25 years old

I think my mother always knew I was… different.

Even from a young age, I wasn’t like everyone. I wasn’t like my cousins that liked dressing up and playing with dolls. I didn’t like wearing dresses. I hated being told “That’s not ladylike” or “That’s not what little girls do.” I would laugh when someone asked me, “Do you have a boyfriend?” I was 5, why did I need a boyfriend?

I was always “too aggressive” and “too smart.” I can’t remember the number of times I’d been told “Boys won’t like you if you are like that.” At points my parents took me to the doctor because they thought I was too aggressive and had anger issues, but none of the doctors ever found anything wrong. I guess I was just too much like the little boys to be a normal little girl.

I never quite…fit. I was never normal enough.

I think she always knew I was going to be different.

The first time I ever had a real fight with my mother was when I was nine. I remember it like it was yesterday.

My mom had called for me to help with dinner.

I could smell it in the air, we were having spaghetti!!

With childlike innocence, I flittered around the kitchen trying to get everything I needed, never once did I think, that the upcoming moments would change my life.

While my mom was making the sauce, I began making the garlic bread. While we were going about our tasks, my mother got a phone call from my aunt.

Apparently, one of the deacons from our family church had divorced his wife and came out as gay.

“Girl, didn’t I tell you!! I always knew something was wrong with him.” My mother exclaimed while continuing to chop peppers to put into the sauce.

“We all knew he was a little sweet, but I hadn’t known he was on that sashay sashay ” I could hear my aunt snapping in the background.

“You never noticed the way he walked??” my mom incredulously asked.

“Damn, now I do remember that time our sister church came to visit. He HAD been a little too close to Brother Lawrence.” A sigh accompanies the end of a sentence.

“Yep, most people thought he was just that… what they call it nowadays? Metroual? But he was always a bit TOO flamin’ for me.”

“But how did Kathy not know? She was married to the man, is he still a man? I’m surprised Kathy never caught him sneakin’ around in her .” My aunt remarks with contempt evident in her voice.

“She probably on the down low too! Shiiidd, I wouldn’t be surprised if they got married to cover for each other.”

“Why he have to drag her into it though. Why he in the church?? Acting all holy on Sunday, yet in a man every day of the week. He know his is going to hell!!” Aunt Rae exclaims.

“He was probably trying to save himself.” my mom replies before they both dissolve into a fit of guffaws and giggles.

All the while, I’m there, slowly becoming more and more upset. I can feel my body temperature rising, I feel a lump at the back of my throat, and my face turning red because of how hard I’m trying to hold back tears.

As it turned out, I wasn’t strong enough to hold back them back.

Extreme sadness and distress flood my mind.

My hands start to shake, my breathing uneven and becoming faster and faster, all of the emotions causing me to have a visceral reaction.

How could they say that?

How could they be so cruel?

What about Uncle Gary?

*Flashback*

Uncle Gary opened the door with a small smile on his face, he was leaning heavily on his walker.

My Grandma, Aunt Lisa, mother, sister and I had all come to see him.

“My, everyone has been ‘round to see me lately.” He says before he let us in.

We all crammed into his small apartment.

“Uncle Gary, you lost weight. You should eat more.” My mom suggests as they sit down.

Uncle Gary just laughs, “You ain’t the first one sayin that.”

Uncle Gary was a tall man, much taller than the women in the family. He had always been a slim man, but these past few years he had been getting even smaller, to the point he looked frail. You could see his shoulders sticking out from underneath the large sweater and scarf he was wearing. His facial features had become sharp, his cheeks sunken, his beautifully rich sable skin tone gone, his skin had now taken on a pasty ashy tone.

“You ain’t hot in all that, Uncle Gary?” I ask observing his multiple layers even though it was warm in his apartment.

“No, I’m just fine, baby girl.” He answers.

While he and the older people talked, I went rummaging around the apartment like any curious 5-year-old would do. While looking through the fridge, I noticed that it was full of to-go plates with aluminum foil on top and a handful of cans.

Since I was thirsty, I took one out and brought it to Uncle Gary to ask if I could have it.

“Jordan, you better not drink that, it’s not for you” my grandma warns.

“But I’m thirsty!!!” I whine while looking up at Uncle Gary with puppy dog eyes.

“Baby Girl, this isn’t a normal drink. Can you read the label?” he asks while attempting to pull me up on the couch to sit next to him, in the end I get up there myself.

“M-E-A-L. Me-al. MEAL! R-E-P-L-A-C-E-M-E-N-T. Re-pla-ce-ment? What does that mean?” I finally ask when I couldn’t figure it out.

He laughs softly before explaining, “This is for people that if they don’t want to eat food, they can eat this.”

“So it’s a meal in a can? Why would people do that?” I inquire, honestly confused why people would rather have a drink than eat food.

“Some people can’t chew the food, they don’t have any teeth like you!” he laughs, pointing out the fact that I had just recently lost 3 baby teeth.

“But you have teeth Uncle Gary.” I say frowning.

“Go put it back.” My grandma again urges.

“Sis, it’s okay. She can have it.” Uncle Gary says before opening the can and handing it to me. I noticed that he had a strong hand tremor.

While Uncle Gary and everyone else continued to talk about all the people who had recently stopped by, I went exploring around his apartment again, looking at all the pictures up on the walls and in frames. I ended up finding a photo album.

I took it back over to the couch. I looked at the pictures while they kept talking.

I found a picture of a younger looking Uncle Gary with his arms wrapped around a man I didn’t know.

“Uncle Gary, who is this?” I ask tugging on his sleeve and pointing to the picture.

He smiles softly to himself before taking the photo album off my lap and onto his. He lightly caresses the photo.

“This is one of my best friends. His name was LeRoy.” He says before slowly shutting the photo album. “Those were some good times.” He mutters quietly to himself.

.

.

.

As our visit slowly came to an end, he hugged all of us as we finished putting on our coats and sweaters.

Lastly, he hugs Grandma, his older sister.

They hug tightly and for a long time. Tears slowly streaming down both of their faces.

They hugged for such a long time I asked my mom, “What’s wrong with them?”, she only shushed me.

They whispered things I couldn’t hear, but after a while my grandma pulled away roughly.

She cups the side of his face before saying “You be good now, ya hear?”

He pulls her in one last time and kisses her hair.

“I will sis, don’t worry.”

He hugs us all again one more time before we finally leave. As I run out the door, racing to the car so I can ride shot gun, I yell “SEE YOU NEXT TIME UNCLE GARY!!!”

*End Flashback*

There never would be a next time.

My mom wouldn’t let me go to the funeral.

I wouldn’t find out until later that the LeRoy in the picture wasn’t just a friend, he was Uncle Gary’s boyfriend. He’d died in the 80s of AIDS.

Uncle Gary died of the same thing.

How could they say those things about the deacon?

How could they say those things about Uncle Gary?

How could they say those things about

.

.

.

.

.

Me?

When it got to the point where I couldn’t contain all my emotions, I threw the garlic bread and all the ingredients in reach on the ground and kicked over potted plants as I ran out of the kitchen.

“JORDAN!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU???” My mom screams at me as I collapse onto the couch and sob.

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? HOW COULD YOU SAY THAT?” I pick my head and yell as tears drip down my face, snot making its way to my chin. I try to wipe my face as best I could with the back of my hands.

“What?” my mom asks, confused about where all this is coming from.

“What’s wrong with loving who you want to love? Gay people are people too!”

“Jordan,-“ she says in an authoritative voice.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” I scream slapping my mother’s hands away from me as she reached for my shoulder.

“Jordan, listen to me. Gay people are bad. That’s what the bible says.”

What about me?

“What about you?” I ask my mom, looking up at her with a tear stained face

She looks shocked, “What do you mean?”

“Are you going to hell too? You aren’t supposed to have kids out of wedlock, that’s what they told us at Vacation Bible School, but you aren’t married to my dad. Sissy and I have different dads too!!” I point out, my voice getting high at the end.

She doesn’t say anything.

“The bible says we should love everybody, so why do gay people have to go to hell? That’s not fair.”

My mom is shaking her head, “Jordan, that’s not-“

“What about Pastor Howard and James? They both committed adultery!!!!!!! Isn’t that why the church ladies don’t like you!!!! They say I look like him!!”

“Jordan, don’t say-“

“You can’t pick and choose!! Why are gay people going to hell, but you aren’t?”

“Princess,-“

“Leave me alone!!!” I yell before putting my face down.

“Jordan-“

“Go away.”

“Come eat when you finish crying”

As she walks back towards the kitchen I yell out, “ALL OF YOU ARE A BUNCH OF HYPOCRITES! YOU JUST WANT TO BLAME SOMEONE ELSE!!”

After that incident, I think she knew.

25 years old

After that day, I never went back to church. Never went to another vacation bible school. I actually tried to stay out of the general vicinity of churches, which in the South is pretty damn hard to do. I would even leave the room whenever those lecherous pay-for-prayer “pastors” came on television.

The only times I would ever enter a church again was for funerals.

My first time back in a church was when my 16-year-old cousin died. The police said it was suicide, but how does someone shoot themselves in the back of the head, twice, and then have enough time to cross their arms in front of themselves? Aunt Jane wanted the police to investigate, but Dashawn was just another poor black boy from the projects with gang ties, the police didn’t want to spend any time or effort on it.

I don’t think there will come a time when I will be able to comfortably re-enter the church. I don’t think there will be a time when I can reconcile who I am with the beliefs of the people surrounding me there.

And I think, my mother always knew that.

Prior to the incident, Sunday’s were a pain. The constant calls to wake up, the literal dragging of me out of bed and being pushed into the bathroom to get ready, were always present. The feeling of being different was always there in the kids Sunday service. I always felt inferior to all the other kids because my mom was a single mom and wasn’t as well off as everyone one else. I hated going anyway.

But after the incident, the first time my mom tried to push me to go, but she didn’t force me. When I said I wasn’t going, she let me go back to sleep. She never asked me to go again. I never bothered to ask either.

I don’t think anything has changed, or has come to a conclusion or anything, but I’m just glad she knew.

The questions stopped. My family asked me about important things instead of the heteronormative bull that had previously been shoved down my throat.

In some ways, I was lucky. In some, I wasn’t. She hasn’t been fully accepting, but she also hadn’t tried to send me to conversion therapy either. I’m just at a middle ground, a middle ground I wish was closer to one side but I’ll take the hand dealt.