying to put my life back together. I am trying to find something new for a career.”

I feel compelled to hug John, so I let my body close the distance between us and I wrap my arms around his torso. He leans his head on my shoulder and sighs.

“The United States government is just like the church.”

“How so?” I ask.

“They shoot their wounded,” John says. Mark snorts his assent.

“Thank you for your service, John. Even if it was cut short, you are a hero to me.”

“To both of us!” Mark agrees.

His arms wrap around me tighter than before. I feel the strength in his arms. He hugs like a Paris-Island trained Marine.“Thank you, guys,” John whispers. “I really needed to hear that.” Over John’s shoulder, a few feet behind Mark, I see Connie looking. Her expression is grim, and she nods slowly that she understands. She knows John, or at least his story. This LGBT potluck is a support group, a tight-knit community of people, and probably a very necessary part of everyone’s life. I wish I could be a part of it regularly.

Like many, I have spent my life believing a lie. It is the lie that there are no longer second-class citizens in this country. There are. John and Mark are second-class citizens, and I am a second-class citizen now; and anyone sympathizing with us, like Jay Bakker when he came out as an ally of the community, is crushed underfoot just for their association to us, and they are assigned second-class status, too.

Here’s another lie:
America is a Christian nation
. If we were, thousands wouldn’t die every year from starvation, poverty, murder, or war. If America was a Christian nation, there wouldn’t be second-class citizens. All men and women would be equal. No, we are no more a “Christian nation” than anywhere else. While our country has been blessed, we have tainted our blessings by our cruelty to those who are different. This year has proven it to me. John is proof, and so is Mark.

I walk over to Connie after John, Mark, and I part ways.

“They’re sweet, aren’t they?” Connie asks.

“They’re more than sweet. Mark is a testament to same-sex relationships, and John is a hero,” I say. “I just can’t imagine why this country wouldn’t let John serve. It really makes no sense.”

My imagination plays a scene like a movie in my mind: John is in Afghanistan holding a black M16, dressed in his desert camouflage. I see him moving with his squad, mortars and shrapnel flying mere inches above his head. He fights for our country willingly, accepting of the possibility of sacrifice, all the while knowing that our great country doesn’t understand, accept, or even like him. He knows this, and still he risks his life. I see him hunkering down in the dirt, praying for safety as he and his fellow Marines slowly advance on a site rumored to be the meeting place of a terrorist cell, and I see him breathe a sigh of relief as the house is cleared and the mission ends. I let this scene play through my mind, and the reality of his dishonorable discharge pierces my heart like a piece of shrapnel in the desert. He is a better man than I am, stronger and more courageous and just because he’s gay, his experience and talents count for less than his comrades’ with the “proper” orientation.

Their loss.

The rest of the night, I meet people who have experienced all forms of rejection from the mainstream, and I sit silently while they tell me their stories. A few feet away, Mark and his husband hold hands, their love as vibrant and strong as it ever has been thirty-eight years and counting. I wonder how many straight couples could boast that number of years.

Before we leave Mark walks over to say goodbye. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Tim. I hope you come back!”

“Me too. It’s hard to get down here much, living in Nashville, but I will do my best.”

“He’s a good kid,” Mark says to Connie.

“Yes he is,” she agrees.

Mark gives me a hug and a kiss on the forehead. The kiss reminds me of the way my grandpa used to kiss me.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” I say, waving goodbye.

Connie and I walk outside, and I take one back look towards the church. Just outside the door, John waves goodbye. He turns and walks back inside, and I see the back of his shirt for the first time. The white letters on the black t-shirt read
Don’t Tread on Me
. I watch him inside until he moves out of sight, and soberness washes over me. I am sorry for treading on you, John. I am sorry for marginalizing your bravery.

“So what did you think?” Connie asks as I fasten my seatbelt.

“That was great. Really great, actually.”

“I know you’re depressed, and I know you feel isolated and alone, but don’t let that pain blind you. You are the main character in the story of your life, but other people are the main characters of their own lives. And sometimes you can find healing just by playing a supporting role in someone else’s experience,” Connie says as she backs the white suburban out of the parking space and pulls out onto the road that will take us home.

“That’s true,” I say.

“I know I’m preaching to the choir, but I want to remind you of that. I’ve battled depression before, and I understand how easy it is to lose sight of the big picture.”

I feel reinvigorated, almost a restoration of my purpose. This whole year is about listening to others and understanding how diverse people really are. It occurs to me that the reason for my progression away from who I was and toward who I am becoming, is people. In listening to others and allowing them to share their hearts with me, I have finally conquered my irrational fear of
different
.

“So what’s next?” I ask Connie.

“I have cupcakes baking at home, and you haven’t lived until you’ve tried my cupcakes!” Connie says as we pull into her subdivision.

“I can’t wait.” I can’t wait for the cupcakes and I can’t wait for everything else this year still has to offer.

Two years later, on September 20, 2011, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was repealed. I heard the news and thought of John, hoping that wherever he was, he felt some small measure of peace.