Taking on a leadership role is difficult. Many times you
have to rely on and be patient for a stranger to recognize who you are. You
would think the strength of progress would be the loudest voice, but the few
voices of the status quo yell very loud. I look around to see those who believe
in faith coming out of the woods, but I wish it were quicker, because people love
to pick on the person who stands out alone. For now, since I accept fighting for new progress against old
ideas, I have to accept being a punching bag until I am recognized as a friend
and people see and hear the other people yelling for change with me.
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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