Do we think it hard to imagine that stranger we get mad at, who speeds past us down the road and cuts us off, may be on the way to the hospital because he or she got a call while at work that his or her only child had been in an life-threatening accident? Maybe not. But Maybe so. We do think it easier to get pissed of and curse them, though, because they inconvenienced us on purpose, we think, and we all know that the world revolves around us.
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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