The Cross in the Closet (4 page)

Josh was right, as always, and with his words the burden on my shoulders became much heavier than before.

“I understand,” I said, looking down at my feet.

“Do you?”

“Yes, I really do. It’s going to kill me, but you’re right.” I felt powerless.

“No relationship drama for a year. It’ll be a blessing in disguise. I promise.”

“I guess,” I said.

“So when are you going to ‘come out’?” he asked, putting his hand on my shoulder.

“I really haven’t given it much thought.” The idea alone had been almost more than I could process.

“You’d best get those details hammered out, bro.” Josh tossed his clove over the stairwell and I watched it fall, the cherry dimming as soon as it made contact with the damp leaves below us. “Come inside and we’ll figure it all out.”

Maren’s sudden presence on the porch startles me. She hands me a can of Sprite and tells me to come inside where it’s warm, her hand patting my back reassuringly. I don’t know if I can. I don’t even want to move, even though I’ve lost the feeling in my nose and ears. I feel tears and snot frozen on my facial hair.

“Tim, you can come inside. Don’t be afraid. What you told us isn’t going to ruin the rest of the party.” Her hand still rubs my back reassuringly, and I feel connected to her for the first time. She is my brother’s wife, my sister-in-law, but until now I hadn’t see her as my friend. I follow her inside, tossing the cigarette into the ashtray, unlit.

I spend the rest of the morning sitting quietly with everyone, sipping coffee and trying not to fall asleep. I’m exhausted and feel like sleeping for days, but before I can sleep, I still have to come out to my mom and stepdad. The thought presses me even further into despair, and I fight the urge to throw up. Again.

And then before I know it, I’m saying goodbye to Andrew and Maren. Both hug me and tell me they love me, and I reciprocate. As I hug my brother, I pull his head down and kiss the top of it. It is something I’ve done for as long as I can remember, but as I pull away and say goodbye, I hope he doesn’t think I do that because I’m gay. The paranoia is already beginning. I get into the car and drive away from the house. I lean my head against the window and feel warm tears contrasting with the icy cold window against my cheek. It is 11:34 a.m. on January 1st, and I have 364 ½ days to go. The calendar on my phone looks more like Mount Everest to me than a simple list of days.

I don’t know if I’ll make it.

Before going to my mom’s house, twenty minutes north in Hermitage, Tennessee, I stop at my friend Hope’s apartment. I slept very little the night before, and I need to rest for a few hours before I see my mom. I walk inside and wash up before going to the kitchen. Hope pours me a shot of vodka while I am in the bathroom. She hands it to me, and one gulp later and my chest warms as the clear liquid moves through my body.

“What’s next?” she asks.

“I’m going to ask my mom if she’ll go to coffee with me, and then I’ll tell her.”

“Sounds good. You going to rest awhile?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“You need to try,” she says.

“I’m going to call her in a few minutes and try to get her to meet up with me,” I say.

After another shot and some small talk, I dial my mom’s number and press the phone to my ear. It feels like an eternity before my mom answers her cell, and I feel my eyes glaze over, resigned to the possibility that I could break her heart.

“Hey, mom, can we get some coffee or something, later? I need to talk to you about something.” A part of me wonders how she’ll respond. I cannot help but wonder if she’ll even believe me.

“Tim…I know what you’re going to tell me.” Her voice, usually whimsical and high-pitched, sounds somber. It sounds like she’s been crying, her voice hoarse and broken.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you think you’re gay. Andrew called earlier.” She seems to be waiting for confirmation, so I give it to her.

“
Think
I’m gay? Mom, I
am
gay.” I can’t help but respond defensively. Why would she say
think
?
Thinking
, as she put it, would leave room for error and doubt, and if I know anything, it is that no one would have the gumption to declare their orientation to the world if they just “thought” they were gay. It is too life-changing and painful to do haphazardly. Not only that, but it also negates the declaration in itself, a declaration that takes time for anyone who makes it.

“Just come home, Tim. We’ll talk about it here.” The edge in her voice is gone, and I reluctantly give the nod to Hope that it is time for me to leave.

I arrive at my mom’s house. As I pull into the driveway, I see her standing on the front steps waiting for me. She has never greeted me like this. Part of me feels relief at the thought that she already knows; but another, larger part feels angry that I have lost the opportunity to tell her myself. I get out of the car, grab my bag, and walk towards her. As I reach the top step, she holds her arms out to hug me.

I fall into them like a child who has just scraped his knee, and she holds me.

“Tim, I love you. You know that don’t you?” she asks while my head rests on her shoulder. I can’t help but be proud of my mom. This is how I should have treated Liz.

“Yes, but I know this isn’t something you want to hear from me.”

“We’ll figure it all out. I’ll love you no matter what. Just give me some time.”

“Okay.” I can’t say much in response. I am too tired, but happy that she is making an attempt to show me she cares. We walk inside and sit on the couch, saying very little as we both adjust to something new. Eventually she speaks.

“Have you told your dad yet?”

“Not yet. I’ll email him. I don’t have the energy to have another conversation today.”

“You don’t have to do this all in one day,” she says.

“I know,” I say.

I try to imagine how much harder things would be if she and my brother hadn’t cared enough to show me they love me still. My heart breaks for those who have actually lost family after coming out of the closet. I cannot imagine feeling this vulnerable only to be abandoned by the people who are supposed to be there no matter what. I think again about Lizzy that night at karaoke, six months earlier, and I wish I had known. I wish I had known how this feels, I wish I had wrapped my arms around her and grieved with her, and accepted her in her pain. Overcome by guilt, shame, and sadness, I walk upstairs to go to bed. It’s 4:26 p.m., but I’m ready to sleep.

Anything that incites the kind of fear that I’ve felt this day requires courage to overcome. I had never believed coming out was an act of courage. Until today, coming out as gay has always represented cowardice and a sense of giving up. I believed it was an easy out for people who didn’t want to overcome the perversion and sin in their lives. But if today has shown me anything, it is that the act of coming out itself and risking the life you have always known is a courageous thing, an act worthy of respect.

A little more than a week has passed since I came out to my friends and family, and, well, they seem to be adjusting to the idea. Yesterday my brother finally felt comfortable enough to ask me questions about my sexuality, and although I would have been more than happy to oblige his curiosity…The truth was, I did not know how to answer him. Not actually being gay means that I am ignorant of what
being
gay is actually like. And I will always be oblivious, no matter how much I experience this year. The limitations and restrictions of my project are constantly in my thoughts. I can only hope that the one aspect of the alternate orientation with which I am now associated provides enough insight for me to answer some of the tougher questions I have struggled with.

What does it really mean to be gay? Is it really so simple as an attraction to the same gender, or is it something more? And if there is some deeper meaning behind it, do I have to ask what it means to be a heterosexual? Growing up, I had always recognized a palpable fear when people brought homosexuality into the discussion, and that fear often became fuel for anger and hatred towards the supposed “gay agenda.” A little over a week has passed since I came out, and so far all I’ve seen is that same tangible fear.

In the eight days I have been out, that fear has permeated every social sphere I have been part of. I have been rebuked in the name of Jesus, lost four friends who refuse to be close to an “unrepentant homosexual,” and I have even been told that Jesus does not love me. Perhaps the most disheartening response I received was from my former pastor.

I wrote to him via email that I hadn’t been attending church because I was gay and knew he wouldn’t approve. I told him that I was celibate—a fear-induced copout. I told him that even though I questioned everything in my life lately, I had not questioned my faith. I told him he could share my email with whomever he felt needed to know, that I was out of the closet now and wouldn’t hide it from anyone. I ended the email by telling him that I loved him and wanted to get together to talk. It was an extremely difficult email to write. Jim has been a mentor and a friend, and I served at his church as the college and singles coordinator for over six months. I left a few months ago, before I came out, so no one would be relying on me when I left, as I would almost inevitably have to leave the church. I felt completely vulnerable as I clicked
send
…and even more vulnerable when he responded an hour later:

I tried to read the email as objectively as possible, but every thought jumped off the screen in a negative way. They were the very thoughts I had wanted to voice to Liz that swelteringly hot summer night, the very thoughts that I didn’t say because I knew they would have done more harm than good. I felt betrayed. I reread the message, scanning the email in its entirety four times before my eyes recognize the most upsetting detail. Five words underneath his name spoke louder than even the message itself. Displayed prominently below Jim’s name were the words
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T.

Not only did he rebuke me in the name of Jesus, tell me I was hanging out with the wrong crowd, and declare that my lifestyle was “a decision, not a ‘gene”’…He did so from his cell phone? He didn’t ask if we could meet up to talk more about it. But all of that was somehow okay because he was inviting me to worship with all of the other sinners in his church. I mulled the words of his message inside me like a bad breakup, and I wished he’d just tried to talk to me in person.

But more painful than any of these reactions, I have been ignored by the majority of my conservative Christian friends I reached out to. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends.”

And so far, that silence has been more hurtful even than judgment.

It is difficult to describe the range of emotions I have felt thus far, but loneliness is the most acute. My phone no longer rings with calls and texts like it did only a short week ago. I have been waiting, preparing myself for numerous conversations about my revelation, but so far most friends seem to desire only distance. It is that distance, I think, that has pushed so many people over the edge, the excommunication from believers, friends, and loved ones that disagree and disengage. My news spread like a plague, but I was the only real casualty.

I remember seeing gays out in public as a kid and looking at them like animals on a safari. They were a rare sight to see—at least the ones whose appearance gave them away—and I remember not being the only one who stared at them as if they were a sideshow act. But more than seeing or hearing about homosexuals, I remember being taught about the insidious
homosexual agenda
. They “wanted children,” they “owned” the media, and even MTV had to have one of them on every show so as to desensitize the younger generation to the dangers of their abominable agenda. Oddly enough, even that poor purple Teletubby, Tinky Winky, was nailed to a wall!

Now I wonder why I spent so much time focused on the intentions of others, on the “agenda.” I am still me. Even though the label of my orientation has changed, I know that if anyone has an agenda, it might just be to live their lives. I am interested to see how this aspect of the journey unfolds. Will I discover the actual existence of a “gay agenda,” or will I discover that life for gay men is really as benign as life for heterosexual men?

Twenty seconds at the gay club and already I feel uncomfortable. After eight days of this experiment, I am ready to move forward and see what the LGBTQ scene in Nashville is all about. Club Play is the only LGBTQ club I have heard of in the religious circles I traveled, so it is the place I have chosen to go first. And almost instantly it becomes clear why I have heard about
this
place and not the others.

Walking into a gay club for the first time is a surreal, almost alien experience, and it only slightly resembles the straight clubs I’ve been to. The lighting is bluish, switching every so often between green and orange and yellow, like the stained glass windows of a church, a combination of disco reflections, neon, and the colorful wardrobe of men peacocking about. I look toward the bartenders and see all men. They are well built and almost always shirtless, like the opposite of a strip club or Hooters. This place was made for gay men, or at least caters to them. Above the loud thumping techno beat, I hear my heart rapidly churning like I have just run up a long flight of stairs.

The Friday night crowd is more diverse than I’ve seen anywhere. It’s a melting pot of different kinds of people. I see a man wearing business slacks and a button-up dress shirt dancing with a man in leather with both nipples pierced. I see another guy in a tight t-shirt and skinny jeans dancing with a transvestite.
Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore…

I walk towards the bar and get a kiss on the cheek and “Hello, stranger,” from a man I’ve never met. He quickly moves on to the next newcomer.
Now I
know
we’re not in Kansas!

I am uncomfortable, but I have a purpose and know I need to be here. I think the strangest thing about this bar is the flamboyance of the décor. It all fits the stereotypes I have heard about gays, and I wonder if the reason the stereotypes even exist is because of the appearance of the environment, rather than the people
in
the environment. I hope I can get past the look of the place, because initially the look is very hard to get past. I walk into the club wearing more than just a Tommy Hilfiger button-up and Perry Ellis jeans. I walk in wearing a chip on my shoulder; I see that much. Why do I feel superior to these people? I feel incapable of impartiality or objectivity, and I wonder if I am going to have to learn a tough lesson the hard way.

Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face”
finishes and a Britney Spears song begins. I order a beer and sit at the bar as inconspicuously as possible. It is an odd feeling to hope that people will not detect that I am straight; I try to act as gay as I know how with my demeanor and mannerisms. I think back to every stereotypical example of gay on television and movies, and I try to adjust my behavior accordingly. But I am still paranoid. What if I’m not doing it right? This first time out is meant to be more a fact-finding mission than an actual experience, but I am so worried about how I am acting that I do not know if I can learn or experience anything.

On stage a drag queen lip-syncs the song “Womanizer,” and the crowd is going wild at the irony. I try to focus on details instead of the big picture…details like the fact that I’ve never seen a woman with as toned a midsection as that of the drag queen, details like the queerness of the décor, details that won’t make me confront my growing irrational fear.

Why am I so uncomfortable? I try to breathe and calm myself, but it feels impossible. I wonder if this crowd would feel the same way if they were at church. Well maybe not
church
in general,
so much as the kind of church
I
feel comfortable at.

I look next to me and I see the Pharisee with a wild look in his eyes. With every second that passes, the look becomes more pained. He is uncomfortable to say the least, much more uncomfortable than me, if that were possible. I feel good knowing that he is in this position, that he is so out of his element he cannot even focus on me. Instead he is focused on everyone else, looking at them like they are less than human. I feel sorry for him. But I have to feel sorry for myself, too, because what I see on his face, I feel inside myself.

I track the Pharisee’s gaze to the man next to me. The guy is wearing daisy dukes, a choker, and his lip is pierced. As he talks, I see his tongue is, too. I follow the tattoo of a merman from his shoulder down his arm to the light blue drink he is sipping. It is a loaded drink. I can smell the alcohol from three feet away. “You go, girlfriend!” he yells towards the drag queen on stage. He spins around to the bar and orders another drink, his movements graceful and feminine. On a nervous whim, I try to spin around the same way and clumsily spill part of my beer. I feel ridiculous and embarrassed, and he smiles at me. It is a warm, disarming smile, and it makes me feel a little bit better.

“Another beer for the new guy!” he says to the bartender, pointing at me. The shirtless man behind the counter winks, uncaps a longneck, and puts it on a napkin in front of me.

“Thank you.” I finish the rest of my spilled beer and take a sip of the next.

“No problem. Just don’t spill that one!” The man smiles and lightly slaps my ass as he walks away. And then for a few seconds I lose it. I want to punch the guy for touching me, for presuming that physical contact would be okay…even if he believes I am gay. I take a few deep breaths and compose myself, hoping that nothing else happens to push me even more outside of my comfort zone than I already am. I hope, but then
it
happens.

Across the room, another man’s eyes lock on mine. His eyes are intense, and it is only when he is halfway to me that I see he is shirtless and covered in baby oil and glitter. Oh, shit…

The Pharisee looks at me with a sense of immediacy, of panic.

Leave! Let’s go!

Before I can move or respond, I feel a man’s hand gripping my wrist firmly, and I begin to panic. Adrenalin courses through my body and my legs feel unsteady, like they are about to give out beneath me. I am unable to free myself, and the shirtless man aggressively pulls me onto the dance floor in the adjacent room. I never stood a chance.

It happens too fast for me to react.

One second I am standing at the bar, sipping my beer in a room full of people I irrationally hate, and the next I am on the dance floor with a shirtless man covered in baby oil and glitter while a Beyoncé song roars through the speakers on either side of the room. I feel my body forcibly turned around and positioned away from the man dancing with me. Panic and terror wash over me as I stare at the mirrors on the walls, reflecting an image of utter violation that causes my stomach to turn.

The shirtless man now behind me rides me like a cowboy. I struggle to understand why he thought I would make a good horse—or dance partner. I feel more like a jackass as I watch myself lose my precious innocence. Instead of running, I decide to dance, or at least attempt to dance, but having been raised Baptist, I have very little experience with rhythm. I feel like a fool. I probably look like one, too. My attempts amount to little more than the awkward swaying of my hips and a few offbeat finger snaps. It is difficult to focus as the man dry-humps me; I feel his every touch on my body like I’m being groped by a pervert.

Of course this experience isn’t unusual for him, or for anyone else here. I look around the bar and see gay men and a few women, all dancing just like we are. The man’s hand grabs my chest and he squeezes forcefully. I jump in reaction to the pain. “Oh, yeah, my bucking bronco!” he leans in and whispers in my ear. I want to escape. I want to vomit. I need a cigarette. I feel like beating the hell out of him.