Bless me father for I’m a fag, and it’s been forever since my last confession. That is the truth. As a child kneeling in a confessional, however, I was far too frightened to be anywhere near so candid. You see as a young Catholic I was forced through an ominous series of sacraments. First, there was my Baptism. This was where baby me was doused with holy water, because apparently as an infant I was already soiled with original sin. This original sin had to do with some naughtiness that went on in the Garden of Eden way back in the day, and as a baby it was of dire importance that I was cleansed of it. Baptism was my get out of Limbo free card until I made it to my next sacrament – around age five – my first Holy Communion. Ironically, this was when I was literally ushered into a closet. Once inside this Catholic closet I was instructed to kneel down and confess my sins to a priest. After my First Holy Confession, I was prescribed a few prayers as penance, and then, with my spirit purified, I was fed the body and blood of Christ for the first time. Holy cannibal snacks, Batman! My third ritualistic rite of passage, Confirmation, was at the age of thirteen. Confirmation is like the Christian version of a Bar Mitzvah, but without the party or the cash.
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All I got for my Confirmation was a photo op with these two guys – digging their righteous claws into my bony biceps – and a certificate that warned me to “Fear the Lord.”
It was this trinity of fear-evoking sacraments, a life-size replica of the crucified Jesus staring down at me from behind the alter, and the constant threat of burning in hell for the horrible offense of an impure thought, that made me a tad reticent to tell the truth to the white-collared man behind the screen in the dark, wood paneled cubby at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church. I certainly would never go so far as to confess the special relationship that I had shared with my former neighbor, or the confusion about the very enjoyable tinglings I was now feeling for Peter Brady, Speed Racer, and both of the Hardy Boys. No. Rather I thought it better to concoct a list of innocuous lies to tell to the priest: I said a bad word, I didn’t do my homework, and I hit my sister. After telling my lies to the priest, I would move to the front of the church, get down on my knees before the life-like reproduction of the ever-dying Christ, clasp my hands together, bow my head, say my Hail Marys and Our Fathers, and hope that no one – not even God – would ever be the wiser.
For as long as it lasted that was my relationship with God through the Catholic Church; a dishonest and hypocritical, spiritual bond fortified by an ever-present fear of discovery and hell fire. Honestly, I do not ever remember any blatant religious threat, attack, or discrimination regarding my impending sexuality. The judgment and shame, however, associated with the feelings that I was having were clearly implied. To be fair, this environment of implicit shame was not unique to my church. At the time it was the way of the world. This was before the days of Ellen, Glee, and Will and Grace. I was aware of no example in the media, positive or negative, of what I felt. For a questioning adolescent back then, there was no conversation, no model, nowhere to turn, and nothing to hang onto. I was intensely alone. Looking back, I think it was largely this blatant, pervasive lack of reference that convinced my young mind that there was something fundamentally wrong with me.
I have, on more than one occasion, heard someone bemoaning the idea of a Gay Pride Parade. Specifically, I recall a comment along the lines of, “Why do Gay people have to have a parade? I don’t need to march down the street celebrating the fact that I’m straight.” Whoever the person was who said this could not have been more right. There is no need to celebrate straigtness. After all, the whole of life as we know it, and most certainly as I knew it in my youth, was a Straight Pride Parade. Every song, film, television program, advertisement, everything I was exposed to as a youngster glorified heterosexuality, or exalted a Judeo-Christian value system that demonized homosexuality – either overtly or covertly. What I wouldn’t have given to pop in just one 8-track tape and hear the Beach Boys sing, “I wish they all could be California Boys,” or tune in to one episode of The Waltons and see Jim-Bob skipping around the mountain in Mary-Ellen’s gingham, but alas it was not to be. Not until Billy Crystal appeared on a late night sitcom called Soap in 1977 did I finally have some outlandish point of reference.
My habit of lying low, observing whenever possible, and keeping my emerging sexual identity to myself would continue for some time. The truth became something to guard, to protect, and ultimately hide. I have wondered now and then over the years how my life might be different today if I had on some occasion, before leaving Catholicism behind, had the courage to walk into one of those intimidating Catholic confessionals and tell the truth. On the other hand, I know that alternate choices made in the past – ones that I often suspect might have served to shape me sooner and more decisively into the human that I strive to be – might have also resulted in my present looking radically different than the one I see around me now. So for that reason, if for no other, I am grateful for the lies I told my priest.
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