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.”
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 or
al 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.
The Cross in the Closet Page 24
