Faith, Firsts, and the Quiet Motions of the Holy Ghost

Today, I can only remember a handful of the details from my first sexual experience. I remember, for example, saying “no.” I remember a hand put over my mouth after I yelped in pain. I remember how my first kiss involved teeth, breath, and my ear while my head was held down. I remember shaking a great deal. Fifteen minutes, tops. Eyes down, wash hands. Apologize for something, stutter. Run.

Now, I’m not telling this story to get it out of my system, or to one-up someone in the arms race of oppression, or to raise awareness about sexual assault. The women down at the Develle Dish are already working fairly hard at an awareness campaign, and I recognize that my male privilege might be one of the only reasons I can write this post with my name attached. See, believe it or not, I’m not here to talk about sexual assault: I’m here to talk about religion.

I get questions about my faith a lot. This is probably because it baffles people. Queer folk of faith are uncommon enough, but converting after coming out is practically unheard of. I grew up as a hard-line atheist in a town so pious that even some of my teachers harassed me for my beliefs. Like many artsy, nerdy kids in the early teens, I started studying and loosely identifying as Buddhist. If that’s not enough, I’m crass. I’m debaucherous. I’m cynical. I’m occasionally blasphemous. Yet, during the Easter Vigil at the chapel my freshman year, I still stood up in front of everyone and, wearing a suit and baptismal robes, I officially converted to Catholicism.

When people ask me what caused me to convert, there’s a handful of lines I tend to feed them. Sometimes I’ll contrast it with other religions (notably Buddhism) as one of the few that explicitly celebrates life and humanity. Other days, I might talk about the beauty in the notion that an unwed teen mother was the only human born without sin. If I’m talking with a friend who knows that I have difficulty swallowing the supernatural, I talk about the value in identifying with a cultural and moral superstructure. I make it all sound very academic.

In addition to being cynical, crass, and debaucherous, though, I’m also a liar. I know the exact moment and reason I became religious. As you might expect, this brings us back to our story. I was assaulted on a weekday around lunch time. I still had to get through the rest of the afternoon as if nothing was wrong. I wore my hoodie slung low over my eyes. I avoided making any eye contact or walking near anyone. Part of this was to avoid having to talk. More than that, though, I felt somehow certain that if I got close enough to anyone they would surely smell something wrong with me. If dogs can smell fear, it seemed to make sense that students could smell shame. Or maybe smell sweat on my clothes, see dried spit on my face. Maybe smell another body. The blood.

Eventually, sulking and sagging, I made it back to my room. I docked my iPhone, turned on some music, and sank into a puddle leaning against my bed. Even today, I admit that I rarely ever pray, and when I do, only in celebration. I pray in museums, or during the sprint at the last leg of a run, or when I find someone beautiful and naked sleeping next to me. Before this day, though, I never bowed my head or bent my knee. If I wanted to talk, I talked to a human being. If I needed help, I asked it from someone with a physical body. But at the moment I didn’t have anyone I wanted to talk to, and there wasn’t much any human being could do to help.

So I prayed. It wasn’t as eloquent as Christ on the Mount, or as beautiful as the song from within Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace, but I imagine it was at least sincere. I asked to no longer be attracted to men. I asked to forget. I probably asked to die. None of my prayers were answered. But, like any good student in the South, I had read a lot of Flannery O’Connor: I knew what it was supposed to feel like when the eye of God was staring directly at you. For the first time since lunch, I stopped shaking. My mind was still racing and raving, yet my body slowed and matched itself to a different heartbeat. Even today, I will swear that I felt the breath of the Spirit against my neck. So, at 4:00 p.m., I climbed into my bed. I cried a moment and fell asleep. I did not dream. I woke the next morning.

It was a small miracle, granted. My life wasn’t any less miserable. It didn’t heal any trauma or keep me from fearing sex for over a year. But, I lived. A few months later, I started attending church on my own. It confused people. My mother made sure to remind me that the Vatican wasn’t historically fond of queer men, but otherwise people kept their opinions to themselves. Eventually, during my initiation years later, I had to speak with a priest concerning my faith and motivations to join the Church. I don’t fully remember the conversation, but I know I struggled with the point. I couldn’t figure out how to explain that I still had too much doubt in salvation for it to be a purely selfish venture for me. I couldn’t figure out how to explain the words “He was a good listener one day--I owe Him one.”

Obligations, Women, and Terrible Dancing

I feel there’s some unspoken understanding on this blog that at least one post has to chronicle the writer’s first major coming to terms with self and sexuality. Such a post can feature some fraught coming-out narrative, or it can be entirely reflective and conceptual. What really matters, though, is that *I* haven’t done one. So, since this is still only my third post, I figured I should get the old self-discovery spiel out of the way way so I can back to writing about more fun things like sex and art.

I’m from the South. And we’re not talking Triangle-South, or Miami-South, or Maryland-South. We’re talking middle-of-the-country, median-income-of-less-than-half-national-average, more-Baptist-churches-than-private-businesses-South. Don’t get the wrong idea from how I describe it: all these things still made for a great place to grow up. But it did also mean that during my formative years, I had no idea what a gay person was, more-the-less what kind of lives they led. I didn’t learn the word “gay” until I was eight. The only gays in the media I saw were on Will & Grace, which was generally considered too racy for me at the time. Any queer adults who found themselves living in Williamston, SC apparently had the good sense to leave, because I’ve not seen hide nor hair of them in a whole lifetime living there.

The only evidence I had that queer adults even existed in the real world was through my mother. Throughout most of my childhood, my mother was a full-time homemaker. This meant that I was told enough stories from her life that I could probably write a competent biography by the time I was ten. In her stories, there was precisely one gay character, a co-worker in a department store when my mother was in her early thirties. Now, my parents are both liberal (much more so than myself), and my mother always made it clear that she thought LGBT Americans deserved the same rights and respect as others. But she also made it clear that she thought this man was a despicable little shit. It wasn’t that he playfully flirted with male customers. It wasn’t that he talked explicitly about sex. It wasn’t that he bought drinks for boys when they all went out to the bar after work. It was that he had a wife and children. According to my mother, he didn’t know he was gay until after he was married. But, for my mother that didn’t redeem him in the slightest. All she saw was a man who made someone he cared about suffer every day of her life because of his own lack of honesty and inability to understand his own sexuality. Nothing could be worse than to hurt a women through one’s own ignorance and weakness.

Naturally, Gnothi Seauton became a sort of cardinal queer virtue for me. So, years later as a high-school sophomore, I found myself in a difficult place. Sparing the details, I found myself at a breaking point in sexual tension with a friend. She wanted to get busy. I had secretly liked her since we met. I thought she was hot. But, at the same time, I had also been catching myself staring at boys for the last year or two and had a crush on a senior guy in my drama class. So, when she pressed the issue, I did what seemed like the best idea at the time: I blurted “waitnostopIcan’tI’mgay.” I wasn’t about to let myself become the guy who realize that he was only attracted to men after he was already knee-deep in children.

For most people, I came out as liking men years before I came out as also liking women. I didn’t take a girl out on a date until I was twenty. Naturally, this adds its own whole set of challenges, which are generally unique and absurd enough that I can’t find anyone capable of giving knowing advice. Girls at parties who might have seen me with my ex or hanging around the Center have me friend-zoned before we’ve even met. Having grown into both an adult and feminist before ever being intimate with a woman means I am absolutely terrified of being romantically or sexually assertive. I can’t navigate hetero-hookup culture to save my life (ask me how many strangers I’ve danced with at Shooters. Or don’t, because its zero). I’m getting better in most of these areas (except probably the dancing), I still have a ways to go. But that’s not important. What’s important is that now that I’ve written my requisite exposition and character development, I can promise you all that the next blog post with be full of excitement and action.

Love, Arguments, and the Chemistry of Bodies

My ex boyfriend had a special place in his heart for intellectual arguments. He was a Philosophy major and took every opportunity he could to flex his debating muscles. If that wasn’t bad enough he was good at it and knew that one wins philosophical arguments with mathematical logic and empirical biological evidence rather than by quoting Foucault at random. I freely admit that I rarely, if ever, won any such arguments with him. Mostly I just tried to challenge and amuse him for as long as possible before he-- inevitably-- disproved my belief.

About a month into our relationship, we were studying together in the link when I accidentally stumbled into one such debate. I was trying to convince him to help me with Physics 53 while he was trying to ignore me long enough to finish a Biology essay. Then, out of nowhere we were arguing over, of all things, the transcendent nature of love. My position was, in essence, that love is an illogical and non-useful impulse that would not have evolved naturally in any species. The fact that love not only existed, but fills a central spot in human minds and culture, means then that love must descend from on high. I was arguing for what I think can fairly safely be called the popular opinion: love is inexplicable, transcendent, and a gift straight from God Himself. My boyfriend, in turn, took the position of a cynical scientist, arguing that love is a combination of our biological, sexual impulse and learned social behavior that together serve as human beings’ primary evolutionary selection mechanism. I was trying to use love as a proof for God; he was trying to use love as a proof that evolutionary selection still exists in the modern world.

Our debate didn’t last long, but not because he “won.” Instead, I asked if we could stop talking about it. He went quiet, assuming he had accidently hit a soft-spot and having no desire to dig a deeper hole for himself. He probably assumed that he accidently offended my religious sensibilities-- I was in the process of entering the Catholic Church at the time, and he often found himself being too verbally critical of the decision. I let him think that was the issue. Though I hadn’t told him yet-- nor would I for two more months-- I already knew I was in love. To me, that meant a lot, and I didn’t like what I thought sounded like that feeling being trivialized. What’s worse, though, is that I was afraid that if he talked longer he might convince me. That was the most terrifying. I liked being able to think of my relationship with my boyfriend as something special and almost holy, and I didn’t want that sanctity taken away. With this fear in me and knowing it might not be long before the topic came up again, I decided to study up and develop a more advanced answer to Haddaway’s immortal question.

My approach to rooting out the nature of love was somewhat convoluted because it pitted two warring parts of my personality against each other. See, anyone who knows me knows I’m a painfully abrasive cynic. Anyone who knows me a little better knows I also am, paradoxically, a shameless romantic who weeps during romantic comedies and thinks that couples who marry before the age of 25 are heartwarming beacons of joy in a disillusioned age rather than kids making bad financial decisions. I am, in turn, already very well versed in all the tropes of love and can quote appropriate Death Cab lyrics about the immortality of true love just as readily as I can cite examples of love at first sight in both reality and fiction. I expect most readers will agree that love is built on a sort of intellectual compatibility: partners are expected to be able to share and compare insights, humor, and good conversation. Yet still there exists the concept of being “struck” by love, repeated again and again in stories and film. There needs to be some sort of intangible impetus that separates compatibility from something more. Additionally, if intellectual compatibility were all it took, it stands to reason that “sexuality” as a concept would be nonexistant.

The natural assumption, then, as to the source of this spark is simple: sex. Or, to use a tamer word, physicality. The addition of a physical connection to an intellectual connection creates what we call romantic love. This means that the unique quality of love is a deeply rooted physical attraction. Now, you might be thinking that sounds a bit odd from a self professed romantic. I think a big part of that comes with the fact that when we think of sexuality, our first mental image involves grunting, squishing, and an abundance of fluids. What I’m talking about is slightly different. I remember how the first time I ever knew I was in love was when I bumped into a friend coming back from a run. She greeted me with a hug, and my arm wrapped around her narrow back as I noticed that the sweat in her hair smelled like smoke and timber. One might hesitate to call such a moment sexual, but there was a physicality and a fluttering. It’s these small characteristics that make any regular relationship something more: the way my ex’s left eye would always crinkle and squint more than the other when he or grinned; the pacing of a partner’s breathing when they’re asleep; the way a friend’s voice might drop when they’re nervous. It’s these sounds, smells, features inherent within a person that draw out our feelings.

After the initial argument, I remember realizing how much this was starting to align with my ex’s perspective. Still, it wasn’t quite enough to prove one way or the other. I remember thinking how years before, shortly after I came out to one of my closest friends, he asked if I thought sexuality was a choice or not. I thought about it only a moment before answering “I don’t really care either way.” My life, I thought, made me happy and fulfilled without harming or upsetting anyone-- it didn’t seem important whether that was carved into my genome or the result of some subconscious decision years ago. This is the same answer I developed for my argument. Even if the fact that my love for him was rooted in some chemical appreciation of his body, it didn’t make the way I felt for my ex any less miraculous. If anything, there is something sexy in the mystery of it.

Repeal, The Question, and JFK

[Editor's Note: Today marks the first day that LGBQ service-members can serve openly. Here at the BDU Blog we could not be more excited to celebrate the occasion by featuring a post by one of Duke's own LGBQ ROTC members. We've been waiting for this moment since your first year, Pruitt!]

Sometimes, I like to consider the legacy of President Kennedy to be one of my personal enemies. Folks who know me well might be able to tell you how quickly I can turn a topical discussion of current politics into an only-somewhat-related angry tirade against the former Commander in Chief. Now, there are all too many gripes I have with Kennedy that I won't bother writing here. Instead, I'm only going to address my biggest issue with the man: his most famous statement has ruined how we, as a people, think about ourselves and the nation. Every time I hear "ask not what your country can do for you…," a part of me cringes.

Now, I know, that's a fairly edgy set of political/philosophical/governmental statements for our less-than-edgy support/celebration/ community blog here, so allow me to clear up the association with an example. Anytime you get interviewed within the military, or have a friend learn you're in the military, or walk on a bus in uniform, there is a pretty solid chance that you'll get the Question. "So, [awkwardly leans over and reads nameplate], what made you want to join the Navy?" There's only a few different answers generally given in polite company, and it only takes a bit of time around military personnel and prospective to have heard them all. "I wanted to serve my country," or "To do my part," or "To help defend democracy," all get played out fairly quickly. I should think even just saying "Freedom," with enough oo-rah in your voice should get a fairly warm reception. The answers we give—the answers we're comfortable giving—are always about what we can do for our country. I like to think that people who have heard all the normal answers but still keep asking the Question (I'm looking at you, interview board for Congressional nominations to the Naval Academy) want a bit more of an honest, gritty answer so they can really see the muck and guts that form sailor's loyalties. After forty years on the job, they want to hear Real Talk about the money, the women, and the resumes.

The first time I remember getting the Question was from an interviewing Navy Lieutenant when I applied for an NROTC scholarship. I was at a residential arts school at the time and, since we couldn't have personal vehicles on campus, she had to come to the school to meet with me. I met her at the front admissions desk, her in prim, official Khaki and myself in some dressy get-up that screamed Art School Kid. I led her by practice rooms where a strand of Rachmaninoff was played and replayed every five seconds, a courtyard where a giggly gaggle of dancers arabesqued between us, and finally through a small library with more than half its shelves full of art history into a quiet meeting room. After sitting down, filling in the beginning of some Very Official Paperwork and opening a thermos of coffee, she laid it on me—Why? Even though she hasn't so much as glanced at my application yet or read a single entry under "activities," our Lieutenant knows I'm a far shot from the traditional officer candidate or enlistee. Even if she was paying attention on her way inside, LT probably wouldn't have been able to find our one American flag on campus—finding any Eagle Scouts, Varsity football stars, or JROTC Student Commanders would be even harder. I clearly belonged in a coffee house or an obscure (still hip) local art gallery, not on a drill field. So, she asked, why?

For her watching, it probably looked like I blanked and had not yet thought of a reason behind my newly decided career path. The truth is, I had the answer on the tip of my tongue, the slightly-selfish answer that could knock the dust right off of Congressman Barrett's interviewing board, the completely-left-field answer to startle the curious stranger on the bus, and the sufficiently-unique answer to get all manner of asterisks on my FITREPs. I wanted to toss the meeting room door back open and gesture at my absurd campus, saying, "I want to be more than this. I shape my own identity, and I refuse to be locked up in the Art Haus closets of so many from the LGBT community. I am so sick of all the spangles and glitter that blots out my sight whenever I see queer men in media, and I'm sick of the fact that's all the rest of America can see too. In five years, I want people to go to my commissioning and say 'That's what a queer American male looks like, and damn does it look fine.' I want to be one of the first openly bisexual men to be made an officer in the United States Navy."

Instead, though, I was stunned into silence. "Want to see the world, maybe? Call of the sea?" she prompted." I looked at her confused for a moment before stumbling over my words, that, yeah, call of the sea, love traveling, right. I wasn't even in the Navy yet, and they already had my first lie. On that day, just like every time turned aside and smiled at an off-handed gay joke, and every time I mentioned Sharon to my ROTC peers, and every time I dropped my last boyfriend's hand as we exited our dorm together, DADT had me lying and lying and lying. I tried to stay sane through other outlets: I gave a few anonymous interviews, I had a photo (courtesy Jeff Sheng) run everywhere from Newsweek to NPR along with their coverage of repeal, and I sank to dangerously dependent levels in an increasingly painful relationship that could have never have a public face. As of today, though, I don't need special outlets or mediums to be myself and stay afloat. So, while I can't officially give opinions on any military policy, I can say that today's repeal means I can finally stop lying and start giving real answers to the Question. More importantly, though, LGB servicemen currently on active duty can finally have some reprieve from Kennedy's cruel burden of national duty: for the first time in a very, very long time, they aren't being asked what more they can give to their country before it finally does something for them.