The Cross in My Closet

Abstract

All this changed when I turned fourteen. Suddenly the quiet peace was shattered by my raucous, rebellious response to the “Adam and Eve Not Ann and Eve“ chanted by my neighbors, teachers, and family. The solace I once felt during prayer became a black hole of hate; instead of listening for words of kindness, instead of finding serenity, I spit in the faces of my family, friends, and religion. Hoping to purge my body of its new found, fiery anger, I turned to a priest who told me there could be no salvation: “man shall not lie with man…it is an abomination“. The calming repetitions of Hail Marys and Glory Bes mixed with the damning words of my priest; I slammed the door on what was once an important part of my life. After all, when “God Hates Fags“, isn’t that what I was supposed to do. Set my cross on fire, wall it up in my closet, and forget it ever existed. [excerpt