“Trey?” the voice pulled me out of my daydream of being a
contestant on So You Think You Can Dance.
“It is Trey? Your name tag says so,“ an old lady asked and confirmed with her old
husband standing in front of the register of YoguLand. They stared at me as if I was a zoo
animal. “Do you have anymore chocolate sprinkles?” the man said with
frustration. “If there aren’t any out there, I guess not,” working at a self-serve
yogurt place was one of my least favorite jobs (I rank it 5th out
the 5 I have), but it was easy. “What the hell is the point of having you if
you don’t do anything?” the man grumped (can you grump?). It was a good
question. “We’ve got chocolate chips, sir,” I didn’t really care. I was thinking
about my Netflix queue. “You’re a bit old to be working here,” the woman
sassed. I drifted off to the radio playing YoguLand. Ah yes, The Best
of Michelle Branch was still going. “You’re
everywhere to me Michelle,” I thought. “Hello! Can you weigh our yogurt?”
the man was yelling. I don’t like yelling very much. I’m sure it wasn’t going
to make him happy either that I realized the scale was broken. “Trey, where is
your manager?” the woman said as if that was supposed to scare me. “I am the
manager, ma’am, Trey,” I grinned. The
old man got pissed and slammed his yogurt down grabbing his wife storming out. I
went back to singing passing the time. Yogurt isn’t supposed to be that
serious.
It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...
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