July 26, 2013 § Leave a comment
Bohemea and I are pooling all of our original content/original posts from the Bohemea and Suicide Blonde tumblrs, this wordpress and her wordpress as well as naughty blog Pussy Les Queer into one new mega-awesome-URL!
July 22, 2013 § 7 Comments
About 6 months after I came out to my family, they had the Pentecostal version of an exorcism in my room when I was out of town. Now, I didn’t know that any kind of repelling of demons was going to be taking place while I was gone. I came home after a week thinking nothing was a miss, and went up to my room to unpack. Then I noticed grease spots on the large figure drawings I had done that year in school. This made me look around a little closer. My collage of pictures of Xena all had grease stains on Lucy Lawless’ face. The clay sculptures I had done in my first year of college art classes had huge splashes of discoloration on them. There were oil hand prints all over the walls like it was the Blair Witch’s house.
I went downstairs to where my father, who had greeted me warmly (too warmly in comparison to his usual behavior towards me over the recent past) when I had gotten in the door and had been silently sitting watching TV and, apparently, waiting for my reaction.
“Why is there grease all over my stuff?” I wasn’t shrill, more incredulous.
“Now, don’t get mad.” Whenever someone starts an explanation with these words, you know you’re about to gobble down some serious bullshit.
“We were praying for you in your room while you were gone, and things got out of hand.”
“Just your mom and me and some other people, that doesn’t matter.”
I didn’t need anymore explanation than that. I had been in the Christian Church for the first 16 years of my life so I knew exactly what had happened and would later have it confirmed to me by my brother, who told me with the same confused shame as my father had faced me with. I had seen this level of Pentecostal zealotry before. I had seen a room full of completely rational, emotionally repressed middle-class white people turn into a writhing mass of sobs, yelling in gibberish, having convulsions on the floor. Take a group of people who never drink, never do any kind of mood alter-er and allow them an opportunity to finally be uninhibited and they go fucking nuts. What’s worse is that they feed off each other’s crazy, trying to outdo the other person’s fervent worship by being even more unhinged, competing with each other like they’re at the Holy Ghost Olympics.
I knew that my parents had called in a bunch of people into my room, the only place in the world that I had the vague notion as being my own. I knew that a group of people had assembled in my room with the daybed I’d slept on since I was 12 and the dresser that my parents had bought when they first got married in 1975 and with horror, contrasted these items of childhood innocence with the blatant evil in 3 foot sketches of the nude human form and pictures of notorious lesbian icon Xena Warrior Princess. This group of people would include strangers whose knowledge of me consisted solely of my parents’ horrified descriptions of my recent homosexual-filled heresy.
These people called out at all the demons that they believed had taken over my soul. Now whether they thought I had left the demons there while I was out of town, or that they existed there as well as in me, apparently with the power to bi-locate, or whether they believed the demons to be inside the picture of Lucy Lawless I had torn out of the People magazine, I don’t know.
Calling this conversations with demons ‘praying’ is a bit of a stretch. One person would have started by actually talking to an invisible demon that was living in my room. They would have had a one sided conversation with this invisible (person? creature? gremlin?) thing, argued with it, gone with the classic ‘you have no power here!’ This would have gotten my family all fired up, and they would have joined along pretty quickly, because if there was one thing my mother loved it was yelling at the Devil while other people listened.
I also knew where the oil had come into play. My brother had been attended a new church over the last year or so, one of those Holy Roller churches where every service ends with an altar call that last hours and includes people barking like dogs and clucking like chickens because Jesus’s holy ghost friend told them to. Anyways, he’d been handing out tiny vials of ‘holy oil’ to people like a dealer on the corner handing out yellow caps to crackheads. Going from talking to invisible gremlins to throwing oil at charcoal drawings of nudes isn’t that much of a leap, all things considered.
If my life with my family had been a TV series, this would have been the moment it jumped the shark. In the spirit of this jump the shark moment, it would be the thing that would end up canceling the show. Those oil hand prints never washed off the wall, instead I would feel them pressing at me every night, telling me to get out. So in the end, the exorcism worked. I moved out within 6 months, taking my Lucy Lawless demons with me.
July 8, 2013 § 5 Comments
I wish this was one of those coming out stories that has a happy ending, that I could reassure you that if you come out people might surprise you with their acceptance and unconditional love. In my case, I had no loving acceptance as a response to my revealing to my family that I am gay. I do know these happy ending stories exist though, and that gives me enough hope to overcome any cynicism about coming out in general.
I didn’t get to choose when or if I came out to my parents. One evening when I was 18, my mother, in her typical overbearing way, asked me if I thought I was gay. (Notice the dismissive-from-the-start wording of ‘thought I was.’ That’s intentional.) The fact that she asked me this shows how disconnected she was from me at that point in my life. Since graduating from high school, I had steadily worked to remove all false labels from my identity. I had allowed myself to react to every question, externally or internally posed, about who I was with complete honesty. My actions were speaking very loudly of this change, I had stopped attending church, had gotten many times tattooed, pierced, hanging out with biker dudes and stoners til dawn, regularly going off for weeks to be with my heathen, witchy great gramma.
In this current mind frame it had been impossible to lie to her, especially about this thing in myself that had so recently came into bloom. The actualization of my attraction to girls was like a fully opened rose inside me. It would have been impossible to hide it. I answered her with my immediate reaction “If I tell you, you’ll be mad,” basically confirmed her fears.
The rest of the conversation is a bit of a blur, it was mainly a lot of crying on her part and a lot of uncomfortable fact giving on mine. I know I told her I was bi-sexual, as that was what I identified myself as at the time. In the following years when any idea that I was attracted to men disappeared, I would regret this because it allowed my mother to believe it was a phase and I would eventually settle down and get married. It took my being in a committed relationship for many years for her to accept that this might actually be a real thing. Even still, now, she’ll waver away from this reality. More than 10 years in this relationship, she’ll refer to my partner as my friend.
I distinctly remember one other thing from that evening. She asked me about the tarot card I had displayed on my nightstand and what that was about. I had placed it there without really thinking about her reaction to it, though probably subconsciously wanting this piece of information – “Look Mom! I’m a heretic now!” – to be conveyed to her. I told her that I had got them with my great gramma and that I had been reading about them in some books about Wicca. My interest in them had more to do with the revival of new age-y religious stuff in the 90’s than any need to rebel. This general revival of spirituality was a terrifying thing for the Christian Church. Things as innocuous as dream-catchers, yoga, earth-conscious lifestyles, all these got reinterpreted by the Christian Church as satanism and black magic being practiced by misguided souls who’d been taken over by the Devil. (I’m not speaking metaphorically here, this was a real fear in the Church for most of the 90’s. The West Memphis Three are the best/worst example of this.) My mother saw those tarot cards as idolatry, the witchcraft as me spitting in the face of ‘our’ beliefs.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked her fearfully.
“Oh no. The homosexuality we can cure. It’s this witchcraft we’re worried about.”
She said this with complete confidence. (My family would attempt to dissuade my ‘lifestyle choices’ as she would later call them, but that’s a story for another time.) The assurance with which she spoke this sentence shocked me in a way that still resonances now. I repeated it in my head for days, months afterwards, trying to actualize that she would honestly believe this. It didn’t fully hit home for me until a couple of years later when helping my parents pack, I found books about ‘converting homosexuals’ in my Dad’s office. I had been out of the house over a year at this point, awed by the freedom of my own space. Seeing these books pulled me right back down again, reminded me that this was not something that my parents accepted, not in the slightest. All their affirmations of parental love, their insistence that they still did love me no matter were proved false by their actions. They didn’t accept this part of me. There were conditions on their love. My mom told me once a few months after I came out that she ‘loved me but hated the gay part of me.’ This is not love. Love accepts all parts and judges not.
My parents continuous refusal to accept and love who I really am is something I had to work through during most of my twenties. I allowed myself to feel anger, betrayal, abandonment, and lived with those negative emotions inside me for a long time. It wasn’t until I saw ignorance as a cage they were seemingly forever trapped in that I was able to not attach their limitations to my sense of self. I have never made excuses or apologies for their treatment of me, rather felt pity towards them. They refuse to change their minds on basic human emotions, hide behind their prejudices – these are facts I can’t change about them. All I can change is how I will not allow their ignorant opinion to determine my reaction to those around me.
I ended up counterbalancing the abandonment of my family by creating a family of my own. This is the best thing I can tell people who want to come out to their family but are unsure of their reaction. That as gay people, we create our own families, and those families love and accept you in ways you never dreamed possible. So maybe my story ends happy after all, based on this. The love and support I get from those I have allowed into my life fills the emptiness I always had with my family – from before I came out and I knew I wasn’t able to be all I really was around them, to after when they refused the parts of me that I felt the most proud of. I experience a level of love from without and within unlike I was ever able to before that night when I was 18. After all that I went through from it myself, I can still say that coming out is worth the risk. You owe it to your family and those closest to you to know who you really are. More importantly, you owe it to yourself.
July 7, 2013 § Leave a comment
“States vote to take away my marriage rights, and even though I don’t want to get married, it tends to hurt my feelings. I guess what bugs me is that it was put to a vote in the first place. If you don’t want to marry a homosexual, then don’t. But what gives you the right to weigh in on your neighbor’s options? It’s like voting whether or not redheads should be allowed to celebrate Christmas.”
July 1, 2013 § Leave a comment
June 30, 2013 § 1 Comment
“I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your undumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it should lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is really just a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defenses. And I don’t really resent it.”