A white boyfriend meets his black girlfriend’s parents for the first time. Her parents instantly know she is happy because her marbled-grey eyes sparked again. They had not seen a sparkle in her eyes like that since she had been a very young girl after she got her first puppy. The puppy had since grown into a dog and had been healthy, living well past its expected years. In great health, the dog excitedly greeted the white boy, wagging his tell and trying so hard to jump up and lick his face. The black girl’s parents clearly knew from how the dog greeted the white boy that he surely would be the husband to complete their daughter’s grey world.
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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