Part II: The Old Testament
“If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid.”
—Epictetus
A Difficult Truth
It is a beautiful spring day, and the sun reflects off of everything, casting a greenish blue tint to every window, car, even the street. I am driving downtown for my first shift at Revive Café, and my hopes are high. The atmosphere of Nashville’s gayborhood is calm and quaint. After dark Church street comes alive, but during the day everything is sleepy, hung-over, and subdued. I drive behind the series of buildings that house the bookstore and café, park on a gravel strip big enough for only four or five cars, and walk around to the front sidewalk.
The café is attached to Nashville’s only LGBTQ bookstore, and it is unlike any bookstore I have seen before. The store is divided into three main sections. In the front, one will find books on almost every topic related to the LGBTQ population. The back section is split by an invisible line and holds movies for rent and purchase, as well as t-shirts and other trinkets, almost all bearing a rainbow, human-rights campaign logo, or snarky message. The third section is closed off. It is a shop unto itself: sex toys, leather outfits, and porn. I curiously peek into the space but cannot convince myself to venture inside. Something tells me I am not ready for that yet. Maybe tomorrow.
The café is attached via two doors on the right wall of the bookstore. Inside, it feels like a different venue altogether. The walls are painted dark red and the wood around the bar is well polished oak. This café is classier than most. It definitely beats the café chains one finds on every street corner of Nashville. It is large, intimate, and unmistakably gay in theme and fashion. On one of the couches, a golden merman manikin, dressed in a Mardi-Gras appropriate outfit and mask, reclines. He is definitely not the Little-Mermaid type, unless Ariel had a gay merman cousin the movie didn’t mention. He faces the door, checking out every customer walking into the café. I swear he winks at me as I set my messenger bag on the countertop. He gives me the creeps.
“Isn’t he hot?” a voice from behind me asks. I turn and find a young man, mid twenties, wearing a red sleeveless t-shirt with silver letters spelling QUEER from waist to collar. He’s also wearing a small gold chain with a cross.
“Who?” I am startled.
“Our merman! We got him from a local fashion boutique that went out of business. I mean, look at his abs. Spectacular, aren’t they?”
“To die for. Too bad he’s not real.”
“Shh! Don’t tell him that! Marco, don’t listen to him! We all know you’re real.” The man smiles at me, obviously amused.
“Sorry, Marco.” I try not to laugh.
“That’s better. Now what’s your name again?”
“I’m Tim.” I reach out to shake his hand, but he pulls me into an unexpected hug and kisses me on the cheek.
“We don’t shake, hun, we hug. We’re a family here,” he says. “My name’s Mark. You are replacing me because I’m moving.”
“Where to?” I ask.
“New Orleans. Mardi Gras, baby!”
“Congrats on that! I hear it’s an amazing place.”
“Yeah, but I’ll miss Nashville. There are a lot of amazing guys here,” he says thoughtfully. “Ever work at a café before?” Mark tosses me an apron. “I’m supposed to teach you to wear this, but no one does, and you’ll never get in trouble if you don’t. Just wear it today, and I won’t get in trouble.”
“You’re direct. And no, I’ve never worked as a barista.” I put the apron over my neck and can tell I’m going to like this job.
“Oh, honey, I’m always direct! Life is too short to waste on the bullshit. And speaking of bullshit, if my ex comes in—his name is Ryan—spit in his coffee! He’s a real prick.” Mark is sassy.
“You’re going to have to teach me how to make the coffee first,” I say.
“Good point. Let’s get this sausage train open!” Mark walks around the counter and helps me log in with the time clock, and all I can think is how oddly comfortable I am around this guy. He’s crude, entertaining, and someone I think I could be good friends with. Too bad he’s moving to New Orleans.
Two hours pass, and a few customers come into the café that Mark tells me are regulars. Mark introduces them as Scott and Jason, a couple that can most aptly be characterized as an “April-September” romance. Both order sweet tea and immediately start interrogating me.
“Who are you, handsome?” Jason asks with a furrowed eyebrow.
He is trying to be seductive, but any discomfort I feel is diminished by the humor in his tone. He is gentle, albeit aggressive, and I imagine that he is the more free-spirited one in the relationship.
“Don’t mind him. He’s always trying to bring guys home!” Scott says.
“Am not!” Jason says, hitting Scott on the arm.
“Bitch!”
“It’s okay, but I’m already attached,” I interject, thanking God for Shawn. “I’m the new guy. I’m Tim, but you…” I look at Jason coyly. “You can call me whatever you want.” I wink at him, and he is taken aback by my flirtation. I am even a bit surprised at myself.
“Mark, this one’s a keeper,” he says, fanning himself with his hand. “Is it me, or is it hot in here?”
“It’s you.” Mark laughs.
“So what’s your story, hotness?” Jason puts his hand on mine, still laying it on thick.
“I’ll give you the abridged version. I came out in January, and I thought it’d be fun to work here, so I could be around my people.”
“Oh, my god! Are you serious? I never woulda thought...” Jason winks at me and makes a kissy face.
“Leave Tim alone, he’s new. Show him some respect,” Scott says, only partially rebuking his lover. “You’ll have to pardon him, Tim. He lacks what most would call tact.” Scott smiles. “And your boyfriend is a lucky man, I must say.”
“Well, thank you.” I set the glasses of tea in front of them, wipe the counter with a dishtowel, and return it to my shoulder.
“So how are you enjoying being out of the closet? Being yourself is freeing, isn’t it?” Mark asks.
Being yourself, my ass!
I look over and see the Pharisee sitting on the couch against the wall, next to the Merman. The contrast is enough to make me smile and I ignore him.
“It’s great,” I say nervously, wondering what they would think if they knew how in the closet I am.
“How’d you do it?” Scott asks.
“I guess the normal way. I told my brother and his wife, and they told my mom before I could.”
“Not cool,” Mark interjects. “That is your privilege.”
“I was just happy to have it over with,” I say.
“Is your family okay with it? How’d they take the news?” Scott asks after taking a sip of his sweet tea.
“They’re handling it okay, I guess. Not allies yet, but they’re working it out day by day. Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I ask.
“Ask you what?” Jason says.
“About my family’s reaction.”
The mood in the café shifts in an instant. What was a lighthearted and flirtatious conversation becomes somber. It is a palpable change, and I feel it in my body as goose bumps race across my skin. Jason’s face becomes serious, almost sad. He is not flirting anymore. His flamboyance seems to dim and his demeanor becomes more quiet.
“Tim, a really high percentage of suicides in this country are committed by people who are in the closet and feel they can’t do it anymore. The closet kills people. And families can do a lot of damage early on, to those who’ve just broken free.” He pauses. “Everyone asks because everyone is worried about you.” His speaks very slowly, walking on egg shells with each word, gauging my response with his eyes.
“We’re just happy you’re okay,” Scott says with the same solemn tone. “Just make sure and let us know if anything less than comfortable happens for you. We take care of each other, all of
us.”
“Thank you.” I do not really know what to say, but gratitude seems appropriate.
I look over and measure my Pharisee’s response.
He smirks. This is why it’s so hard for gays to see the light. They stick together so they don’t have to face the spiritual ramifications of their unwillingness to repent. They don’t judge because they don’t want to be judged. It’s not authentic support.
No! It’s deeper than that. The gays and lesbians I have met may have different standards of morality than me, but wanting to support each other is pure. No matter how much I could try to psychoanalyze it, I cannot discredit the idea. You’re wrong.
He leans back against the couch and sighs. I know I’m the villain for saying it, but guilt is what causes people to commit suicide. Not the “closet.”
Think whatever you want. And yes, thinking that does make you a villain. Where is your heart?
I try to refocus. Jason pinches Mark’s butt and laughs when Mark jumps. They are like kids playing...a different kind of humor than I am accustomed to.
I never would have imagined that strangers would take such an interest in me, much less my family’s reaction to me. The relational investment they demonstrate makes me feel like I have accidentally stumbled upon a sacred detail of the community. This cohesive empathy may be difficult for me to understand but it seems old hat for them, and I wonder how many people they have known who have gone through a much different experience than I have thus far. I wonder if I will ever understand.
Has my “absolute” view of gay been too narrow? It seems to be flawed, never considering the many intricacies and details that have shaped the lives of the people I meet so regularly now. It does not seem to consider the difficulty of coming out, the social stigma one faces as an openly gay man or lesbian woman—or a transgender or intersex individual, who must struggle in ways I will never understand. Never for a minute did my ideology consider the life of belittlement and degradation that one faces for the remainder of one’s life after coming out. It only claims one thing: Same-sex affection is unnatural and should therefore be rejected in all respects. For many conservatives, equal rights for same-sex marriage and adoption should not be given because equality in marriage and adoption would be looked at as approval or acceptance of the lifestyle, and that approval violates the moral imperative of the Bible. At least that is how it was explained to me.
I think about those trapped in the closet who see only two options: stay miserable in life or seek peace in the hereafter. And I wonder what Jesus would do. Would he go door to door campaigning for Proposition 8, or would he rebuke the Pharisees who dole out condemnation like a commodity, for missing the point? I think he would do the latter. But do I think that only because I have lost my focus on what my former pastor used to call the “panoramic landscape of the gospel”? My Pharisee said as much. But it just doesn’t make sense. Life is too short to live out two-thousand-year-old prejudices from Leviticus, Greece, or Rome. Either way, I am starting to believe that people have the right to believe as they wish. My finger pointing has to stop, and thanks to Revive, I am starting to see why.
I finish my first shift at Revive and feel as though life is finally looking up. The people are fantastic—the epitome of entertaining—and I love the coffee-making process. Lattes are my favorite. Milk steamed to velvet perfection, poured delicately into a mug with two perfectly timed shots of espresso, add a sprinkle of cinnamon on top, and you have a little slice of heaven. I am learning quickly.
I leave the café and cannot stop thinking about the look on Jason’s face, the look that said, Congratulations on coming out of the closet! Stay in too long, and you could have died! He did not seem to be exaggerating. I always thought that the people who found out about my coming out were buying me drinks because they were happy to have another queer-associated Southerner in the community, but now I think they are just happy to have one less closeted gay in the graveyard.
It’s Hard to be Gay in Spring
It’s hard to be gay in spring. Well, probably not for someone who is actually gay, but for me, springtime poses more than a few problems. The rising temperatures result in rising skirt lines, and trying to keep my true orientation a secret is beyond frustrating.
I decide to go to church for the first time in months, hoping for the spiritual equivalent to a cold shower. The church I choose is a mega-church in town with thousands of members spread across several satellite campuses. For those unfamiliar with the idea, a satellite campus is a church that broadcasts the message of a pastor to multiple locations. The names of the churches are the same, they have the same non-profit status, and each has its own campus pastor; but essentially the structure allows a head pastor to be in multiple churches at once.
The location I am attending is the main campus, and the pastor is a young, good-looking guy with spiked hair and trendy clothes. He is a really nice and genuine guy, and, having spoken with him several times in the past, I know his heart is in the right place. The whole model of satellite churches seems kind of impersonal to me, but right now, the multitude of parishioners is the reason I have chosen this particular church.
After being greeted at the door, I walk into the lobby and am comforted by the fact that I am just another face in the crowd. Hardly anyone knows me, and that is a good thing. I am not here to be known, just to feel a little bit of normalcy before getting back to my new life. But seldom do well-intentioned plans pan out.
Upon reaching the café inside the church lobby, I am confronted with an overwhelming number of young women wearing incredibly revealing clothing. There are skin-tight jeans, short shorts, short skirts, and short shirts, and midriffs are exposed everywhere. Either I have never seen so much skin in a church before, or I never noticed because women have never been off limits. I rush to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I should probably splash water elsewhere, but that might be awkward for the other men in the bathroom.
I look in the mirror and see him behind me. His expression is sympathetic but coercive.
I’ve got to leave.
Don’t leave. There is nothing unnatural about your looking at women. Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve let yourself see what you’re keeping yourself from. It is the way God designed you to be.
No. And that feels like the wrong way to view women.
I cannot handle the visuals, the temptation, or the hormones raging through me. Staying in church would be tantamount to self-flagellation, self-torture, so I decide to leave the church and get coffee elsewhere. I was looking for a spiritual cold shower, and I got the spiritual equivalent of a Girls Gone Wild video.
I walk out of the lobby doors and shiver. It may be sunny and unseasonably warm, but I feel cold.
No, Tim, don’t leave!
My Pharisee looks at me from the door, but I keep walking. Not today, buddy. Not today.
I drive to Starbucks and settle in with a venti coffee and a copy of the Times. It is my new Sunday morning ritual. Add to the combination Puccini’s greatest hits, and what I get is better than attending church, nine times out of ten. After coming out as gay, I wholeheartedly expected to merely switch churches. I had thought that even though I would receive some nasty responses, my desire for church would remain. But it hasn’t. After receiving the email from my pastor, after facing the plethora of responses, either rebuking me or ignoring me, the desire in me for fellowship has shifted. I want to spend time with people, but I feel sick to my stomach when I think about attending church. This feeling makes me understand why so many of my gay friends have left the church altogether. I can only imagine how much more severe my aversion would be had I received a worse reaction. So my replacement for my former Sunday morning tradition is to live a life of routines. I am amazingly content with just my coffee and paper and “Nessum Dorma” playing on repeat. For an hour or so every Sunday morning, I forget that life is not what it used to be, and the distraction is welcome. I sit and read a few compelling news
stories and listen to a compelling piece of music, never forgetting that at any moment, the Times might remind me, vigorously, why I am living this life.
Today’s New York Times has a story about LGBTQ teens committing suicide because of being bullied, and another about the never-ending saga of California’s anti-gay marriage bill, Proposition 8. These two stories snap me back to reality. I read the story about teen suicide twice before pausing my music and praying for the families and the victims of bullying, and for the hearts of the bullies to change—and also my own heart. It is the only form of church I can muster today.
It is hard to comprehend that if I were actually a gay man, entire populations of socially conservative people have control over my fate. Religious organizations could raise enough money in a month to hinder my freedom in real and tangible ways, for the duration of my life. This is a reality for LGBTQ folks everywhere. In California, religious organizations, primarily the Latter Day Saints, covertly raised millions dollars to fund Proposition 8. Millions of dollars were spent raising an army of volunteers to canvas tens of thousands of homes with anti-gay literature and to engage voters in door-to-door confrontation. And for what? Passing Proposition 8 did not stop LGBTQ couples from going to sleep that night with their partners. What it did accomplish, however, was remind the gay community once again that they are not looked at as equals, that the God of so many does not love them. I saw this as I watched the live coverage of the protests.
I have always allowed my beliefs to blind me to the reality lived daily by other human beings. I have let my opinions and interpretations of scripture to take away my compassion and God-given common sense. I am guilty of thinking in the stark black and white terms of my theology and politics, but never from the standpoint of real, living and breathing people. The picture at the top of the article breaks my heart. It is a photograph of two normal men, holding each other with tears in their eyes as they console one another.
The Cross in the Closet Page 9
