On my best friend’s 21st birthday when I was 18 1/2 and I just had my first drink at a bar there was another first kiss with a tall gangly boy that I brought with me and I was sweaty and nervous and awkward like I am, finding silly ways to get physical with him while we all walked downtown. He was wearing raggedy black pants and his long hair tumbled into his eyes and even though I knew he didn’t need encouragement when it came to this type of stuff, I also knew he was hesitant because he had never wanted a girl like me before who was religious and abstinent. I stood on my tiptoes in the Borden’s parking lot and tugged his head down to meet mine and in those kisses I knew I had found my forever home. Then I had to make him ask me to be his girlfriend because good girls don’t kiss boys that arent their boyfriends, ya heard.
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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