Stained-Glass Jesus Does Not Approve

Thousands of years ago, there lived a king in what is now Turkey. One day, he called together the three wisest men in the kingdom and bade that they craft him a magic ring which would bring him joy in times of sadness, and sadness in times of joy. They deliberated for three years and finally, after just two weeks of work, they presented the king with a ring. He asked what the incantation for the spell within the ring was, and they simply gestured at the inscription: ‘This too shall pass’. How consoling a statement in times of strife. How sobering in moments of gluttonous pride.

     It’s by no coincidence that I’ve come to accept the ephemeral nature of my own existence. We, as humans, are slaves to our own mortality. Why blaze a trail when the well-worn path seems safe and so inviting? Why indeed. There are lessons that we learn and trials we face that damage us irreparably both physically and emotionally. Times change. Our hearts are broken by the ones we love, and even then, we try to love them with all of the leftover pieces. We dream. We fantasize. Then, somewhere along the line, we grow up and realize that there are no princes coming to sweep us off our feet. No magic wardrobes. No letter from Hogwarts. No rabbit hole. We learn that no matter how many times we click our heels to go somewhere that feels like home, we’re still stuck right where we are. But perhaps, if only for now, that’s where we need to be. Everything that needs to happen happens. Whether we like it or not.

     I first walked into the Grant Avenue Community Center when I was eight-years-old. Instrument in one hand, audition music in the other, I was nervous. A woman greeted me at the door and walked me into the church where I would do my audition. Playing beneath a stained-glass fresco of Jesus, I was shaking so terribly that I couldn’t get through the music. It seemed--to me, at least--that Stained-Glass-Jesus did not approve. Even so, we received a letter indicating that I had earned a position in the band. A few months later, I met a girl named Crystal, she had grey eyes and a crooked smile.

     Years passed, all the while Crystal and I remained steady friends. One cold october day, sitting on the benches before practice, she asked me a simple question: “If I asked you out, would you say yes?” She was pretty, two years older than me, and had a great fashion sense. Who could resist? Definitely not my fifth-grade self. I said yes instantaneously, to which she replied, “Okay. Wanna go out?” And just like that, I had my first girlfriend. And even better, she was in Middle school. It was in the boiler room in the basement of the Grant Avenue Community Center, on a saturday in November, that I would have my first kiss. She tasted like pink lemonade. Little did I know, this would be the first of many kisses occurring at this place over the course of my impending adolescence.

     A few weeks after our first kiss, she whispered five irrevocable words into my ear: “I. Think. I. Love. You.” My body froze. I went numb. We were--ironically, now that I think about it--in a closet. In response, I could only muster two words that would lead to my first break-up: “I...Don’t.” She let out a whimper, took a deep breath, kissed me one last time, and went back to rehearsal. All the while, I didn’t feel a thing.

     A year later, I met a boy named Erik. He was tall, blonde, wickedly smart, and had baby blue eyes. Simply put, he was beautiful. He held my hand before practice one afternoon, and my entire body tingled for the rest of the evening. We signed up to be in a watered-down, middle-school-level staging of ‘Romeo & Juliet’ at the community center. We were cast and soon spent every weekend together leading up to the performance. During the big dress rehearsal, in the darkness backstage, he kissed me. After the play, waiting for our parents to pick us up, he kissed me again. His dad saw. He pulled us aside and assured us that this was “just a phase that we would grow out of”. He did. I didn’t.

     Growing up gay means that most lessons must be learned the hard way. For example: It’s easier to throw rapid-fire insults at someone than punch back, because insults stick around much longer than bruises. When the pain inside gets to be too much, a simple cut can release some of the pressure. Straight boys are straight, no matter how much you don’t want them to be. The cute ones hit the hardest. To be gay in this society not only requires resilience to external forces, but to internal ones as well. To overcome internalized homophobia is one of the toughest trials any gay person faces. The sense of being an outsider, the feeling of other-ness, is oftentimes overwhelming. The worst part of it all is that everything happens in abstract terms. There is no moment that we realize our homosexuality. One day it’s just there, like a dormant spirit finally awoken from a years-long slumber, and it’s our job to fight the demons alone. If you think that being gay is all rainbows and glitter, then by all means, I invite you to give it a try. It’s no walk in the Castro, and other people, especially the misinformed, don’t make it any easier.

     I get freaked out by churches. Maybe it’s the way that they gobble up sound and distort it; or perhaps it’s just the memories of having my left hand tied behind my back in preschool because “Only the devil writes with the left”. As much as I wish I could call Erik my first boyfriend, that title actually belongs to Leroy, a boy I met a few months after the Erik fiasco. He asked me to be his boyfriend, amusingly--to me, at least--in the church. He took my hand and looked earnestly into my eyes, then quietly asked, “Can we go out?” More of a request than a proposal, but I couldn’t help it. He was cute, generally well-spoken, and semi-talented. Besides, we were standing underneath Stained-Glass-Jesus. I approved. Stained-Glass-Jesus did not. I liked it like that. Leroy and I were off-and-on for about a year. The Summer before highschool, in that very same boiler room that I had my first kiss, I lost my virginity. It’s wasn’t remarkable. It wasn’t magical. It wasn’t anything. It smelled like dust. He told me that he loved me after all was said and done. I told him that I loved him too, and in retrospect, I feel guilty for not meaning it.

     There are three things that I believe in with absolute certainty. First, I believe in the power of words. Everything we say, from telling someone they look fabulous to calling someone a faggot, carries weight and makes a lasting impression. I believe in loving words for their own sake. Second, I believe that everything that needs to happen happens. Every heartbreak. Every kiss. Every moment has changed us somehow and resulted in the beautiful works-in-progress that we are. Finally, I believe in vulnerability. There’s nothing quite as exhilarating as putting yourself out there, the good and the bad, for everybody to see. I believe that no matter how hard things get--or how good, for that matter--we can always pull through. Sure, there are going to be new cuts and bruises along the way, but ultimately it’s all worth the pain. No matter what you’re going through right now, I can promise you that it’s going to get better. Because in times of gluttonous pride and deepest sadness, we must all remember those four magic words. This too shall pass.