The Cross in the Closet (23 page)

Moving through the packed karaoke night at Springwater is like moving through a heard of zebra on the plains of Africa. The smoke takes some getting used to (even if you are a smoker), as does the ever-present stench of cheap beer. The Tuesday-night crowd is a diverse mixture of punks, bums, hippies, and drunks. Mix in the oddball Christian, and you’ve got a recipe for something truly unique.

Josh and I are waiting for our song. We put in our infamous Tenacious D standard, and Chris, the DJ, nods his approval. He is one of those guys who does what he does simply for the love of it. The combination of a regular bar family, beer, and the lesser-known gems the musical world has produced over the past three decades, reveals a side of Chris I wish everyone could see.

On stage, Cara, known to the superstar karaoke crowd at Springwater as Lucky, sings “Bridge over Troubled Water” better than any rendition I’ve ever heard. My boyfriend Shawn is up next. He is going to sing his traditional Boyz2Men song…the one during which his voice melts the underwear off every man and woman in the place. On stage, Shane, AKA Pimp Daddy Supreme, toggles the lights between red, green, and blue, adding to Lucky’s performance, and the crowd goes wild. This is the only real way to spend a Tuesday night.

I am on my first pitcher of beer when Shawn comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek and a hug. It has been a while since we have been able to spend time together, much less go on a date…but as I have grown more comfortable in my life as a gay man, I’ve been less and less in need of rescue by my knight in shining armor.

“How are you doing, handsome?”

I can tell by his voice that he has had a few beers and seems to be feeling the effects.

“I’m doing well. I’ve missed you!”

“I’ve missed you, too,” he says, his hand rubbing my back as we hug. His physicality is normal enough, and I’m completely comfortable with him, but something feels different. His usual restraint that comes from knowing that I’m a straight man seems to be waning, and for the first time I wonder how flirtatious he’ll get.

Earlier this year, before I spent significant time in a gay bar or club, I would have reacted very negatively to any sort of physical flirtation; it wasn’t until Shawn and I started spending time together that I became comfortable. Even the provocative humor from men like Scott and Jason, my two favorite regulars from Revive, would’ve been enough to send me into a place of extreme discomfort. And there were situations as recently as early summer where I would revert back into a place of revulsion. Thankfully that was always fleeting.

Ultimately, I had to recognize flirtation for what it is—a compliment—and not as some sort of literal play to get me into bed. Even flirtation rooted in that desire became easy to deal with, because I began to recognize it as part of a unique individual’s sense of humor. I can’t judge. I used to make the same kinds of jokes, speak with the same edge of suggestive humor towards women. It feels like lifetimes ago.

Shawn holds me for what seems to be ten minutes before being called up on stage to sing. As he walks towards the microphone, Josh meanders through the packed dive bar to my side. “He’s drunk,” Josh says and I nod in agreement. But even drunk, Shawn can sing. He belts out his Boyz II Men tune with the precision of a professional, and everyone in the bar is on their feet.

“He sure is on his game tonight.”

“Yes, he is,” I reply.

“He isn’t hiding his attraction tonight, is he?” Josh asks me quietly.

“You noticed? It’s okay. Shawn and I always flirt. He is the only one who gets to be that way with me.”

“But what about me, bubba?” Josh says.

“You’re a given!” I laugh.

After Shawn finishes, he walks back over to the table and retrieves his beer.

“You were fantastic!”

“Ah, really? Thank you!” Shawn pulls me into another hug…but it’s not just a hug this time. Something strange begins to happen. I am pulled into something I am not remotely ready for.

I see Shawn’s lips pucker, and seconds tick by like calendar pages flying off their binding, one by one by one. The real possibility that I would have to kiss a man at some point this year flashes through my mind, and I weigh my options. Kiss a man who I know loves me and has selflessly been there for me—or a stranger who surprises me on the dance floor? It seems like an easy answer, but either way, it means I am kissing a dude, and that is not something that any part of me really wants to do. I feel guilty for my near-constant flirtation with Shawn; I can’t imagine what it must be like to have someone you’re attracted to flirt with you, just for show. Do I owe it to him? He has gotten nothing from me, physically; maybe a kiss is a way to show him how much he means to me.

I debate, but it isn’t an easy argument.

“Am I really this drunk?” one side wonders.

“You knew this would happen at some point, and it really should be with Shawn!” the other yells.

“But I’m not really gay.”

“If an actor can do it, you can too!”

“What will everyone think?”

“Who gives a shit what they think?”

“He’s not just doing this because he’s horny. He cares for me.”

“And that matters?”

“But…But…”

“Just let him do it!”

I see Shawn drunkenly measuring my response. I haven’t turned my head yet and forced an awkward kiss on the cheek, and that has not escaped his notice. Now I know I’m in for it. His face lights up and his lips move toward my own.

This is it! I’m done for!

The warm flesh of his lips collides with my own like two shape-shifters melting and contorting together, and it takes me a second to compute exactly what’s happening. I’m kissing a man—not with the full vigor I’d kiss a woman, mind you, but with the meek, guilt-ridden resignation that this is something I have to do. Shawn puts his hand on my cheek. His gentleness, even while drunk, even now, is something that I admire in him. I try to think of anything but what is happening. I feel burning hatred for the seemingly sluggish passing of time, as if each second is trying to karmically spite me. But I cannot get over this scene. I am kissing a man! I am actually allowing myself to be kissed by another guy. What the hell am I
thinking
?

I feel the tip of Shawn’s tongue slide across my upper lip…

Enough! I can’t do it! I’m not gay. The desire for physical anything with a guy will never be there.

I pull away as unassumingly as possible and look up at Shawn. He is smiling…no, not just smiling; his face has broken out into a full-blown grin. He is thrilled, and all I feel is guilt.

Shawn really wasn’t kissing me because he was horny and wanted to kiss someone. He wanted to kiss
me
. Something else is happening between us, and I do not want to think about what it means. I am a straight male. I have always known it, but never more than right now. I feel uncomfortable and totally put off. I don’t like this feeling. But is violation by something you allowed to happen valid or appropriate?

“Oh, sorry, honey, I guess I got carried away! You have the softest lips, by the way—oh, my god!”

His gushing makes me smile. “You aren’t so bad yourself, there, stud.”

“Thank you. I’m going to go have another beer,” he says, still smiling.

“Me too,” I say, already walking behind him to the bar. I wish they served liquor. I want liquor.

In my peripheral vision I see the Pharisee. He’s scowling at me. I also see Josh, and his jaw practically hanging to the floor.

“Next up, Sycho…!” Chris yells from the stage.

Josh takes a deep breath, re-hinges his lower mandible, and walks towards the stage, shaking his head the entire way.

I order my drink and look around. A few people are looking at me and smiling. Shawn is still smiling, too. And I realize that if for no other reason than to make him smile, it was worth kissing a boy. Even if I didn’t like it.

It is the season of holidays, and winter is almost at hand. It is the season of Halloween and Thanksgiving, and then my last holiday before this part of the journey reaches its end, Christmas. I’ve decided to take a trip before Christmas for a final test to see if I have truly learned what I think I have, but I don’t leave for another few weeks. For now, I am content to sip my coffee and eat a hummus plate at the café with Josh. It is a beautiful night, and quite an eclectic crowd has gathered to enjoy the atmosphere of the café.

“Love the hat!” I say to a woman as she walks passed our table on the patio.

“You should! It’s my attempt at being festive!” Her every word, every syllable, rings out confidently, like she’s looking down on us, or something. Like she’s royalty.

“Well, we do,” Josh says, smiling.

“So I just moved here from New York. I’m retiring, actually, and thought the South may be a good place to settle. What do you think?” She walks casually to our table, and we know she wants to talk.

“You’re retiring? Are you even old enough to retire?” I ask.

“Honey, with compliments like that, Santa is sure to bring you something nice this Christmas.” She touches my arm, and I’m surprised at how expressive and delicate she is, the epitome of a
dame
. “I’m forty-nine and have a good diet and anti-wrinkle cream to thank for my appearance!”

“I would be thanking them too, if I were you,” Josh adds.

“Not one, but
two
perfect gentlemen? Wish there was more of you in New York!”

“Why’d you move?” I ask.

“Ladies can’t usually model past the age of thirty, but I was blessed and made it to forty before I had to hang up my heels and say goodbye to the runway. I’ve been mentoring younger models on the finer points of the business ever since. Did I mention that I attend AA? It really is the best place to make contacts. You wouldn’t believe some of the celebrities I’ve befriended in my time there. And you know the craziest part? I’m not even an alcoholic. It’s just the best place to be, and my career thrived because of it.”

Josh looks at me, and I can tell he’s enjoying the conversation. It is not every day you meet a woman like Angela.

Meeting unique people has become a normal occurrence this year. My former church of predominantly white conservative Baptists did not have much room for diversity. But this year I have learned that a lack of diversity isn’t good for anyone. It is our differences that teach us the most about ourselves, about life, and in terms of faith, most important, about God. I am beginning to realize how beautiful others’ stories can be, and I am thirsty to hear them. Angela walks into my life as if from a runway, her confidence disarming, and her story, even as yet untold, powerful.

I have only ever met two transgender people, and thankfully both of those meetings happened this year. I doubt I would have known how to react, before. Angela, formerly Albert, speaks about her pre-operation therapy, and the effect the hormones have on her body, with the candor and self assurance of someone who has spent years getting to know herself. It is an odd thing to think about changing my gender; it is a lot simpler to admit how little I actually understand about life and its many complexities with which I have no experience. What matters most for me at this point is being true to myself while not encroaching upon the sanctity of someone else’s uniqueness. Desmond Tutu calls this
Ubuntu
: the idea that
I am because you are
. The more you are you, the more I can be me. It is a beautiful tradition that has filled in the many holes where my dogma once resided.

Billy Graham once said, “It’s God’s job to judge, the Spirit’s job to convict, and it’s my job to love.” I wish I had believed this all along and just loved people. It is so much easier, and so much more rewarding, than creating clones that we teach to go out and create more clones. The whole process shows we
don’t
get it, that we do not understand how much bigger God is than the box we have created and tried to stuff Him into. I think of that box now and realize it isn’t holy or righteous or true. The box is evil. It cripples the Good News.

I am at the café again a few days later, but this time I am alone. The clamor of latte mugs and the hiss from the espresso machine seems constant, providing just enough background noise for me to slip inside myself to think. On October first, the inevitable end of my experiment became real. The finish line lies just ahead of the most difficult aspect of the year: my second coming out. I’ve begun to wrestle with the idea almost constantly. How can I tell all of my new friends that I am not actually gay? Will they hate me for having lied to them? Before I did this experiment, I had no understanding of
safe spaces
, had no idea that in coming out I would be trespassing into a sacred place. By the time I understood, it was too late and the only thing left to do was finish this journey as sensitively as possible. Being a straight man in the closet, living in and around the gayborhood of Nashville, has made me feel like a bull in a china shop. I sit and ponder these things, and I pray I haven’t damaged anyone in the process. Only with the passing of time will I be able to see with clarity what this entire thing means—not only for me, but for my gay friends. I know people will judge my intentions and the nuances of how my theology has changed, but I expected that. I will face the objections, the doubt, and the cynicism with as much grace as I can muster.

Love never fails.

A finger taps me on the shoulder and I look up. Angela smiles at me and puts her bag on the table, only to walk back to the counter to retrieve her non-fat latte with caramel sauce dribbled over the velvet surface of the steamed milk. She is wearing designer jeans, a beautiful sweater, and a white pea-coat, and she looks like someone out of a magazine. Her posture, even in a state of relaxation, is perfect. I have never been more impressed by someone, or more intimidated. Even more puzzling is the odd feeling I have that she and I are destined to be friends. I’ve never had a friend like her, and I hope I don’t screw it up. My inner Pharisee has been quiet lately, but I know he’s still there, and the prospect of a repeat of that night with Lizzy still scares me. I never want to hurt anyone like that again. As I wait for Angela, I pray that God will show me how to love everyone, no matter how similar or different they are.

“So I’ve been thinking lately: You are really a handsome man!” Angela says from halfway across the room, walking back to the table.

“Really?” I’ve had my share of men flirt with me this year, but I’ve never taken it as a sincere compliment. My insecurity and interpretation of their motives always seems to hinder me.

“Yes. And I want you to learn how to model!” she says.

“Excuse me?” I choke on my coffee. “What do you mean,
model
?”

“Model…Like this!” Angela sets her latte on the table and walks the length of the café as if it’s a catwalk, ignoring every stare, finger-point, and laugh along the way. Her confidence is alarming, but what really shocks me is how oblivious she seems to be of the people around her.

She sits down, demurely crossing her legs with a feline like grace, and sips her drink. “You see? It’s as simple as walking.”

“But did you see all those people pointing and laughing, Angela? Geez!”

“Let me teach you an important lesson about life. If people are pointing or laughing, you win, because that means that their attention is on you, and attention is a commodity that all celebrities possess.”

“I just don’t think I can do it. Look at me. I don’t have a six pack, I have a keg!” I say.

“You can do it and you will do it…Right now. Call this a lesson of self-confidence.” Angela snaps her fingers and I reluctantly stand up.

“How am I supposed to do this?” I whine.

“It’s as easy as walking with an attitude. Just keep your back straight, your eyes focused on one specific point, and no matter how you move your head, never take your eyes off that spot. And suck in that beer gut!” She waits a few seconds, but I don’t move. “Go on, Timothy. You can do it.”

It is difficult to describe the range of emotions I feel as I face the open space between the tables, knowing I am about to strut in front of a thirty-plus college kids. I feel self-conscious, insecure, and ridiculous. But I trust Angela, and so I put my right foot forward, and going against everything inside me, I begin to walk. I pick a point on the far wall to stare at. I know that the looks from my critics will easily dissuade me if I acknowledge them, so I don’t. As I make my turn and staring back at Angela, I am walking on a cloud. I feel invincible! Damn the people laughing at me. Damn the frat boy who just whistled at me from across the room as his friends roar in laughter. Each step feels liberating. As I reach Angela, I realize that I didn’t walk for her, I walked for myself. She throws her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly.

“I’m so proud of you! That was fantastic! Your posture needs work, but you looked masculine and raw. How do you feel?”

“That felt great, especially when I heard those guys laughing! I felt like every step I took was a giant ’fuck you for judging me’!”

The corner of Angela’s mouth turns in a provocative way and she makes a kissy face and winks at me.

“You are a beautiful man, and you have nothing to be self conscious about. Don’t you ever doubt yourself! Never ever doubt yourself!”

Taking compliments from Angela is easier than from other people. It is easier because I know she is telling the truth. There is no pretense or facade, there is only the softened heart of someone who has experienced enough cruelty for a dozen lifetimes, has learned to fully accept herself, and in so doing, has learned to accept others. And in that way she’s achieved a certain kind of enlightenment, a sublime state of being that seems lifetimes away from me.

I have always been taught that we learn because of, or in spite of—and regarding people outside “the faith,” it would only ever be in spite of. Lessons like community, loving my neighbor, and confidence are not things I anticipated encountering while outside my church…but the secular community seems to generally grasp these concepts without an organized church body—and I cannot discredit them, no matter how much I have been taught to. Am I trying to discredit the vast amount of good one can learn
inside
the church? Of course not. But I am facing an even more substantial truth that, even as a self-professed Christ-follower, I do not have a monopoly on truth.

After making me treat my favorite café like a runway, Angela finds us a quiet table on the patio to talk. She refers to herself as a spiritualist but doesn’t ascribe to any one belief. I tell her I’m a Christian, and I can see that she is put off by the word. It is depressing to think that people across the divide, on the other side of the so-called culture war, think of my faith tradition so negatively. I don’t think it’s the actual Christian faith that bothers them so much as the people who claim to follow Christ. In fact, I’ve never gotten a negative response when referencing Jesus in any situation this year. If only professed Christ-followers, myself especially, would align “Christianity” with Christ by removing the politics, pomp, and arrogance from our everyday expressions of faith. Maybe then we could begin undoing the vast amounts of personal damage we have inflicted upon the very people Jesus has called us to love, people who are just as much the children of God as we believe ourselves to be. We Christians may be unaware of the effects of our words and actions, but in any case, damage is done.

Angela’s apprehension is convicting. I am learning the unfortunate lesson that most of us in the church have lulled ourselves into a false sense of spiritual competence, where we feel infallible—no matter how fallible we claim to be—and see others as too ignorant to teach us anything about our God that we don’t already know. But maybe that is the point: to be humble enough to learn from those whom we do not want to acknowledge as credible sources of wisdom. Maybe that is why God honors the “least of these,” blesses the meek, comforts those who mourn, and calls peacemakers the sons of God. Until this year, I was proud enough to have missed this, but it helps to know that I still have time to rectify this paramount mistake and reconcile myself to a much bigger God than the one I’ve kept so neatly in my little box.

“Angela, could you just answer me one question?”

“Darling, I’ll answer you a million questions if you ask them.” She bats her eyelashes playfully, and I chuckle.

“Who are you? I mean, you walk into my life—a true dame—and now you’re sitting here telling me you want to teach me how to model. What’s your story?”

“My story?” she says, sighing.

For a second I fear I’ve put her off by prying into her life before she’s ready.

“My story isn’t probably much like your story, Tim.”

“I figured as much. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“It’s okay, handsome…it’s just hard to relive. But I’ll try.” She takes a sip of her coffee and stares at her polished nails, lost in thought.

Albert was six years old when he realized the house was empty. The absence of his mother triggered a range of emotions that would challenge even the strongest of adults, much more a young boy. The reason for her disappearance was a mystery, confused by loneliness. Nothing made sense.

Every day Albert would wander the modest Victorian house while his father was away at work, always careful to avoid the room that once belonged to his mother. It was a room that had inspired so much warmth, so much hope…but since her disappearance it had become a shell of a former life. The shivers that ran down Albert’s spine when he saw the door to this room elicited panic attacks and tears, which dripped on to his unkempt clothing that was badly in need of a wash.

“Normally, when one parent is taken out of the familial equation, the other attempts to pick up the slack…but not my father.” Angela pauses to sip her latte. “My father acted as if she were still around, like shit was still getting done. But it wasn’t! Dishes were piling up in the kitchen to a point that our neighbor, Mrs. Thompson, could see them through the window and would come over while my father was away to take care of the mess. She had been a close friend of my mom’s, but didn’t seem surprised that she wasn’t around anymore—which always made me wonder. She ignored me, but I didn’t mind. I was just happy to hear someone else in the house. It made things better for me.”