"Oh, God Just Made Gays So There'd Be Somebody to Walk His Dogs When He Got Tired of It"

I used to say that.  Really.  When friends or other people would ask why a loving Father in Heaven would make someone gay, I'd quip something like, "He needs somebody to clean all those mansions of His.  Isn't there something somewhere that talks about divine servants?"

It was sort of a joke, but it kind of made sense.  As a formerly active Mormon, I was familiar with the doctrine of celestial marriage between a man and a woman, and that such marriage was the key to inheriting the highest degree of glory (aka "all that the Father hath", etc.) in an eternal life after death.  I also knew as a gay man, that kind of marriage wasn't for me, and thus, as taught in the Doctrine and Covenants 132: 16-17, I could look forward to being "appointed [an] angel in heaven, which angels are ministering servants, to minister for those who are worthy of a far more, and an exceeding, and an eternal weight of glory."

So, OK. I wouldn't be worthy of Lifestyles of the Righteous and Glorified, but, apparently, I could look forward to ministering to their chores for eternity.  Too busy designing worlds, planning the cosmos, and rearing spirit children, the gods and their female counterparts wouldn't have time to walk the celestial dogs, let alone scoop up poop, and Heaven knows that sexless boys who can't (some might say won't) procreate would need something to do.  Sure, cherubim were placed east of Eden with flaming swords (sounds enticing and fabulous, right?), but it warn't that kind of sword play goin' on down yonder.  Thus, in my estimation of things eternal, the gays got security systems and doggie duty. 

I pictured we'd arrive outside the pearly gates, wishing we'd been given feather boas instead of wispy wings, and Versace's Black Leather Crocs instead of worn-out sandals from the DI.  We'd admire the movement of Raphael's ass against his short, blue tunics and the knotting of Michael's forearms when gripping marble pulpits.  We'd probably snicker at Gabriel's warbling little lisp, whistling when he'd read to us the rules and regs we'd need to know about walking God's dogs.

Rule # 37: Thou shalt never let Cerberus nose around in or drink from the lake of fire and brimstone, as it inflames his acid reflux.

Rule #206: Thou shalt never allow Anubis and Hecuba to mate, as this would cause a most undesirable mixing of bloodlines.

Rule #1013: Thou shalt always carry an extra baggy when walking behind Canis Major.  Thou wilt need it. There's a reason his name is Major.

I thought it'd be pretty ideal, taking Heaven's pack to the dog park, flirting with a seraph now and then while the hounds sniffed at cirrus clouds and wagged their tails at thunderbolts.  There'd be chats with  archcangels about politics, fashion and weather.  And, of course, we'd be bagging up the most pristine of poop.  

It would get old pretty quick, though.  Even in heaven, shit stinks.

I don't joke about the gays cleaning up after God anymore.  It wasn't every really that funny in the first place.  I don't know where we gay boys'll end up, but I do know this: what with the bigots and the bullies and the Boyd K's we have to deal with here, I think we've handled enough crap in this life.  I doubt a loving Heavenly Father will be handing us leashes or shovels after we've risen to the courts and cul-de-sacs above--He might just see fit to reward our earthly endeavors with boas or Versace crocs.

Children of God

from a Facebook Note, Sunday, September 20, 2009

I have rarely been able to recall my dreams since returning from my time in Pennsylvania four years ago, and I have been quite adamant about ignoring certain memories throughout my life, so I was quite shaken last night when a nasty little memory slipped itself into the silence of my sleep.

I'd had much difficulty in learning to trust, admire or even enjoy the company of the angry young man who had been assigned as my companion in the Provo Missionary Training Center (MTC) ; he didn't like me, either. We were two very different boys used to two very different worlds: I was the rule-keeping, conservative, worry-ridden district leader and he was the recklessly adventersome, girl-crazy, authority-bucking football star. This was the first time I'd ever been so closely affiliated with someone so athletic, hot-headed and competitive, and probably the first time he'd ever lived with anybody like me [read: gay]. We rarely saw eye to eye, and a series of arguments and other events quickly drove a massive wedge in our companionship, as well as tempting the other missionaries in our group to "take sides," thus creating a lot of dissonance within the group.

So, I dreamt last night of one evening in the Elder's dorm where we slept. It had been a particularly rough day for Elder Football and myself -- he was unhappy about reasons why we were late for lunch that day, etc., and I was upset that he hadn't been more empathetic toward other members of our district. I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, and he was in the hall, doing stunts and showing off with other missionaries. I walked out of the bathroom and watched for a minute as he competed with another young man, jumping up the walls to see who could kick the highest brick. He lost. I said something snide and witty--my intent to undermine his masculinity, of course, and stroke my own male ego--and he got really angry.

I turned around to go to the room we shared with two other missionaries, and felt these massive arms pick me up from behind, hefting me toward the bathroom. I don't remember what he said, but I knew he was raging. I was kicking and yelling, trying to free myself from his grip. We drew a lot of attention, but I don't remember any of the other elders do anything but stand there and stare as my companion tried to throw me in a garbage can just inside the bathroom door. I kicked at the wall and elbowed him in the stomach and he finally dropped me on the tile floor, cursed a blue streak, and left me there in bruises and tears.

I cleaned up and went to bed, dreading what would happen when our roommates, the assistants to our leaders at the MTC, would leave the room to make sure lights were out. They told me not to worry (they'd just be down the hall and back in 15 minutes) and then left us alone in the room. I pressed myself as close to the wall as I possibly could, tense and afraid as I've ever been, listened to my companion breathe, trying not to breathe myself until they got back. I've never felt such shame, anger, fear, abuse or confusion in my life, before or since.

We were called out of class the next morning and sent to the District President's office. He interviewed us each separately: me first, and then my companion. I sat three offices away, cowering as the President yelled at my companion -- I was nervous I was gonna get it when we got back to the rooms that night. Thankfully, our companionship was dissolved, and he was assigned to a different district. I left for PA a few days later; he was to remain at the MTC for a few more weeks. I only saw him a few times during the rest of my service in PA, dreading the sight of him each time.

I learned a valuable lesson from that violent relationship about how I tolerate the way others treat me. Oprah says you teach people how to treat you, and I agree. I also learned that forgiveness for one who abuses power against a weaker victim does not equate a willingness to trust the abuser ever again. I don't feel hateful feelings toward that young man anymore, but I don't believe I'd ever trust him. His actions toward me just don't merit it. And that's ok.

I thought I'd made peace with the incident. So, yes, I was quite surprised when this memory popped up in a dream last night, bringing up many mixed emotions with it. I've examined many possibilities as to why my subconscious would bring this to the forefront, and the only thing I can find is this: There are current events in my life which leave me feeling I'm being carried away by a force stronger than myself, picked up from behind and thrown on the ground; or that I'm fighting something that tells me I'm garbage and trash and good-for-nothing. There are people and communities (even inside that monastic and religious place, the Missionary Training Center(s) of the LDS Church) who ridicule and condemn the choices I make when I believe the fruits of those choices will bring me peace and happiness. My seeking out my own happiness is not wrong. Neither is your search for yours. I will not wield my arms against yours trying to convince you I'm right, and I'm not going to undermine your beliefs by labeling you worthless or ignorant.

I won't be put in the trash ever again. I'm not garbage. Neither are you. We are all God's children.

We Gather Together

GMB kept me informed of parties and social gatherings the MoHos had.  I often declined his invitations:  too busy with my trio's rehearsal and competition schedule; too tired from last night's performance; too this or that or the other.  Honestly, I tried to find as many excuses as I could:  I was, quite simply, nervous about placing myself in a new social context, one in which I had no sense of familiary or seniority.

GMB knows that I love planning parties and setting up seating arrangements and watching how people interact.  He also knows that--being the performer I am--I need (usually) to be a central focus of attention, and I need social groups who are familiar with and forgiving of my appetite for the spotlight.  Despite my seeming social ease, I think he knew what a scary idea going to a MoHo party was for me, and he knew he had to be in attendance, if I were to ever attend, as my social crutch--the confident hub, as it were, upon which my social spoke could place itself.  He persisted in inviting me to different functions, and I finally agreed to go with him one Saturday evening.

We arrived late, but our entrance didn't create any sort of stir.  There were quite a few boys, young and dressed in the latest American Eagle/Hollister fare, seated and chatting away on the living room couch.  A group of men philosiphised around the dining room table.  A few awkward duos and trios hovered about the perimeter of the room. The host got up from his perch at an inviting fireplace and greeted us. 

I didn't know anyone except GMB, and I got a little anxious.  I didn't know how the people at this "foreign" party would fit into my social schema.  Where was the equivalant of silly, warm Jacquelyn, or the wisdom of Emily, or the pert snappiness Serenity?  I was grateful to have, at least, some level of comfort and familiarity with GMB.

He knew many of the guys there, readily introducing me as Nic (aka "Cole") and giving me the names and blogger references of the guys I was meeting.  I was happy to actually see some of the blog authors whose posts I'd been reading, and it was nice to finally have a face and a real-world name to put with the profiles.  GMB left me a few minutes after the introductions were made, and I was on my own.   I grabbed a dessert plate, piled it with as much chocolate as I could find, and perused the room for an open seat.

A New World

In my own sort of imitation-is-a-form-of-flattery, I followed GMB's lead and created a blogger profile: favoritenic.  I had never been a blogger, and I wasn't sure what to expect.  Was I going to read sappy, diary-like, TMI blog shares? Rants and reverences on pop culture divas? Conservative-bashing? I kept tabs on GMB's blog and saw that he'd quickly captured the attentions of quite a few readers.  Those little photo squares began to fill the right side of his screen under the "Followers" tab.  I admit, I was intrigued by links to blogs with names like A Thousand Leagues from Average, Darling Derrick, and Third Wave Mormon, clicked on their blog links and began my reading.

I was shocked, yet still found an odd sort of comfort, at all the blogs I found.  There were gay Mormon boys and lesbian Mormon girls, husband-and-wife teams who wrote of their trials and triumphs in mixed-orientation-marriages (MOM's), Moho's who were just coming out and Moho's who had been writing for years.  I read posts written in bursts of frustration, anger and sorrow and also posts typed up in moments of confident joy and gratitude.  I found bloggers who quickly captured my attention because of their strong political or spiritual rhetoric and I also found bloggers who repulsed my sensitive nature with their harsh judgments and negative words.

Although many of the things I read resonated with my personal philosophies--or, at the very least, created a strong response within me--I shirked affiliation with the Moho group.  Frankly, I was irritated by the names  some bloggers chose to call themselves.  Many of the Moho bloggers I read kept very ambiguous or generic names in order, I suppose, to maintain a veil of anonymous safety.  I understood the desire some bloggers might have had, as it were, to stay "hidden in the light": possibly, they hadn't come out yet; perhaps they didn't want to advertise their sexual orientation on the web and risk real world encounters with family and friends who might not have otherwise known; maybe their pen-name gave them license to write about things they wouldn't have otherwise discussed.  I don't know.

I do know this: I hadn't planned on discussing topics of faith and sexuality and such when I first began writing my first blog.  I had no qualms about using part of my real name in my blogger name, but I do remember the first time I composed a post on that blog which dealt with my own homosexuality.  I didn't think many people were reading my blog, but I was still nervous that someone from whom I'd kept my orientation would find out. I wrote a disclaimer.

*My goal in writing this blog is to record the discoveries, the beautiful and transcendent events, transformations and tender mercies I find in life which lead me to greater good.  I do not wish to turn "flowers" into a "Gay Mormon"  or "Moho" blog, although those types of blogs have their place.  This post is a reflection on an experience which has fueled a lot of thought for me, and I'm sure posts on similar subjects will follow.  I'm not afraid, nor am I ashamed, but I do ask any Reader to read with love and empathy.

 I had come out to my immediate family two years before I began my first blog, and flowers pick themselves.  I had come out to my very close friends.  I decided it would be easier and create much less anxiety in my life if I left my coming out at that: coming out to the people with whom I shared my life, my love and my living space.  But this post would be the first time I would come out--say "I'm a gay man"--to a more public arena, and my name, favoritenic, would be typed up right under the post itself.  It was scary, but I took a deep breath and clicked PUBLISH.

Well, no one showed up in my Hotmail inbox, my Facebook page or my front door with the intent to tie me to a stake and set me up in fire.  Other, infrequent posts followed in which I discussed further facets of being a gay man in Utah.  I continued reading the blog GMB kept up, as well as those of other Moho's, and commented (with the exception of GMB's posts, where I wrote as "Cole" for the sake of the we're-in-on-this-together kind of feeling between GMB and myself) as favoritenic.

I took pleasure in the feeling that I wasn't hiding, and--I admit--I made some pretty petty judgments about the bloggers who kept their names to themselves.  I didn't understand how these writers, who wrote in such fervent, opinionated and impassioned voices, could hide behind clever and mystifying aliases, and so, I read from a distance which kept me separate from them. 

But my desire to keep up with GMB and his social life wouldn't allow such distance for long.

Notes from "Cole"

My best friend has a blog, The Wanderings and Delusions of a Gay Mormon Boy, in which he "details [his] experiences as a Gay Mormon Boy one year after the actual events in a literary experiment. [He] examine[s his] journey out of the closet, [his] spiritual conflict, and [his] dating life."  His was the first blog I ever read consistently, in part because he's a brilliant poet, critic and writer, and I wanted to see how he would treat writing of a more personal nature; in part because I knew that, as his best friend, I would play quite a role in some of the events the blog would feature, and I wanted to see his take on some of our shared experiences. 

Changing the names of "everyone involved...for the sake of privacy", my friend became "GMB" and I became "Cole."  It was fun to try and figure out who was who on the blog (not that it was incredibly difficult), and I'd often e-mail or call GMB, asking if so-and-so was so-and-so.  Admittedly, I enjoyed seeing my alias any time it popped up in his blog.  I quite liked the air of being in quiet cahoots when GMB would e-mail me to consider my opinion on the turn of this phrase or to ask if he had the details of some event quite right.  I began to track the position "Cole" took on the side of the screen under the Labels tab, and felt surges of theatrical pride any time my blog-name pushed another topic down a rung, leaving things like sexuality, the Church, just for fun, and Mark dwindling in its wake, until it reached the top! I enjoyed the little surreptitious smile I wore as I commented on certain posts as "Cole", and I liked reading the comments of GMB's other readers.  I clicked on the blogger profiles of readers who made insightful comments with which I could agree, and--reading their blog stories and posts--began to acquaint myself with the MoHo blogosphere.