green witth envy, green with guilt
It was a small staff meeting like any other I'd come to expect. Barbara* started with her notes from last week's meeting, then discussed the progress she'd made on a new employee handbook. She chirped along, energetically jumping from point to point, while the rest of us smiled and nodded mechanically.
Our manager, Chuck, leaned back in his chair and sighed. His middle-age spread strained against his too-tight leather belt and threatened to burst the lower buttons of his blue plaid shirt. Joe, the lead technician, leaned forward on his elbows and drummed the conference room table with his calloused fingers. He and Chuck both had big Ford trucks, and frequently traded tips on accessories and upgrades. Anna sat quietly, a nervous, tall woman with intense eyes; she knew all the juicy inter-company gossip and ferreted out new tidbits on a daily basis.
We discussed the finer points of processes and programs, line items and acceptable business language, internal company memorandums that no one really cared about but had to pay attention to. As the meeting drew to a close, we stacked our pads of lined paper and stapled hand-outs, clicked our ballpoint pens, talked about the upcoming company picnic.
Chuck sighed and stretched, clasping his hands behind his neck.
With a wry, knowing grin he said to everyone, "Is it just me, or are there more homos around every day?"
Laughter erupted around the long conference table.
Joe quickly chimed in, "No doubt man! Where do they all come from? They're like roaches, I swear..."
More spontaneous laughter filled the small room.
Anna said, "Well someone needs to find an exterminator then; if I can buy a roach bomb for my house, why can't I buy a fag bomb for my neighborhood?
Barbara chirped, "What they really need to do is round them all up and ship them off somewhere..."
Joe finished her sentence, "...and when they get there, blow them up."
Chuck and Joe laughed until they were practically crying, Anna's face tight and red with mirth, Barbara tittering like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard in her life.
And I laughed too. Laughed as hard as any of them, hoping and praying that if there was a God, somehow, that they wouldn't find out, that they wouldn't quiet from their laughter and as one all turn and look at me. That they wouldn't all just suddenly KNOW. That I was one of the cockroaches, one of the homos they'd like to round up and ship off and exterminate. I was a young 'un too, just twenty-three, practically larval.
They bonded in their hatred. I could see the invisible ties, the primal, tribal strands that bound them tighter with each burst of laughter, their collective joining against a dangerous threat. A threat to their families, their schools, their workplaces, their way of thought, their way of life. They all took turns swinging at this big rainbow pinata in their heads, this garish caricature of real life; they wanted to kill it, kill it dead, burst it open and then wallow in the sweetness of its absence.
With each second more of laughter, something inside me fled deeper, pushed down into the shadows, held its breath and averted its eyes as the predator stalked by. If I don't look at them, they won't see me. If I act just like they do I can fit in, I can pass, I can blend. Really. If I act just like they do, I can die inside a little more with each chuckle and comment until it won't hurt anymore. Until one day I'll forget that I'm gay, right? You have to die to yourself, die to your sinful desires, die and die and die some more. Gorge yourself on death, forget as fast as you can, turn your face to the wall until your neck breaks. If you keep on stabbing the darkness, you'll let the light in. If I keep pretending... if I just keep repeating that I'm not gay, then eventually I'll believe the lie. And isn't that preferable to the truth?
Because that's what God wanted for me, right? To follow His path, I had to walk the straight and narrow, I had to trust that He knew what He was doing and that I'd eventually see the fruit of His promise. If I stuck to the program, I was guaranteed results. That's a promise in the Bible. I wasn't sure where exactly, but that's what all my good friends at church would say. That's what my pastor would say. They'd pray over me and praise God for my witness to them, and they just knew that good things were in store for me, God's rich store of blessings saved up for his children who were faithful. Maybe God would even send me a wife who would be understanding and overlook my weakness, wouldn't that be great? I should pray for God's will in that area, and He would raise up a Godly woman for me. Now wouldn't that be a phenomenal witness to all the unsaved homosexuals? What a ministry that would be, they'd say, a rich bounty for the Lord, and they'd get a far away and dreamy look in their eyes, counting homo converts like chickens before they'd hatched.
Whether chickens or cockroaches, in the hand or under foot, that still doesn't make me quite human though, does it? Not... exactly... normal. Saved for sure, but it's really more of a trial period; I better read the small print for the special terms and conditions of my salvation. I'm the black sheep, the pink sheep, the bride of Christ that needs a pre-nup. I mean, God is merciful but not *stupid*, right? Well, all Christians fall short of the glory of God, but Gay Christians need a fucking booster chair at the Lord's Table, don't they?
Barbara would send all her coworkers emails on the National Day of Prayer, inviting them to gather with her out in the parking lot to pray for our troubled world. Our troubled world so in need of saving from the gays, the gangs, the terrorists, and bad people who would take away our guns so we couldn't defend ourselves. Amen. I was so young then, so green with envy, green with guilt and their world seemed so straightforward, their path so uncluttered, while mine seemed to be a neverending obstacle course.
That Amen, that "so be it," was so full of yearning for me. I would have given anything for that road to be mine then, would have given up all the things that made me ME, just to live in their simple yet troubled world, wholly and completely. How comforting it would be to know everything for certain, to bisect the world into clearly defined black and white, good and evil, all questions answered in the Good Book. I would have sat under the Lord's Table and begged for scraps, old gristle and secondhand glory, if only they'd have truly let me in.
*
all names have been changed