On Fire with the holy spirit

  
The Holy Spirit entered my body as they laid hands on me and screamed in tongues. We were in a hotel in Pensacola, Florida, here for a youth ministry retreat on Catholic evangelism. It was a growing movement, and they needed an army of Catholic soldiers ready to take to the streets preaching the word of God. Ours were souls most at risk for we were at that tender age, puberty, where the devil, or hormones, tempt at every corner. They were going to save us, and in return we'd save others.

We were a rag tag crew of mostly kids with which no one else played. We had a common identifier: outcast, nerd, geek, queer. The adults didn't fair much better. One leader was a large woman with short black hair. Looking at her, you knew she had gone through exactly what you had, the teasing and harassment, but she met the world with sparkly eyes and a smile. She was nice, and I wanted to be nice too. If she was here, obviously I was meant to be here. Looking back at the pictures, you'd think we were actually going to a queer camp. Only large steel crosses hung from our necks.

The bus made its journey southward stopping at Grotto of the Redemption in West Bend, Iowa, and then Memphis to see Graceland. We prayed a lot, but I had yet to speak in tongues. Something kept blocking the release. They called it Satan; I called it sanity.

Along the way, I developed a deep affection for and connection to this community. It was easy to count myself among them because they understood the feeling of being queer. Sure it might not have referred to sexuality, but it did pertain to that unique experience of revelation that something about you truly is different. That moment is so profound. It moves you to another place from which you can never go back. Each and every one of us felt different in our homes and lives. Here, we were "normal". Or as normal a group of evangelical Catholic teens can be.

Our travels ended in Pensacola, and I still hadn't spoken in tongues. I was one of the rare ones, even among this motley crew. I was beginning to feel like an outsider, and so my mania set in. Jokes started spewing and obnoxiousness ensued. It actually fit right in. Evangelicals are nothing if not manic. In fact, speaking in tongues requires hysteria and frenzy in equal amounts. I was finally on my way towards revelation. All I needed to do was let go of rationality. My body chemistry would do the rest.

If you have never spoken in tongues or done drugs, it is hard to truly imagine what the experience is like. If you have done either, you've experienced the same thing. It is just that you got there a different way. I was in my early teenage years, and, thanks to my own conservatism, hadn't tried drugs yet, so I had nothing to compare it to. In the moment, it was blissfully divine.

I stood in the center of a small group of youth and adults. Each person placed one hand on me and raised the other towards heaven. Prayer started in English with one of the adults.

"Dearest God in heaven, our Lord and Savior. We are here today beseeching your blessing for your disciple Jason. He is your vessel, dear Jesus. He is open to your love and kindness. He is in awe of your might. He is here to serve, almighty Lord. Please bless him with the gift of the Holy Spirit. So he may experience all of Your greatness, power and might!"

As he prayed, the other surrounding me whispered their prayers with closed eyes and faces turned upwards. Their whispers were inaudible and intelligible, spoken in the language of the Holy Spirit. Each hand on my shoulder, head, arm, waist, back, or neck conducted heat and electricity. My body tingled and sparked. Something was coursing through me. I felt it in the tips of my toes and in that place behind the eyes. The place that opens your third eye.

The leader of this laying of hands burst out loudly in tongues and ignited the volume of the others. I was swimming amidst a whirlwind of indecipherable sounds and overwhelming emotion. All of our difference, otherness, and awkwardness made manifest. I was the eye of this hysterical storm, the walls of which were shrinking. More hands were laid on me. More electricity coursed through my body. More prayers were offered.

The tickle behind the eyes intensified to full-grade migraine complete with flashing white light. I was surrounded by clouds lost among the fog trying to find the sky and Son. The tongues were transformed into the song of the heavens, and I listened quietly. Peaking over the horizon was God. I found Him. I was saved. Tongues spilled from my mouth.

My body convulsed. I was caught. They laid me on the hotel room's bed. My face was flush red, and I was sweating profusely. Someone grabbed a wet towel from the bathroom and dabbed my forehead. I kept muttering unaware of what I said still staring at my Lord as He bestowed blessings, revelations, warnings. I awoke with a profound need to proselytize.

The next bit is a haze, but I ended up in the streets of Pensacola, Florida, preaching the word of God at the top of my lungs for all to hear. It was summer and dark, so it was late. I had no fear. God released that. It made me reckless. Luckily, there were few people on the street and most ignored me. Those that didn't thought I was a loon and made their feelings known. I didn't care. I was doing God's work.

I wandered the streets for an hour or two and snaked my way back to the hotel. I was on fire - the Holy Spirit in all corners of my body. I jumped in the pool wearing all of my clothes hoping to cool myself while screaming in tongues. Everyone greeted me with compassion and love and curiosity. I was no longer someone who wanted to be among them. I was someone in communion with them. We now all had a common experience to share. The seal broken, I spoke in tongues during every prayer and laying of hands.

I haven't spoken in tongues since that trip, but I've felt the fire of the holy spirit and communed with god. Something was unlocked during that trip: a desire to be myself including all the mania, frenzy, and hysteria that accompanies living a true existence. My truth may not be Catholic evangelism, but it does hold a deep reverence for existential experiences rooted in emotion. For it was that exact same feeling I had when I finally came out: a complete release of self.

It is why I am still coming out today.

Seeing More Than Gay

She was the love of my life for six plus years. I am queer because of my love for her. I was no longer gay because I loved the feel of her smooth, supple body next to me -- the way her breasts pushed against my back. She was not the first. She was the catalyst. I am forever indebted to her for showing me so much more than gay.

Moments of Coming Out

  
There are moments of rebellion of taking risk, fate, and chance and mixing them into a combustible concoction set to explode at a moments notice. Those are the moments of coming out of being who you are regardless of what others think. Those are the moments you know love. I've had many of those moments. For that, I am grateful.

The First Coming Out

  
I came out as gay when I was in seminary. I remember going into seminary already questioning myself. I was attracted to boys/men at a very young age. In fact, I can't remember a time when I didn't like boys. All of the social stigma that still exists around being LGBTQ existed then, and I knew I couldn't say anything. Sure there were glimpses of my latent homosexuality -- I called 1-976 numbers when I was in 8th grade from my grandma's phone thinking I wouldn't get caught. But that didn't mean I would verbally admit to those attractions.

Coming Out Again, and Again, and Again

  
I came out at 18, but also at 8, 13, and again at 23. Each time, I found a new piece of myself and lost another. It was a constant opening and shutting of doors, of answering different people's knocks in the early morning hours. Partially, it has been about me and my identity. Partially, it has been about conforming to others' constructs. It is a vacillation between breaking free and being bound. In reality, I am still coming out. I always will.

"and we're in love"

She came out to her parents.

"What? Isn't he gay," they asked.

"No," she said. "He's queer, and we're in love."

Chicken Boy and Chicken Hawk

  
I wandered the Renaissance Faire, on break from my tour bus duties, when I saw them. They were the first gay couple I could identify. It was something about the way they touched that did it. I followed them.

One of the men caught me and approached. He leaned in close, whispered "We know. It's okay. You're cute," and handed me his number. I was 15. They were in their 30s.

I held on to his number as a security blanket underneath my pillow each night. Sometimes, I'd pick up the phone and dial his number. I never spoke. I was too afraid that even saying hello made me a fag, so I hung up. I wasn't concerned that him handing me his number possibly made him a pedophile. In fact, it turned me on.

I jacked off to this thought until I came out.

My Brother Finds Out

  
The news hit my old high school before I could tell my brother, and he found out from friends. That wasn't how I wanted it to happen. I wanted to protect him and shelter him from the new as I was sure it would shock him. I didn't have enough faith in him. He handled it beautifully.

The Coming Out Note

 

She was my best friend my senior year of high school and my prom date. She was new having moved from her mom's in South Dakota to her dad and step mom's in Minnetonka. We did almost everything together: church youth group, hanging out after school, babysitting her sister. We had lots of fun.
 
The night my parents found out I was gay I was supposed to get together with her. We hadn't seen each other since all of the bull shit in the seminary, nd I was eager to regale her with tales, especially the one about the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I needed to hear that everything was okay.

My mother called me upstairs. I was getting ready trying on a variety of sweaters and pants trying to find the most stylish combination. 

"What now," I thought but said, "Be right up!" I rushed upstairs.

It came out of the blue. "We know," they said, and left it at that waiting for me to admit it.

"Know what?" I replied fidgeting, thinking "I'm not getting out of the house tonight."

"I found the note," my mom said.

"What note?" My hands twisted behind my back.

"The note."

"Oh shit," I thought as tears formed in the corners of their eyes. "Something's about to happen."

"We know you're gay." I can't remember which one said it.

I was quiet. "I am not going to be able to go out," was the only thought in my head.

There were a few more exchanges. Something like: "We still love you." "We will need to talk to the priest." "We don't totally understand this."

It ended with "We know you have plans tonight. Go out and have fun."

I went over to her house. We didn't talk about the seminary.

Stolen Playgirls

 
B. Dalton carried Playgirl. I visited frequently and shoplifted copies. I would walk over to the magazine rack and casually peruse Home and Garden, Marie Claire, Vogue, and Women's Day, and when the clerk wasn't looking I'd grab a Playgirl and shove it between the pages of one of the myriad women's magazines. When the clerk turned away again, I would shove it up my shirt or down my pants and move to the sci fi or mystery section. Another ten to fifteen minutes later I left looking dejected that I didn't find what I was looking for, heart pounding hoping I wouldn't get caught.

The magazine was masturbatory gold and got tucked away between the mattress and box spring next to the naked men birthday cards I stole from the drug store. My stash was my fantasy and needed to be hidden between things. They invaded my dreams, and I woke up wet.

This continued until my mother decided to clean my bedroom or make my bed or snoop and found the naked men between mt sheets. She threw them away, confronted me, and I denied the whole thing scared that they would send back to a shrink to become straight like they did in the eighth grade.

"They aren't mine. It won't happen again," I said.

We all lived in denial for a few more years.

May Day Is for Kisses

 
I was in the park celebrating with friends on a beautiful May Day as the puppets danced and the protesters cheered. I saw him down the hill, his skinny black jeans, knee-high combat boots, and tousled  hair recognizable from a distance. I hadn't seen him in years. We both grew distant after our ninth grade year filled with horror movies and questions. I wanted to kiss him then, but thought better of it. He left for art school in the eleventh grade.

He saw me too and approached smiling. I walked towards him distancing myself from my friends hoping for privacy in the crowded park. His smile faded, and he raised his hands in greeting, threw them around me, and squeezed -- an action he never would have done in high school. I melted and sighed.

"It's good seeing you. It has been too long. What've you been up to?" I asked trying to start a conversation.

He didn't respond verbally. Instead, he looked at me, leaned in close, and kissed me. The blood rushed to my face, and I felt warm, almost sun-burnt. I kissed back.

We walked hand in hand around the park that afternoon for about half an hour in mundane conversation between waited for kisses.

Then, it was over. He kissed my cheek and said good-bye. I didn't want it to end. It wasn't supposed to be more than a kiss and a confirmation.

I still occasionally  search for him.

The Space Between Introduction

 



In between  myth and reality lies truth. Somewhere between homo and hetero lies queer. And in the space between open and closed lies coming out. This is my story. This is my myth. This is my coming out in honor of all queers.

***
It all started with the blanket of snow dusting the ground and the silence that follows it. I sat in my room staring out the window mesmerized by the frost clinging to the trees anticipating a loud crack or boom to interrupt the silence, hoping the noise would pull me out of the loop of isolation and despair that were setting in. The noise never came, and at times I find myself still caught in that loop.

I never realized how tiny I felt while I sat in that room until I opened the door and left for good. I look back occasionally and see a small fragment of that person still looking at the fresh snow. It doesn't matter that I haven't lived in snow for over 11 years. The cold lingers. It cuts to the bone, and when the ocean wind blows, laced with dense fog, I still feel it. It doesn't matter how loved I am, how connected I am, how prosperous or fortunate I am. I am still that adolescent waiting for that boom, that crack.