Gay Christian Theology

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE: 1972

My heart throbbed within my head. It felt as if a vice was squeezing the life out of my lungs. My nerves were so taut I thought they would snap like an icicle. My mind was a mass of colliding emotions struggling to become organized, wanting to express and repress simultaneously.
My sense of hopelessness was as heavy as the humidity that August night, as I ran from my house, raced my car out of the driveway and sped to the local drugstore, the place that had become my refuge of late.
It hadn’t been the first, nor had it been the worst fight I’d had with him, but tonight I was at the end of my rope and didn’t know if I could tie another knot and keep on hanging. I’d been hanging so long and was tired. Tired of having intelligent discussions turn into irrational arguments. Tired of having to kiss him goodnight when I wanted to tell him to go to Hell. Tired of him preaching the Word of God while he sat drinking himself into damnation. Tired of being crucified because I had a mind of my own. So tired I thought I was losing my mind.
He, my adoring father, didn’t understand what was happening to me. Dammit! Neither did I! At twenty-six I was still living at home. Unlike my childhood friends, whom had all married and were raising families, as I believed all normal people should, I sat, day in and day out, a recluse in a house that, except for my Mom, I hated. Hated yet could not leave because my dependence on her was life supporting. Mom was my world and if I wanted her I had to accept the presence of my father. Why hadn’t she divorced him years ago? Life would have been utopian without him. She was the nearest thing to Heaven, but because of him my Heaven was being destroyed as I passively sat, watching my happiness burn away.
How in God’s name had my life gotten so bent out of shape? Where had I lost control?

CHAPTER TWO: 1946-1955

Despite the barren side-walked streets, copulating houses and limited playgrounds, Hollis, Queens wasn’t a bad place to begin life, in 1946, when I was born. The war was over and a sense of peace permeated our community as families returned to rebuilding their lives.
My home was a Christian one, filled with the love of Jesus. Mom & Dad, who had met at church, instilled their faith in Paul (my brother, 3 years my senior) and me from the start. We attended church every Sunday, said grace at mealtimes and read our Bibles daily. Respect for one another was strictly enforced and foul language was prohibited (punishable by a scrubbing on one’s mouth with the most awful tasting soap). I never heard my parents curse or argue and Paul and I got along better than most siblings.
My father was a hard working white-collar man who spent long hours away from home. Sometimes I didn’t see him until the weekend because his job forced him to commute to eastern Long Island. Consequently, he had little time to spend with either Paul or me and since I displayed a desire and a talent for baseball, at a very young age, most of the time Dad had was monopolized by me. Dad was a frustrated ball player who would have tried out for the major leagues had not the depression obstructed his dream. I always felt I was chosen to fulfill his thwarted dream and strove to acquire perfection in the sport.
Paul never seemed to mind Dad’s lack of interest in him, preferring solitude and a good book. He was obsessed with learning. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression of him, though. A bookworm, yes; boring, no! Always there for me when I had a problem and always ready to wrestle with me, Paul’s sense of humor and enjoyment of life was a constant source of inspiration.
In spite of the wonderful times spent with Dad and Paul, my deepest devotion and happiness lay with Mom. She couldn’t throw a baseball like Dad or pin me to the ground in a wrestling hold like Paul, but she had other talents that I found more than necessary.
A pretty woman with a small, hour glassed frame, medium length brown hair, vivid blue eyes, set deep above high cheekbones, a warm smile and a personality that captured your heart, Mom exuded warmth the minute she walked into a room and if her warmth didn’t get to you her sense of humor would. Quick and somewhat dry, she would make you laugh during your worst moment.
Mom was a woman of great faith. She lived her life according to God’s rule, letting the light of Jesus shine through her every deed. Her sensitivity to the needs of others won her love and respect. She was a strict disciplinarian, but fair. In my youth I was slightly overactive, prone to bouts of mischief and unable to ignore a dare. When I was five, my friend Jerry dared me to throw a rock through the window of our neighborhood witch’s house. Naturally, I had to accept. Though I had a good throwing arm, nurtured over the years by Dad, no one was more surprised than I when the rock I hurled went crashing through the old witch’s front window.
Jerry and I withdrew quickly from the scene, retreating to the safety of our homes. Later that day the old witch came to my house demanding payment for her broken window and severe punishment for me. Mom paid the old woman and promptly sent her away, but I was never punished for my crime. Mom merely explained that even if a person was not nice, like the old woman, it did not make it right for me to do something destructive to her.
On other occasions I felt the sting of Mom’s discipline. One of my favorite pastimes was playing at the local railroad track, in spite of the exposed third rail. Aware of the danger, Mom would try to dissuade my escapade with a spanking, but even when I felt the sting of the bristled side of the hairbrush on my bare behind, I knew that Mom loved me and cared for my well being. My journeys to the railroad tracks were short lived.
Nobody had a more compassionate mother than I. When I entered Kindergarten, at the tender age of 4, I missed her terribly. Each day, while playing in the toy dollhouse, I would call her on the play telephone. When I returned home from school I’d enter the house screaming, “Mommy, I called you today. Did you hear me?” Sensitive to my needs she’d play along, saying how wonderful my call had been.
Yes, indeed, I had the greatest Mom in the world. She was my protector, comforter, friend and the love of my life.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was in Kindergarten that I experienced a phenomenon I would later come to recognize as sexism. I loved playing in the dollhouse at school, but I also like playing with the more rugged toys, like blocks. I had not been prohibited at home so never thought school would be any different. When I saw some boys playing with the blocks I didn’t hesitate helping them build a large skyscraper. We were having a terrific time until my teacher came over and told me I could not play with the blocks because they were for boys only. Despite my protestations that the boys were allowed to play in the dollhouse so I should be able to play with the blocks, my teacher turned me away from the blocks towards the dollhouse. Her message was clear and I became livid. Later I returned to the boys, who were beaming with pride over the skyscraper I had helped them build and with one swift kick the great building crashed to the floor. My behavior shocked me, for I had never asserted myself with such hostility. However, the feeling of triumph was exhilarating, even when I saw my teacher walking towards me, eyes ablaze at the destruction my foot had caused. Anger turned to fear as I prepared to be royally punished, but to my surprise she merely turned me toward the ever-familiar dollhouse without speaking a word. Despite the grave injustice I felt had been dealt me, I never had the nerve to play with the blocks again.
Realizing that by being a girl I would not be allowed to enjoy certain toys or activities, I buckled down and tried to be a good student. However, I had one major problem. I loved to talk and as a result spent many hours at my desk writing, “I must be a good girl”, one hundred times on a piece of paper. This behavior brought me much attention from the boys, especially those who sat writing as I.
Boys had always taken to me and I loved their attention. However, when it came to girls I had trouble making friends. This puzzled me, but girls were sissies and I was better off without them. This line of reasoning satisfied me until Bonnie entered my life.
Bonnie was visiting her Grandmother who was our next-door neighbor. When Mom saw her playing by herself she urged me to join her. Hesitantly, I obeyed.
As Bonnie and I played I realized that, though she was just another sissy girl, I was having fun. I couldn’t explain the difference between her and other girls, but it was there. Bonnie’s inability to throw a baseball didn’t matter. In spite of herself, I liked Bonnie and the feeling was reciprocated.
The afternoon seemed to fly by, the two of us giggling as all seven years old will. I’d never had so much fun with a girl so when Bonnie started kissing me, I kissed back. I’d never kissed any girl on the mouth, except for Mom and was vaguely aware that what we were doing was reserved for boys & girls together; however, this logical thinking didn’t sway my behavior or my enjoyment of it.
I suppose we would have kissed forever had not Bonnies’s mother called her in to go home. The only sissy girl I had known, who liked me exactly as I was and with whom I had not felt awkward, was leaving. I would never forget Bonnie or her lips on mine, but I never shared my wonderful afternoon with anybody, not even Mom. Something inside warned against such candor.
By now I was beginning to realize, more deeply, that I was somehow different from other girls. This fact made me feel proud because I didn’t want to be considered a sissy girl. Maybe it was OK for the other girls, but not for me. I took pride in my ability to play ball and my rough and tumble manner. Yet, I longed to find another girl who was like me. I prayed for such a girl and my prayer was answered.
One rainy afternoon when I was restless from being shut indoors, Mom took me to see a movie about a frontier woman named Calamity Jane. I loved western movies so watched quietly and intently. As the movie progressed I noticed a similarity between Calamity Jane and myself. She was no sissy and the realization that I was not alone gave me a feeling of elation. I couldn’t believe my prayer was being answered and reveled in the wonderful warm feeling that spread throughout my body.
On the trip home from the movie and for weeks to come I could not get this fabulous frontier woman, or the actress who portrayed her, out of my mind. However, as with Bonnie, I never spoke my feelings to anyone. Again, something told me I should remain quiet.

* * * * * * * * * *

Les was the new boy in my fourth grade class. I couldn’t resist his pretty baby face and clear blue eyes. The fact that he was tiny, like me, only enhanced my feelings.
As we walked to school each morning our affection grew. Considering our feelings it was only natural that we decided to get married. Only the class dunce stood in our way.
Walter was a fat kid who stuttered, spit uncontrollably, always appeared dirty and was madly in love with me. Les and I had to think fast or our future would be ruined so we decided to kill Walter. Our plan was for me to marry Walter just to keep him quiet. At the wedding reception Walter would eat the poison cake Les and I would make and die. Les and I would then be free to marry and live happily ever after.
Each day Les and I sat at our desks preparing the poison for the wedding cake by scraping rubber reassures on our desks and mixing the shreds into the inkwells. Our plan couldn’t fail.
Being brought up in a strict Christian atmosphere I knew that Les and I were committing a grave sin. I should have merely told Walter I didn’t love him instead of committing such an act of aggression, but I couldn’t assert myself in this manner. It seemed kinder to kill Walter than to hurt his feelings.
Fortunately, God must have been keeping careful watch, for my evil deed was never committed and my marriage never actualized. Shortly before the wedding to Les was to commence my parents moved the family from Queens to eastern Long Island where my father had been permanently transferred by his company.

CHAPTER THREE: 1955

Moving can be a traumatic experience for a child of nine, but not for me. I had few friends to miss and though I was saddened at the thought of leaving my beloved Les, I quickly forgot him consoled by the fact that my family was moving to the country, which I had come to love from our weekly visits to Grandma Liebegott’s. We would not be living on a farm, as she, but the same fresh air and open space was there for me to devour.
Sixty miles east of Queens, on the north shore of Long Island, lay the tiny rural town of Shoreham, our new home. Our six-room ranch was one of only five houses standing in the newly developed community. Streets, which bordered every lawn, aroused my curiosity. How could anyone get around without sidewalks to lead the way, I thought, feeling wonderfully free from the dried out pieces of concrete.
Every direction I looked brought the feeling of communing with nature. Trees and dense woods surrounded our house, which sat on one third of an acre of land. I could hear the trees beckon me to live among them and my heart quickened with the thought of the many adventures awaiting me.
Suddenly I realized that riding my bike was going to be thrilling because the one lane, narrow road undulated with hills. It would be like riding a roller coaster and my excitement intensified. Within walking distance of my new home lay the most wonderful benefit of living in our new community. Beneath five hundred feet of sand dunes lay the clear, blue-green water of Long Island Sound. Its pebbled beach and clean air enticed all to love and enjoy its beauty and respite from the hot summer sun. I felt like Adam and Eve must have, for this place was truly paradise.
Across the road, amid the wood and foliage, stood a house almost identical to mine. As I walked to the road for a closer inspection, a little boy, whom I would come to know as Jason, darted from the back door of his house. He was no older or bigger than me and I was filled with joy at the thought of making a new friend.
Jason peered curiously at my house and then at me, as if he knew I belonged. I waved to him and he returned my friendliness by jumping in back of a nearby bush pretending, with his hand, to shoot a gun at me. I took his cue and without saying a word fired my finger gun in his direction, joyously thinking, “This truly is the Garden of Eden.” Yet, even Eden was destroyed.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was through Jason that I met his sister Carrie and that’s when it happened. Perhaps it was caused by my ever-present shyness with girls or maybe it was caused by Carrie’s confident manner. Whatever the reason, I could not cope with what was happening. My legs felt like jelly, my heart raced within my chest and the strange tingling sensation that ran through my entire body was frightening. I prayed my skinny legs would support me as the “funny feeling” persisted.
Carrie was a pretty girl; the prettiest girl I’d ever met, despite her baby fat. She was a couple of inches taller than me and about a year older. Her brown, wavy hair was cut just below her ears and her eyes, spaced wide over a tiny pug nose, were the same color as her hair.
She seemed in a hurry that first meeting for she quickly and confidently said “hi” and disappeared. I was grateful our meeting had been brief because I didn’t think I could take anymore of the “funny feeling” shooting through my body. But I vowed to have more control in the future for I knew I had to have Carrie for my best friend.

* * * * * * * * * *

In the weeks that followed I tried, without being obvious, to be around Carrie as much as possible, obsessed with making her my friend. However, this wasn’t easy and the result of my endeavors was depressingly fruitless. The “funny feeling” appeared at the slightest thought of her and talking to her was almost impossible. I managed to say “hi” each morning while we waited for the school bus, but I didn’t join her as she stood with her girlfriends. As usual, I was drawn to the boy’s group where I felt comfortable and could observe Carrie from a safe distance.
Our bus top was at the corner of a small farm from where we could see a pasture containing a small pond and some horses. After a couple of days of observing Carrie talking to the horses, trying to make them come close enough so she could pet them, I worked up the courage to leave my boy friends and go to the fence where she stood. The “funny feeling” surged through my body. I could hardly breathe, but I did manage a few words in the direction of the gray mare, trying to act cool, as if I was only interested in the horse.
When the mare moved towards us I started to panic. She was enormous and I was afraid she’d come through the barbwire fence. Outwardly I remained calm, for it would not have helped my battle to win Carrie’s friendship if she saw my fear. She’d have thought me a city slicker and I couldn’t make her think negatively about me.
Carrie was ecstatic when the horse came to the fence where we stood. She leaned forward to stroke its head, eyes filled with delight. Then she turned and smiled at me. I thought my heart would leap from my chest. I had pleased her, at least for the moment.
The school bus came down the road and without a word Carrie returned to her girl friends, leaving me to bid farewell to my gray comrade. For a moment the chasm between Carrie and me had been closed, giving me hope that someday we would be good friends. However, I knew someday would be a long way off and I’d have to be patient, accepting the few close moments I was allowed to share with her.
The growing friendship of Hank and Brett helped me handle the situation with Carrie. The boys couldn’t stand any of the girls. I suppose because they couldn’t play baseball like me. With Hank and Brett I was an equal. I was one of them and I loved the freedom it brought. In their company I could forget Carrie and concentrate on the activities that, up until she came into my life, had been foremost in my mind.

* * * * * * * * * *

School was out for the summer giving me time to explore my new surroundings. About one hundred feet behind my house lay a sand pile, flattened by many hours of children’s play and a large ‘V’ shaped tree just perfect for the tree house that Hank, Brett and I erected in one day. Hank had supervised its construction while Brett and I did the hard work, but we hadn’t arranged it this way just because Hank was the smartest. He was also the most inept. With one swing of he hammer he’d struck dead on his thumb and could not do anymore manual labor. We laughed at him, understandingly, for Hank just could help being a sissy.
Besides playing in our tree house or playing baseball, we spent every summer day rollicking at the beach. My city pallor turned brown and the soles of my feet hardened from running on the pebbled beach.
Carrie was at the beach, too, playing sissy games with her girl friends, making it difficult for me to concentrate on Hank and Brett. Sissies though the girls were I wanted to join because I had to be a part of Carrie’s world.
I began to show off hoping to impress Carrie so she would ask me to join her group, but hard as I tried, nothing seemed to penetrate her aloof barrier. It was Janet, the smallest of Carrie’s friends, who, unknowingly, came to my rescue when a brightly colored beach ball the girls had been playing with, flew onto my blanket. Janet came to fetch it, smiling at me as she drew near. She waved ‘hi’ and I coyly returned her friendly gesture. We began exchanging pleasantries. Janet was easy to talk to; actually you listened, most of the time, for she was a chatterbox.
After a couple of minutes of conversation we heard Carrie yelling for Janet to hurry up with the ball. Janet turned, then stopped and asked me to come along. The “funny feeling” shot through my body at the thought, but before I knew it I had said yes. Two seconds later I was laughing and screaming with pleasure, forgetting about Hank and Brett.
All the girls in Carrie’s group were nice and though I could never feel as close to them as I wanted to be with her, I enjoyed their company. They made it easier to be around Carrie.
Janet was not only the smallest girl in the group, but also the youngest. Her happy giggle and bright personality brought the group to life. Next to Carrie I liked Janet the best, not only being drawn by her cheerful personality, but also to her tom boyishness. She made me feel less conspicuous.
Penny was a little younger than me, but bigger in height and weight. She was the quiet one, more shy than me. Nevertheless, she was a sweet girl and made me feel welcome.
Nora was my age and a bit chubby. Her face was pretty, but her personality was sometimes irritating because she was a Pollyanna. Whenever the girls made a remark that Nora thought unkind or naughty she’d become indignant and scold them.
I spent the remainder of the summer dividing my time between the boys and the girls, each of who couldn’t stand the other, but both of whom accepted me. My shyness began to fade, although it was still almost impossible for me to relate to Carrie. She was pleasant and sometimes I could feel shreds of friendliness from her, but for the most part she remained reserved and aloof, leaving me frustrated. The “funny feeling” subsided some within the safety of the group, but left alone with Carrie or whenever she singled me out in conversation, the “funny feeling” surged, making me feel self-conscious and strangely frightened.

CHAPTER FOUR: 1956

The days were filled with school and homework leaving little time for socialization. Days turned into weeks and before I knew it another summer of lazy days in which to grow closer to Carrie, who with the warmth of the summer sun had become a little friendlier. It wasn’t much, but I clung to hope.
This was the summer I was elected secretary to the “Bird Brain Club” over which Carrie presided. We met everyday to plan our summer activities. The bake sale at the beginning of summer gave us the funds to plan a camp out in the woods behind my house, where a grove had been cleared by the constant activity of the boys and me. Sometime before a tree had fallen, providing us with fabulous wooden horses when we played cowboys or the most modern space ship for our more scientific play. I had introduced the girls to this hideaway and at the base of the fallen tree we made camp.
The day had been warm and as dusk neared the sun blazed red-orange in the sky. We ate cold chicken for dinner and when the night turned dark we sat around the campfire toasting marshmallows. The atmosphere was light and I felt relaxed within the safety of the group, where I could show off without Carrie knowing it was for her benefit and without letting her know she was my favorite.
The night turned black and the stars shined brightly. We were all exhausted from the events of the evening so we turned in. Soon everyone was asleep; everyone except me. All had gone so well. Carrie has been exceptionally friendly to me. I should have slept like a baby, but I lay awake unable to control a strange feeling of fear.
A few hours before dawn, exhaustion took over and I fell asleep. I awoke at dawn feeling the same fear I had felt earlier. All I could think about was Mom, my own bed and my desire to be home.
Quickly I rose, got my things together, careful not to wake the girls and left for the safety only Mom could provide. She never questioned why I’d come home so early and I never told her of my fear. How could I when I couldn’t explain it myself?

* * * * * * * * * *

With the camp out safely tucked away in the past, the “Bird Brain Club” undertook a production of “Rumplestilskin”. Since we had a limited supply of willing boys to act, I cheerfully volunteered to play the part of the charming prince.
Rehearsals were a lot of fun and I found myself becoming a ham. All the girls seemed to enjoy my antics, including Carrie. I relaxed more, loving every moment of the play and Carrie’s directorial attention.
Sometimes I’d drive her crazy with my excessive joking, especially during the scene in which the prince was to kiss the lovely heroine, played by Janet. Actually I was quite nervous about having to kiss Janet, remembering how much I’d enjoyed it with Bonnie. I didn’t want the girls to know my secret. By fooling around during this scene I never actually kissed Janet.
The night of the play I was in a state of hysterics for it finally dawned on me that I couldn’t joke my way through the kissing scene as I had during rehearsals. Our performance was a serious matter and I wanted it to be a success. Again God came to my rescue for as the kissing scene drew near I was engulfed by a brainstorm that would solve the problem. I spoke my lead-in lines, bent down to kiss Janet and quickly put my hand over her mouth, kissing the back of my own hand. The audience never saw my clever distortion of the scene, the play was a success and my baffling secret remained in tact.

CHAPTER FIVE: 1956

Weeks turned into months with little progress in winning Carrie’s friendship. As soon as I felt us becoming close she seemed to back away. I grew tired of the constant frustration she had brought into my life and found myself drifting away from her into a fantasy world in which the two of us were inseparable. At night, before I went to bed, my thoughts were filled with Carrie and sometimes I’d sit in my room playing my ukulele, singing to her.
This new behavior perplexed me. I knew that no other girl behaved as I. Even Calamity Jane didn’t sing to another girl, at least not the kind of songs I was singing. Mine were songs of love.
My difference was becoming more confusing. There was no use in rationalizing anymore. The fault lay in me, not other girls. This fact became unquestionably real not only because of my new behavior, but also by the ridicule some of the boys at school threw at me. I heard them laughing at me, calling me “boy” or “tomboy” and could not deny the truth in their mockery. I’d always known I acted more like a boy, but until now I’d been proud of this fact. Shame became integrated with my pride and the vague fear that had surfaced a few times in the past became my constant, unwanted companion.
My language began to reflect my distress. With my parents and other adults my demeanor remained angelic, but among my peers I cursed like a truck driver and acted tough, hoping to soften the sting insults and gain some respect through this hard, impenetrable façade.
I felt terrible guilt because I was behaving the total opposite of how I’d religiously been raised. I hoped and prayed that God would understand and forgive. I wanted to be a good Christian, but people just wouldn’t let me be myself. This became crystal clear one summer afternoon as Hank, Brett and I play a game of war, in Hank’s backyard. We were portraying the men who held the flag at Iwo Jima, climbing over each other, arms and legs interwoven.
At the point when we fell on top of each other, playing dead, Hank’s mother yelled out the kitchen window, “Be careful boys. Don’t play so rough. Jan is a girl and you’ll hurt her.”
I felt as if a truck had hit me. What difference did my being a girl make? I wasn’t getting hurt, never had, so why was Mrs. Gregory getting so upset? I couldn’t play anymore so I made up an excuse to go home, hoping my friends had not noticed how upset I was. I hated any show of weakness in myself and to let anyone see it was unthinkable.
On the short walk home, which seemed an endless journey, I couldn’t rid my mind of the events that had taken place. I knew I was a girl, but I hated being treated like a fragile doll. In some ways I wanted to be a boy. They had no restrictions. I was at ease with myself and my body did what I wanted it to do. I was just that people, like Mrs. Gregory, treated me like a weakling just because I was female. I felt as strong and as capable as the boys. Why couldn’t others just leave it at that?
The vague fear reared its horrible head telling me something was definitely wrong. What though? Was there really cause to worry? No! I would not allow myself to be swayed by other people. I was merely diversified in my talents and if people couldn’t accept that in me then something was wrong with them. Why couldn’t people just leave me alone? Why did I have to choose between boy and girl behaviors?
“Dear God in Heaven, help me! I hurt. I don’t know what’s wrong and I don’t want to be a bad person. I don’t want to hurt you, Lord. Please tell me what’s going on. Tell me how I can stop what’s ripping me apart.”
I prayed, but no answer came.
* * * * * * * * * * *
If you liked what you read, let me tell you it gets worse before it gets better, but to see how I found peace you’ve got to buy the book. $6 – small price to pay for enlightenment.