The Cross in the Closet (24 page)

By the age of seven, Albert had begun to conquer his fear of his mother’s room. When he wasn’t at school, he would sit in the hallway with his back to the door and do his homework, trying to remember any little detail of his mother that he could hold. He’d write these details down, but there weren’t enough. He needed to go inside, to see her things and touch them, smell them. Surely that would help him remember.

“Easier said than done!” Angela says, taking a deep breath, looking off to my left like she is watching himself in that hallway. “It took me weeks to put my hand on the doorknob, and another month to turn the damned thing. I don’t even remember what I was afraid of. So I just stood there. I can still feel the cold brass against the sweaty palm of my hand, still feel the numbness in my wrist that kept me from turning it. And then one afternoon it just happened. I turned the knob and went inside.”

The room was darker than he remembered. The shades were pulled shut and the air was stale, but it was still the place he remembered. Lying on his mother’s bed was a deep red sundress, the hanger still looped through the sleeves. Albert reverently approached the dress and pulled the fabric to his nose, inhaling deeply. He could smell traces of her perfume clinging to the fabric, and it was all that he needed to feel his mom’s presence. It was the beginning, the tears and the memories stirred something deep within the motherless boy that could only be described as
hope
, a single ember that, like a drug, brought Albert to a place of peace.

“I can still remember that smell,” Angela says, tears running down her face. She takes a deep breath and lights a cigarette. “I still remember the lavender. It was bright, and warm. It smelled like the home I’d lost. I remember sitting on the edge of that bed, just clutching that dress to my chest, sobbing into it, holding it as if it was more than a piece of fabric. I held onto it like it was my mother. I think I may have even talked to it, but I don’t remember. All that mattered was that it was my mother’s favorite, and that it smelled like her.”

I don’t know why Angela is sharing all of this with me. I feel honored, and crippled with empathy. I realize I’m wiping tears out of my eyes.

“I remember not being able to sleep that night. I felt like I’d just won something, or was going somewhere fun the next day, like a theme park or something. The excitement gave me a high. I spent damn near three hours writing in my notebook that night, writing memories that felt like they’d just happened. I could hear my mother’s laugh, see her looking in the mirror while she applied her makeup. I remembered the pearls she wore, one white and one pinkish that hung from two ends of a silver chain that wrapped around her neck. I got to see again how beautiful she was, and how gentle. I got to taste her homemade bread, got to remember running on the beaches of Long Island. I stood next to her in church again, singing hymns that I loved only because I got to listen to her singing them. And it was all beautiful.” Angela exhales a puff of smoke through her nose and smiles. “It was the beginning of a powerful time in my life, a time when I accepted who I am and first had the courage to act on that acceptance.”

“How so?” I say, using a napkin to dry my eyes.

“It was when I first acknowledged that I was my mother’s daughter, not her little boy. I had always wanted to grow up and be a beautiful woman. The idea of growing up a man felt foreign and wrong, and felt like a lie. A few weeks after holding that dress in my hands, I was back in my mother’s room for the hundredth time. The deep red sundress that I always put back in its proper spot on the bed was there looking at me, and something inside of me said that I was supposed to wear it. So I stripped down to my underwear, delicately took the hanger off the dress, slipped it over my head, and for the first time in my life, felt whole. I was
Angela
. You see, my mom always called me her angel, so it just felt right for me. Perfect, even. I looked at myself in the mirror for a while and thought,
You, Angela, you are a beautiful woman. You take after your mother
.

Albert had always struggled with the realization that he was different. On the playground he would sit in the swing and stare at the other boys, never once feeling like he was one of them. He was isolated and it didn’t take long for the other kids to notice. Albert suffered bullying from elementary school through high school.

“Oh, believe me, honey, it only got worse after I started dressing in my mother’s clothing, even though it was in private. No one knew I was doing it, but as I sat in class, I’d imagine that I was a beautiful woman, like Joan Collins in
Dynasty
. Alexis Carrington, my hero, the ultimate diva!”

But Angela’s secret was discovered when she was eleven. One afternoon, as she walked around her house in one of her mother’s black dinner gowns and heels, she turned around and found her father staring at her.

“He was an old-fashioned Sicilian, hardened by a culture that said you couldn’t show emotion and still be a man. It wasn’t uncommon for him to beat me for little or no reason. He hit my mom every once in a while, too. Gave her a black eye once, on Christmas Eve. But hell, I was
Angela
, and I
knew
he wouldn’t understand!”

“It happened so fast. ’What in the hell are you doing, you little fuck?’ he asked me. I told him I was being me, and he actually laughed. ’You want to be a cunt? I’ll treat you like a cunt!’ And then he grabbed me and threw me on the ground and forced me to perform oral sex on him. He was so violent…I remember thinking I was going to die. I couldn’t breathe. That was the first moment I allowed myself to hate my father.” I hand Angela a tissue and she wipes running makeup off of her cheek. “I left as soon as I was able. I moved to New York City and became a runway model, which was a dream come true!”

“Wow…I don’t know what to say.” I think of the violation, and anger courses through my body. Why would he do that to his own child? This is evil—not Angela.

“You don’t have to say anything. The molestation happened several more times over the next few years. But I’ve forgiven my father. I even still call to check up on him.”

“You still
talk
to him?” I ask.

“I call him long enough for him to answer, and that’s how I know he’s alive. One day I’ll call and he won’t answer, and I’ll know he’s gone. Then I’ll hop a bus back home and wear the hell out of a slinky black dress, and pay my last respects.”

“You are a recipe for disaster Angela, the product of so much chaos and tragedy. But you’re more beautiful for that, and I’m humbled you’d share your story with me.” I choke back tears, still trying to process everything she’s just said, trying to put myself into her size nines.

“That’s why I told you, Timothy. Because I know you think I’m beautiful, and that’s what separates you from almost everyone else I’ve met here, so far.” Angela smiles and puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

That is when I lose it. I excuse myself to go to the restroom, and I look in the mirror, weeping at for the pain Angela has experienced. Nearby, the Pharisee leans against the wall, listening as I cry. The look on his face is snide.

I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s pretty clear that the reason he is transgender is because of his father.

The Pharisee’s tone and words offend me so greatly that I hit the sink with both fists as the last word is uttered. The porcelain shudders against the tile wall behind it. Hatred swells inside my body.

Damn you for saying that! And damn
me
for ever having thought those kinds of things.

I’m not judging him.

She’s
her,
you son of a bitch, and she was
her
long before
she
was molested. Why is it that you have to take everyone’s story and pervert it according to your limited understanding of things? Why do you have to control and dominate every difference, reduce people down to this sin or that, this person is wrong, this person is right? How dare you!”

So I’m not allowed to have an opinion?

Not when you try to sell your
opinions
as gospel truth! Right now you can shut the hell up and butt out of my life! I have to get back to my sister.

I walk away angry, but feel like I am being cured of a disease. It is the worst kind of disease, a plague, even; the kind of sickness that has always fueled my inherited spiritual narcissism and kept me from truly being in relationship with someone I never would have known, or wanted to know, otherwise.

I know that all of this may seem like common sense to anyone raised in other parts of the country, or to other parents: that embracing someone different—or, much harder, allowing oneself to be embraced by them—seems like a no-brainer. But conservative Christianity doesn’t allow for such things. It does not make room for the advancement of communion with someone like Angela. Instead it calls for something else, something much more insidious. It teaches us to manipulate that person’s emotions, so that we can change them into our image. I would never wish to change Angela. Being changed myself because of her is enough for me to feel that I have listened to my Jesus, been willing to admit I do not have the answers to her past pain and scars. Singing a few hymns and reading a few verses cannot undo the damage done to her in her life for being transgender.

A few minutes pass and I walk back to the table. Josh has finally made it to the café and is sitting at the table with Angela. Both are laughing, and I know that means she is back in entertainer mode. For a few brief minutes, I got to see so much deeper, and for a few minutes she honored me with her story. I reach the table and sit down. Josh sees my puffy eyes and gives me a questioning look.

“You okay, buddy?”

“Yes I am, actually.”

Angela smiles at me, and I breathe. For the first time in years, I’m able to breathe.

We banter back and forth, tell stories, and share jokes. We drink coffee and make obscene comments about cute guys, and we laugh. We laugh like we have never laughed before, enjoying every second, care-free and uninhibited. Every so often I look over at Angela and she smiles at me. She is definitely right about one thing: she is beautiful to me, so very beautiful; and I know she looks at me the same way. I am because she is.
Ubuntu
.

It has been several months since I was in New York, protesting with Soulforce, but Mel White and I have kept in touch. A few days ago he emailed me and said he would be in Nashville to give a talk at a nearby college for National Coming Out Day. I jumped at the chance to go, knowing this may be my last opportunity to see Mel for quite some time. It is not often one gets the opportunity to sit and learn at the feet of a man who has been a figure in the civil rights movement for so many years.

I drive the fifteen minutes from my home to the college, all the while praying my car will make it. The break light, check-engine light, and fasten-seatbelt lights are permanently lit, now. They remind me of a dashboard version of the Vegas strip. I wish I had the money to pay for repairs. I have yet to find a new job, and I am getting by doing odd jobs for friends. I hate yard work!

As I reach the college and park, I say a silent prayer of thanks and walk into the building. The room is the size of a small theater with maybe two hundred chairs lined up on either side. My eyes scan the room for Mel. He is talking to a student and his back is to me. He is wearing a navy blue sport coat, tie, and khakis. And he looks to be in good spirits as he turns. Mel’s smile is a small miracle. I say that because if you have read his story and know all that he has endured in his life, the fact that he is able to smile at all is surprising. Granted, he has enjoyed many happy memories, but walking in his shoes during the several decades of reparative therapy would wipe a smile from anyone’s face. Electroshock therapy, isolation therapy…Mel is a testament, not just to the human spirit but also to the Holy Spirit. His humility in itself has inspired me this year, as it convicted me as I look back to my freshman year of college at Liberty University.

Mel sees me and lights up. He gives me a big hug and welcomes me with such warmth that I am at a loss for what to say.

“Looking good, Mel!”

“You’re looking good yourself!” he says, ever the charmer. I’ve dropped a few pounds since New York. “So, how is your year going?” Mel asks excitedly.

“It has been the most eye-opening and life-changing thing I have ever done!”

He smiles. “From bigot to ally in under twelve months…I must say, I’m impressed.”

And I think he
is
impressed. When we first talked last October I was a different person. I had made it a goal to accept and love the LGBTQ community, but I never thought I would become an advocate or ally. I tell Mel about being outed to my family, and he puts his hand on my shoulder in sympathy.

“Tim, you’re going to face a lot of opposition from both sides, but when they see your heart, that will go a long way in calming those fears. But, hey, we’ll talk more later. I’ve got to get up there soon to talk.” Mel hugs me again and then walks away, and I look for a place to set my stuff down and find a seat.

There are moments in one’s life where the unexpected becomes an all too tangible reality, when things one never expected to happen, happen. One second I’m meandering through a room of people to find an empty seat, and the next I hear a voice. It is a voice from my past, but how long past I can’t figure out.

I turn around and see someone I thought I would never see again. It is Elizabeth, the daughter of one of my childhood pastors, from a church that I have always jokingly blamed as responsible for “ruining me.” The things I learned there set me on a path that led me where I’m at now…but then again, maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. The sight is more than surprising. Not only is she sitting there, she is holding the hand of another young woman and looks rather in love. The irony of the situation is not lost on me.

“Oh, my God! Elizabeth?”

She laughs at my shock. “It’s me. How are you Tim?”

“I’m doing well…but at a loss for words at the moment. You’re gay? Really?”

“Takes one to know one.” She laughs again.

“And who is this?” I look over at the young woman whose hand Elizabeth is holding, and she smiles warmly.

“This is Nicole.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Nicole!” I am completely and utterly dumbfounded, and the look on my face probably gives me away. How can this be?

Nicole turns to Elizabeth and smiles. “Is this the guy you knew from your old church who came out earlier this year?”

“Yes it is,” she replies sweetly.

“Wow, it’s nice to meet you, finally.” Her tone is feminine and soft, and she reminds me of a movie star from the old black and whites: very classic-looking in her features, and very beautiful.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” I look over at Elizabeth, still shocked. “You’re really gay? Are you serious?”

“Hey, now, I could ask the same about you! My sister told me you’d come out, and I was surprised. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

“You will, too!” I say. “After Mel gives his talk, we’ll have to catch up! Mind if I sit next to you?”

“Well, why wouldn’t you?” Elizabeth says playfully.

I try my best to focus on Mel’s speech at the front of the room, but my heart races at the implications of what is happening next to me. My conservative pastor’s daughter, sitting next to her girlfriend, holding hands…Don’t let anyone ever tell you that God doesn’t have a brilliant sense of humor, or that He doesn’t know how to put you in the exact situation needed to help you conquer your prejudice. Elizabeth must have gone through hardships that no one will ever know, navigating those waters with her family.

Elizabeth was never just my pastor’s daughter. She was my babysitter from time to time and even helped lead our small youth group. We were in the same church until I experienced my first church split at age thirteen. The split was my first taste of the black-or-white, my-way-or-the-highway mentality. Until that point, I thought everyone outside our denomination was bad, and that we were all bonded in our ownership of the truth. When the church split, I saw our small church divided, and saw people that claimed to be a family virulently severing relationships and friendships in a way that scared me, even as a young child. Elizabeth’s family was on the other side of the divide from my own. Since we left, I have not seen her…Except once.

Jacob was the oldest brother in the family, only slightly younger than Elizabeth. He was like a big brother to me, the one who taught me how to play basketball and throw a spiral. He was my friend. When our church split and splintered off in different directions, I missed Jacob dearly. A year or two after leaving that church, I got home from school and found my mom sitting on our back steps. She had a look on her face that I hadn’t seen before, and I knew something was wrong. When I asked her why she looked upset, she told me that Jacob had contracted bacterial meningitis and passed away. For several minutes, my world went numb. I couldn’t see or hear. I stumbled to my room and began to sob. Why had God allowed this to happen? Why had someone so young been taken in such a random and cruel way? His poor family, a larger family than my own…five children. What must they be going through? I ripped a box out of my closet and dumped the contents onto my bed. Within seconds I found what I was looking for: a small photo album with pictures of all of my old friends from church. I found the picture of Jacob. Seeing that picture, knowing that I would never see him again, pushed me over the edge.

Two days later, Andrew and I went to the funeral, picked up by another family that had stayed in the church. My dad didn’t like that we were riding with people from the other side of the divide. It was one of the first seeds of resentment spouted in me towards our belief system, towards the churches we attended. My friend had died, and still the drama of the church was the focus of conversation.

Walking up to the casket, I saw the first body I’d ever seen. I looked at Jacob, his body resting peacefully, and I felt a part of my innocence leave me. This was what people talked about when they talked about death. Jacob was there, but he wasn’t, at the same time. It was a shell of who he was. The light was gone from his face in a way I hadn’t imagined I’d ever see. Not now, not this soon. I looked down at his face and remembered how he had taught me to shoot a basket.
Put your fingers right here, buddy, over the lines, here and here. Steady your feet, and when the ball leaves your hands, snap your wrist like
this
, so the ball gets a good spin. Aim for the top of the square above the hoop, and you’ll be draining them all day long! Got it, little man?
I remember how Jacob made me feel. I wasn’t just a little kid to him, I was an equal. It was that empowering attitude and encouragement that I remember most.

I saw Elizabeth that day, but we didn’t speak. She waved at me with a half smile, and I waved back, lost in grief. She was playing the part of the host, helping family and friends find their seats, making sure the music playing was appropriate for the audience. I couldn’t have imagined someone could be so busy at a memorial service. If Andrew died, God forbid, I would have hidden in a hole. I would not have had the strength to help my family the way Elizabeth was helping hers.

Mel finishes his talk and I look over at Elizabeth and Nicole. They look happy, and I am happy for them. I still cannot believe we are sitting here together, celebrating National Coming Out Day together. It feels right, and I am in awe of the randomness of it all. Is this really happening?

I introduce Mel to Elizabeth, and she introduces Nicole, and I tell him how we know each. He gets the irony, understands the randomness, and I know he understands what this means to me. It is a game-changer to re-imagine my childhood in light of this revelation. Mel hugs me goodbye, and I feel blessed to have seen him again. I wonder when our paths will cross again. I wonder if they will ever cross again. I hope so. Mel has taught me so much, mostly through the example he has set as we have interacted. I am lucky to count him as a friend. I came here tonight to hear him speak, but now I know that there was a deeper purpose to it all.

Elizabeth and Nicole bring a plate of cookies to the table, and I think back on this year and how everything has woven together so intricately. Of all the people I have known, and all the revelations I have had, this one has caught me off guard the most.

“So how long has it been?” Nicole asks us as we scoot our chairs closer to the table. Elizabeth and I lock eyes and exchange a knowing look before either of us explains.

“Well…The last time we saw each other was at Jacob’s funeral,” I say.

“Yeah, that was it. So it’s been quite a while,” Elizabeth says, remembering as I have remembered tonight.

“He really was a great guy…Do you remember the time we broke the table trying to dunk the basketball?”

Elizabeth laughs, her smile happily replacing the more emotionally severe look of loss from only seconds before.

“And then all of you blamed it on the one girl in the choir!” she says.

“Yes, yes we did.” I take a bite of a cookie and look down at my hands. “You know…if he was here, I think he would be happy for you, Elizabeth.”

She smiles. “I’ve wondered that for a long time…No one else in my family is, but I like to think you’re right. I think he would be.”

“I was wondering how your family felt about you coming out.”

“They didn’t take the news well. Remember that girl that I was roommates with before Jacob passed?” she asks me.

“More than roommates?”

“Yep.”

“So how did you two meet?” I ask, looking at Nicole.

“Funny story! Elizabeth and I met at an ex-gay ministry group. I was one of the leaders and she came to it because her family would ’take her back,’ so to speak, if she changed her ways.” I can already tell Nicole is a sweetheart. She grabs Elizabeth’s hand as she speaks, and I can see the love in her eyes.

“We started hanging out a lot, and the ministry group caught on that things were happening between us. They ordered us to stay apart, said we couldn’t be friends, or we would have to leave the ministry. We had to choose between our church group and each other. Even though it sucked to be given the ultimatum, it wasn’t a hard decision to make.”

“So are you back out to your family yet?” I ask Elizabeth. She shakes her head no, and I can see that the closet has been weighing on her. The mere mention of her family, and she looks tired.

“I was disowned once, and I just don’t want to lose them again.” I hear the pain and conflict in her voice, and I feel the gravity of her situation. I also understand that apprehension, and fear, that still small voice of fear that tells you that you will lose the people you love if you come out.

“I just told myself that if my family disowned me for coming out, then I never really had their love and support from the beginning,” I say.

Nicole nods her head in agreement and I know I’ve voiced her sentiment.

“But then again, I don’t have nephews or nieces that I would have lost…so your situation is much different from my own,” I add.

“The thing that hurts the worst is that when I was ’out,’ every time they saw me, they would act so sad. They treated me as though I were dead and they were talking to my ghost. Every time they saw me, I wanted to shake them and say, ’It’s me! It’s Elizabeth, your daughter, your sister, and I’m still here!’ It broke my heart. They already lost one child…” Elizabeth looks down at her hands, and I feel overwhelmed with frustration. She said it best when she said that they had already lost a child. Why lose another because of prejudice?

“Elizabeth…weren’t you with your first girlfriend about the same time Jacob passed away?” I ask.

Her face goes a pale, and I can tell I have inadvertently struck a nerve. I feel terrible seeing that look of angst on her face, knowing that I am responsible for drudging up old memories, old wounds that might be best left unopened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay, really. It’s just the darkest time of my life, and every time I think about it I feel a little overwhelmed.” She takes a sip of her iced tea before continuing.

“When Jacob passed away, I had just decided to act on my feelings for the first time. I had chosen to be true to myself, and to be happy. It was the first relationship where I actually felt honest, where I felt like I was being me. And then I got the phone call about Jacob—and my world crumbled, and everything fell apart. I felt overwhelmingly
guilty
. I felt like God was punishing me for being a lesbian and for choosing to act on my feelings. I just knew it. And it wasn’t just me He punished…it was my family, and my poor brother. I was to blame for Jacob’s death. I was the reason he died. I fell into a depression worse than any I’d ever experienced, and instead of allowing myself to process and grieve, I forced myself not just to withdraw from my family and friends, but to watch my family from a distance, in their pain…” She pauses to choke back tears and takes another sip of tea. Nicole’s expression says it all. When Elizabeth is upset, she is, too.