“I baptize you with water for repentance. But after me comes one who is more powerful than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” (Matthew 3:11)
(Photo by Robert Lawrence)
I’ve always told my story as a tragedy. An example of how the world is not fair. But it is fair. I got exactly what I asked for and I have to own that if I ever want to move forward. To evolve.
This is not a tale of sorrow, but a tale of triumph. But fair warning, you must be willing to lose everything if you dare follow my lead. Including those you love dearly. I only pray that you don’t lose yourself in the process. I almost did. Have faith for we are never alone.
Let’s begin with my first baptism. A baptism by water. At 16, I knew my life should be a spiritual one. I loved learning about God and was grateful for being introduced to Him by Jehovah’s Witnesses. When I prayed, I spoke directly to Jehovah. “In Jesus’ name I pray,” was merely a formality. Like writing “Sincerely” or “Best” at the end of a letter. Jesus was someone to emulate, but God was the force that I longed to commune with. It was He that filled my thoughts most of the day. Trying to understand what He wanted, how He communicated, and what His plans were for all of this life around me. And since it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses who claimed to know all of these answers, I chose to pledge allegiance to an organization that acted as His gatekeeper. The one true religion, they claimed. At 16, who was I to disagree? If they had Him, I wanted in. Even if something within me was beginning to break in defiance.
Did I know I was gay? Yes. Did it matter to me? No. Being gay was who was I was. It and I were one and the same and it never brought me any issues unless I thought about it, and so I didn’t.
I tried not to think about it because I was afraid of what it would mean. Afraid to be seen as unholy by my parents and the people I admired and looked up to. I could hear the groans of disgust by the Witnesses as the homosexuals were discussed in the Kingdom Hall. How sinful. I would sink into my chair and pray that I would never be found out. Perhaps I could keep it a secret. Hidden in a dark place deep within where the light couldn’t reach it, couldn’t reach me. In so choosing, the Light that I adored and dreamed to commune with could not be reflected purely within me. Broken and splintered, my light began to cast dark shadows that came to life.
These shadows were filled with rage at the thought of being unwanted. Believing in their own worth, they fought for survival in the only way they knew how. They wanted to be heard and loved like everything that exists and were angry when love was not offered freely. They brought violence and chaos to anyone weak enough for me to call victim. That was often my dog. Napoleon was my prime target as I kicked him through doors and locked him in closets. Even as I write this hot tears flow down my cheeks. Thank God I never broke anything. But I did. I broke his trust. I broke his faith in love for I had no true example of it. I have spent so many years asking for forgiveness. Even after he passed due to old age, I found myself dreaming of him. Protecting him from pulling out IVs and tubes as he tried to get up and come towards me, only to wake sobbing. How I have grieved for the crimes I committed towards him. And yet, I know even that must stop. It is not true justice. Justice is working to awaken from the self that caused such pain and vowing to do better. Not reliving the horror of my past over and over again.
A therapist once asked me to describe my childhood. All I could share were scattered memories. A few salvaged snapshots. It was a life where I had basically been sleep walking, I told her. By 16, my grades were dropping and I was on the verge of failing two classes. All desire for anything outside of my search for God had little meaning and so my brain found no point in holding on to the idea that they existed. It was of no import to a boy who had lost his soul somewhere along the way. I was an empty vessel praying to be filled with purpose and love. The only thing other than God that seemed to wake me up from this stupor was a boy named Vincent. It was Vincent who made me want to connect to life again. To dream of something worth living for in this world.
I met Vincent in my sophomore English class. Flared pants, Hawaiian shirts, spiky brown hair, speckled white teeth encased by tiny thin lips, he was the most socially disruptive looking person I had ever met. And for me that equalled ugly. Or at least that was my first impression. As the weeks passed, I concluded that Vincent was also emotionally unlike anyone I had met. While most guys were focused on building an armor of swag that would never allow them to look vulnerable, Vincent’s armor was vulnerability. In a majority African American high school in a not so great neighborhood, Vincent’s whiteness and his choice of clothing stood out. He was loud, but not with defiance. His loud was filled with joy, laughter, and love. He enjoyed sharing his emotions with all of his friends, female or male. Hugs and a caring touch were never something to be ashamed of, but a part of who he was. He never looked at me and questioned my worth. When his eyes locked onto mine, there was only acceptance. An acceptance I had yet to offer myself. To feel seen and loved is all many of us ask for. My whole being was wrapped up in Vincent. I was safe with him and so I fell in love.
Vincent gave me permission to explore and accept all of me. Masturbation was not something to be ashamed of, but something to joke about with friends. “Let’s have a contest!” He declared. “Let’s see who can go the longest without masturbating.” At this point, I was not ready to join the contest. Not yet free enough to even admit I had ever touched my penis, even when having to relieve myself. But I was extremely impressed and intrigued when he came back to school the next day and said he was already out. I also remember the day I skipped my late afternoon theater class and went to his friend’s home to hang out and listen to their ska band rehearse. The friend, Josh, was as eclectic as Vincent. His house was nothing special except for how cluttered and messy it was. Everything strewn all over the place, but in a lived in way. As if the family was so busy living they didn’t even think it worth to stop and organize anything. I found one of Josh’s music magazines and was horrified when I saw a punk band wearing Nazi arm bands. My heart grew tense and I quickly voiced my upset. “Jehovah’s Witnesses were hunted and killed during the Holocaust,” I told him. Josh kindly apologized and took the magazine away. It never occurred to me that Josh was Jewish.
Because of the openness of my new friends, even I began to relax and rethink what my life could be. I no longer had to fight to be perfect, and began to see the hidden gems within my imperfections. I started to explore the polyester grandpa shirts and pants at the thrift store like Vincent did. And as for judging my sexuality, I started to learn more about it. I finally said hi to the black trans kid in one of my classes and learned her name. Instead of being disgusted by what Amber might do after class, I was open to listen. And not just listen for dirty details, but listen for signs of love and care, or pain and fear. Listen for more of the human drama behind what she had to share.
These changes as well as my grades began to catch my parent’s attention. My mother, picking me up after a late theater rehearsal, questioned me as I waved and yelled goodbye to the trans student. “Who is that?” She asked with a negative tone.” “Oh, that’s Amber from my Spanish class.” I said with pride. I had no idea that this pride in other and self was about to be my undoing.
For my parents, my education at an art’s high school was an experience they never thought I would have. When asking to audition, my parents said yes, not truly expecting me to get in. But I did. When I auditioned, something inside of me took control and I came to life in a way I never did when practicing at home. As I said the last line of my monologue, my mouth closed and I was aware that something had just happened. Something beyond me had taken over. Something wanted me there. My parents did not. After my first performance, my stepfather never came to any of my productions. “I don’t want to be surrounded by faggots,” he would say. But he was always there to support my sister when it came to basketball practice. I noticed, but allowed myself to not notice. Allowed myself to once again disappear from the world around me. My only respite from this world was my school. It was Vincent, Josh, Amber, and so many others who were claiming their bodies and minds as theirs.
When it was time for my me and my parents to be baptized as Jehovah’s Witnesses, my stepfather didn’t think it wise for me to go through with it. He never came out to ask me if I was gay, but I knew he thought it. He therefore thought I should wait, but my mother and I disagreed. We would be baptized together. Father, mother, and son. My older sister would not. She stayed away. She didn’t participate in bible study or do much outside of come to the Kingdom Hall when forced by my parents. She already knew her truth. My truth was slowly unfolding. Even today, I can’t fully see it. It only reveals itself piece by piece. Yet, it makes me feel that this all had to be. That each player in the play of life has played their part perfectly.
I don’t remember much about the day I was baptized. I do remember that it did not happen in our normal Kingdom Hall, but was a part of a larger ceremony with numerous Witnesses from congregations I did not know. I remember seeing my stepfather being baptized before me. And although the memory isn’t quite clear, it brings a smile to my face. It’s an amazing thing to see a person honestly give his life over to God. Such faith. How can I not smile? As for me, when I stepped into that pool and allowed my head to be dunked beneath the water, I came up unchanged. The crowd was applauding, but there was no dove overhead. No call from the heavens. Nothing spectacular at all it seemed. Just another moment. And then it was gone. Another day within the calendar of my life. May 31, 1997.
What I failed to see, was that single choice, that single uneventful moment, placed me on a course that would change me and my family forever. Perhaps if I was not so blinded by the light, I would have noticed the approaching storm clouds rolling in. As the light turned into darkness, what was constantly held back within me was given full freedom to come out. I was about to undergo my second baptism.
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