"God is Love"

If there’s one thing that rarely gets much love on this blog, it’s the Bible.  Now, perhaps that’s understandable—Leviticus 18 tends not to get too many in the LGBT community excited for what follows (Leviticus is, admittedly, also the end of many Christians’ attempts to read the Bible cover-to-cover). And, for the LGBT community, what follows doesn’t seem to be particularly “Good News.”  Romans 1, 1 Corinthians 6, 1 Timothy 1 don’t seem to contain the affirmation we generally expect in the LGBT community.

I was recently directed to a very interesting discussion of Scripture and homosexuality.  Matthew Vines, a student at Harvard who came out his sophomore year, has spent the last two years researching Biblical exegesis on this topic.  In a recent presentation, he discusses the passages in the Bible he finds to be cited most often in Scriptural arguments against homosexuality. After exploring each one of them in turn, he [spoiler alert] concludes that none of them can be used as arguments against a loving, committed, and monogamous same-sex relationship.

While the Catholic Church would end up disagreeing with Matthew’s conclusion, one of the things I love about his discussion is how it places the Scriptural passages he discusses in context.  One of the tenets of the Catholic faith is that any Scriptural passage must be interpreted within the Tradition as well as within its overall Biblical context.  While Matthew, being Protestant, doesn’t exactly discuss a ton of Catholic Tradition, his presentation does a great job of contextualizing the passages, and is definitely worth a watch.

One of the things that surprised me in Matthew’s presentation was not necessarily what he chose to include.  Rather, I found it very interesting one Biblical quote that he didn’t mention. It’s perhaps the passage that I have seen most quoted around this community: 1 John 4, “God is love.”  It’s an absolutely beautiful quote that is central to the Christian understanding of God and love both.  It is also a quote that is often used in an argument against the Church’s teachings on homosexuality.  The argument generally runs something along the lines of, “I can’t imagine a God who is love asking me to deny such a huge part of myself whom He created and called good.”

I think it’s particularly appropriate to talk about this argument today, because today is the day Christians celebrate Good Friday—the day we commemorate the death and crucifixion of Jesus on the Cross.  What does Jesus being tortured to death have to do with an argument predicated on “God is love,” you may ask?  Well, everything.

In my previous post, I asked us to reflect on what we mean when we say “love.”  When St. John writes, “God is love,” he specifically is referring to agape—Christian love. John Paul II, in his Theology of the Body, teaches that love is a “sincere gift of self.”  The ultimate expression of this gift of self is ultimately found on the Cross.

When a Catholic looks at a crucifix, (s)he sees this paradigmatic act of love.  “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13).  Christian love is a sacrificial love that looks beyond oneself.  It is a gift of oneself without thought to whether another “deserves it.”  Christian love is to “do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you” (Luke 6:28). 

This is why the Church looks with confusion on an argument that seems to say “God is love, therefore gay sex.” This argument makes multiple assumptions.  It rightfully assumes that we were ultimately created in order to love.  It wrongfully assumes that love necessarily entitles one to sex.  It wrongfully assumes that if I don’t have sex, I can’t love.  It wrongfully assumes that to deny one of my desires is necessarily to deny God’s ultimate plan.  Jesus said,  “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me” (Mark 8:34).  To derive from love a right—any right—seems counterintuitive to the love we are reminded of so clearly on Good Friday.  Where is entitlement in Jesus on the Cross?

God’s love on the Cross was all about giving everything when nothing was deserved.  That’s understandably unpopular in this world, and it’s a teaching that, admittedly, Christians often don’t live up to.  After all, today is the day we remember that when Jesus came preaching this message, we all rejected Him and tortured Him to death.  However, that does not change what love means, and it does not change that Christians are called to this understanding of love.

No wonder, with all the Scripture Matthew Vines used to argue against the traditional interpretation, he didn’t mention the argument from “God is love.”  That sentence contains so much of the Christian message. Yet, it cannot be taken out of context and argued that that sentence necessarily contain sex.  Today, we are reminded that love is about so much more than sex. 

I hope everyone has a blessed Good Friday and a happy Easter.

What do we mean by Love(=Love)?

In the LGBT community, we love the phrase Love=Love. It’s plastered everywhere—from outside the Center to shirts we distribute to the entire campus. But I can’t help but wonder what message people are actually receiving. After all, Love=Love seems to be more than just a trivial tautology, else there would simply be no point.

While loveis an unfortunately vague and overused word in the English language (e.g. Mean Girls),judging by the art on the T-shirt, which includes gay and straight couples holding hands, I don’t think we’re talking about my love for Italian food or God’s love for humanity. We seem to be talking specifically about romantic love, and I think most people interpret the shirt as meaning gay/lesbian romantic love=straight romantic love.

That seems simple enough. However I think that many people, upon seeing this shirt, draw more than this. Consider the application of this to political rights, where we might want to say gay romantic love=straight romantic love, therefore gay marriage. However, the only rights that we can really derive from the statement gay romantic love=straight romantic love are those which are guaranteed solely in virtue of romantic love. And, thus, I am left asking what does romantic love in and of itself entail.

I feel that in our culture we are taught that love justifies pretty much anything (note how we’ve lost the “romantic” part--though it's still implied). While the hopeless romantic in me loves Disney movies, there is a recurring message that love solves everything; Hercules literally becomes a god through romantic love. Or what about romantic comedies, such as Made of Honor, in which Patrick Dempsey does everything he can to break up his best friend’s wedding because he is “in love”with her? Made of Honor ends up with Patrick Dempsey happily on his honey moon with his now-wife. No regrets. No mention of the now-ex-fiancé who was literally rejected at the altar.

How often dowe try to use love to justify things we normally would never even consider? How many times have you seen your friend, once they have a boyfriend or girlfriend, disappear from your life to spend all their time with their boy/girlfriend—previous plans discarded? I once was told not to date during my Freshman year, because apparently love demands me to sacrifice my grades despite my education’s $59,900/year price tag. And sometimes, romantic love apparently demands we even violate others ’rights—what is it we say about those we love? That for him/her, we’d let the world burn? Dante once wrote,

“People in love cannot be moved by kindness,

and opposition makes them feel like martyrs.”

Once we are in love, we appeal to love to ignore the normal rules of kindness, and we start sacrificing others in devotion to love, and we hold ourselves up as somehow sanctified by our sacrifice. We start feeling not only justified in our actions by romantic love, but entitled through it.

And so we return to my original question—what we can derive from romantic love? It is so tempting for those fighting for LGBT rights to equivocate on romantic love and capitalize on the cultural primacy of love to try. Love=Love à{Rights} without clearly establishing what rights romantic love can actually give. Turning romantic love into rhetoric, however, makes us lose sight of how beautiful and valuable romantic love itself is. We must return to ask what exactly love is, and in determining what romantic love is—and is not—I suspect we will find it to be more than we even wanted it to be, even if not in the way we originally thought.

We consider ourselves a loving and accepting community, so let us figure out what we mean when we say that. Let us explore what love actually means.

Hands.

[Author’s note: This was written in response to a conversation I had the other day with a friend about the hand-holding sit in the LGBT center held last year in response to on-campus hatred toward same-sex couples holding hands..]

Last night in fleeting passion

Our hands, like two strangers, met.

And like lips in most ardent prayer, held fast.

In the shadows of your room

My hands were free to study yours.

Intertwined. And inseparable.

But today you are cold.

Your hand still beside you

Enclosed in shadows,

And studied in secrets;

Longing to find warmth in the comfort of a touch.

Relaying the sweet nothings we long to speak

Our hands brush briefly as we part

For our lips cannot.

Just in Time for V-Day

Things I love about being with a(n) (incredible) woman:

• soft lips (both sets)
• general softness
• having our periods together (and not freaking out about it)
• passionately singing sappy country love songs
• doing our hair/makeup together
• drankin games with the boys
• holding hands on Main Street
• dancing at The Bar
• queer friends
• "duke standard of beauty"
• hi-top sneakers and hoodies
• orchids
• clit action
• uh-maayyyyzannn sex
• despite girls/guys' advances, she's coming home with me ; )
• random creeper: "so, do you have a man?" me: "nope. better" =)
• sugary sweetness
• home cookin
• thoughtfulness
• physical/emotional/intellectual stimulation
• nips
• sharing clothes (that actually fit)
• guys and girls complimenting how beautiful she is
• awesome journal entry material
• curves
• spooning
• squirting
• cuddling
• the L word references
• her lower back
• gender roles
• raising my hand in class when someone makes a heteronormative comment
• making the rules as we go
• healthy love
• peace
• sanity
• communication
• loving deliberately

Learning to Love Myself

I don’t know whether or not I am capable of truly loving someone. Of course, I love my family very deeply, but I have never been ‘in love’ with anyone. I know, I know, I’m only 19 and I really shouldn’t expect to have found “the one”, but sometimes I get the feeling that I will be single for the rest of my life. The sad part is – that doesn’t really bother me. It’s not that I don’t want to have my own happily ever after story, rest assured I do. I merely mean to say that I’m not scared of solitude (or it’s my greatest fear and I’m deluding myself by telling myself the opposite.) Trusting someone else with my love makes me vulnerable. I never want that vulnerability to allow someone to destroy the sense of self I’ve constructed/developed/whatever. Not coming out was an intentional way of me avoiding dating, purposely skirting all those messy emotions.

I’ve always told myself that, if I find the right person, then it won’t matter what anyone else thinks, because I’ll be completely in love with him (her?) and, at that point, coming-out will be insignificant. In high school, I had no reason to come out because 1) it wasn’t exactly a gay-friendly culture and 2) there weren’t any guys that I thought were “worth coming out for.” (If that sounds offensive, I’m sorry.)

This little…strategy worked well while I was in high school, but now that I’m in college I’m realizing the effects that not dating in high school have. Because I haven’t been in a meaningful relationship before, I’m scared of getting into one now – I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t date because I am scared of being unable to show affection, but until I have some reason to do so, I know my emotional self will remain underdeveloped. I am realizing that I will be unable to experience love until I truly know myself. Until I learn to love myself, I will remain unable to have a meaningful connection with someone else.

I believe that perfect love is nearly impossible to attain and maintain, but it is that very impossibility which makes love so inspiring and powerful when it does occur. I have realized that it’s okay to be scared of love, but that being scared shouldn’t stop me from striving for it anyway.

Gandhi once said, "A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave.” I know that I will eventually be brave enough to love another, but until then, I will continue to love and know myself.

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.

Theological Thanksgiving

I regularly find the time when one is expected to share what they are thankful for more than a little stilted. Oftentimes (I find this especially true in Christian households) it turns into a competition of theological one-upmanship, seeing who can most creatively be most thankful for Jesus this year.

With this in mind, this year I am without a doubt thankful for love.

I know, I know, you’re already having PTSD flashbacks to the lame Christian Thanksgiving, but hear me out; I’m desperately trying to avoid that.

In particular I am thankful for the love of a specific woman who, while making me remarkably happy, has also revolutionized the way I view God. As a wanna-be Christian theologian love is a profoundly and unavoidably theological concept, and it is unsurprising that I strain life-altering events (such as falling in love) through this Christocentric way of seeing.

I get it now.
This whole “Jesus loves me thing.”
It makes sense.

All of a sudden crucifixion for the sake of another’s wholeness doesn’t seem ridiculous because I’d do the same thing in a heartbeat.

God’s love is radical and irrational; it gives everything up and asks for nothing in return just because. God ceaselessly and recklessly chases after the ones He loves, destroying human conceptions of what “reasonable limits” mean in the pursuit of reconciliation and unity with His beloved.

I get it now.
I get it because it is my life.

It pains me that there are churches which believe this kind of love is destructive, sinful behavior. It pains me to think that this firsthand lesson in love, which I believe is educating me about theology and pastoral care more than any seminary course possibly could, automatically disqualifies me from pursuing ordination in a host of Christian denominations with whom I find a lot of theological accord … minus the gay thing.

Nonetheless I am thankful for the beautiful woman I get to wake up next to, who holds me when I weep and who thinks I am a culinary genius when I make spaghetti. God loves her more and more perfectly than I ever could, and realizing that has made my appreciation for His great love only increase. Recognizing His overwhelming, passionate, jealous love for us colors the way I view everything, including theological realities – e.g. the incarnation, the cross, the resurrection – which have taken on a meaning I could not have imagined prior to this soul-consuming adoration for a woman.

I get it now.
I am thankful for love.

The Common Thread

[Editor's Note: In addition to all of our awesome columnists who write under their own names, we also have some awesome anonymous columnists that for one reason or another must use a pseudonym. Details on anonymous columnists here. Without further ado, please welcome our newest blogger, Logan! ]

I’m going to tell you a love story. Or rather, several love stories I suppose. Because I feel as though that’s what our lives are ultimately about, right? This blog is a testament to the fact that we all approach this life from vastly different perspectives, and as such we come away with a very unique set of experiences. But no matter how different we are, we can always relate to one another through this most innate human experience—love as our common thread.

I saw her from across a crowded bar. She was wearing this really cool vintage-like, masculine jacket and a dark blue sweater with little white stars on it. Between her dark clothes and relaxed demeanor, she nearly blended right into the wall behind her. Never in my life had I felt so completely drawn to a person. To this day, I’m still floored by how absolutely certain I was that I needed to go talk to a complete stranger (especially given that I would consider myself to be a relatively quiet and reserved person). I think we have certain moments in our lives that we know immediately will be ‘significant’—this was one of mine.

Before I continue, I should back up and tell you that for me, coming to terms with my sexuality was a very long and a very slow process. It started out with little hints that something was…different. The problem was that I couldn’t figure out what it was that was different: I didn’t feel any different, and yet I just wasn’t the same.

These whispers eventually grew into a little lump in my gut. I wrestled for a long time with this little lump that seemed to grow bigger and bigger every day. When it finally became a tangible idea, I was glad that it was something that I could identify and label, but it still felt very foreign. I kept waiting for something to change, for me to feel different, for me to truly become this idea: gay.

I never experienced the blatant shift in my thinking or experience of the world that I so desired. I thought that if I was ever going to be certain about my identity then I would need to be able to tell the difference between my ‘straight’ life and my ‘gay’ life. But I think that what I actually experienced was so much better. That moment in the bar when I saw The Girl, something clicked for me. However, it wasn’t the ways in which I was different that clicked, it was the ways in which I was the same. I felt more like me than ever before—I felt my authentic self.

One day, a while after The Girl and I had started dating, I asked her if she ever struggled with her sexuality. I was still trying to understand how my world fit together, but quite frankly didn’t know where to begin. She sat there with a look of utter confusion, and responded with what may be some of the most honest words I have ever heard: “Well, no…I don’t think I do. I suppose it’s just normal for me…why would I struggle with it? It’s just who I am, why would I be bothered by it?”

This is the heart of the matter. Coming to terms with my sexuality had nothing to do with accepting the fact that I was ‘different’, and everything to do with accepting the fact that I was the same. I never felt a shift in how I experienced the world because there was nothing to shift to—I was already me. The key to understanding my identity was realizing that I could, and did, experience love and attraction in the same way as everyone else.

Now, my real love story comes later, but I think I’ll save that one for next time. I’ve found out that the fine print of loving authentically is that you also experience pain and heartbreak authentically— though, that’s a whole post in itself. I’ll leave you with a quote from Andrea Gibson, whose words make a lot more sense to me than the ones in my own head: I am whatever I am when I am it, loving whoever you are when the stars shine and whoever you’ll be when the sun rises.

A Letter from Your Clandestinely Queer Daughter

[Editor's note: Please welcome our third newest blogger in as many days, Sara!]

Dear Mom and Dad,

You’ll never see this letter, but I make no promises I can’t necessarily keep. It doesn’t really matter; you would hear none of it. You’d refuse to see me, acknowledge me, let alone keep our precarious bond intact. It’d be shredded pieces of paper from a daughter that’s no longer a daughter to you, blood be damned. You’ll wash your hands clean of it, praying to God—you’d be furious with Him, albeit your loyalties made your bed, so lie in it, prayers and all—to give you the strength to go through this. You’ll smile, bear the burden of having raised some heretic that contradicts every inch of your stern belief system, occupy yourself with another daughter—she’s perfect, she won’t stray. She won’t break your heart in two, watch it go asunder, know it was of her own devices and still went through with it anyway.

If I were to open my hand, guide you through the many rooms occupying my thoughts, through each intricate, deeply concealed secret, my offer wouldn’t be extended for too long. You’d immediately shut the door before ever crossing over the threshold, and flee.

This is a story that may never reach you—you, the tragic heroes, and I, the villain who ripped the world apart.

Now it’s high time I’ve gotten some things off my chest. Because you won’t see this—assuming I’ll always remain the same meek, reserved child of ’95 frozen in time on the hordes of pictures stashed in some corner in your closet (oh, the imagery makes me swoon)—I am without reticence. I’m sad that reassures me more than when you held my hand on my first day of kindergarten, or when you held me close when I was wrecked of tears and unbidden cynicism, nineteen and angry and exasperated.

Mom. Dad. I love you. I also happen to not be straight.

I know, you’re wondering where you went wrong with your parenting. Actually, your parenting skills were incomparable, look how far I’ve come, how much I’ve accomplished? This isn’t you, not exactly. What is you, though, is what you’ll do with my confession.

So, I’m queer, if you haven’t noticed. I thought I was dropping some neon bright, anti-heterosexual sentiments the last time I was home; my adamant demands for the shortest haircut possible and my aversions on the topic of boys were definite givens. I’m attracted to both men and women, but I never equate physical attractiveness to sexual attraction; they’re two mutually exclusive things in my head, no argument there. Which is why for the longest time I thought I was asexual, since, y’know, I have intimacy issues—probably because I was touched inappropriately/coerced to perform sexual favors on my “friend” when I was seven-eight years old. Half of the time I identify as asexual, with convoluted explanations as to why I am and why I am not “strictly” asexual. But I’m absolutely positive I am not straight, sorry.

I am not, however, “out and proud”.

Remember that night, Mom, back in my first year? It was after the awkward ride back home when my older sister blurted out that many of my friends at Duke were G-A-Y. For a moment there I really thought the car swerved dangerously close to a conveniently placed ditch by the side of the road. Your knuckles were stark white against the backdrop of the steering wheel. The rest of the car ride continued in silence.

The next night remains seared into memory, leaves me sick to my stomach each time I replay the words that will forever and forever cause me to doubt the strength of a mother’s love for her daughter.

“If you ever,” you said, alarmingly calm, like the eye of a storm. I faintly recall that you gripped my hand and I heard bones creak under your fingers. “If you ever said you were a lesbian, Sara, I’ll disown you. I will disown you.” In the same breath, she asked me to join her in prayer.

My cheeks were burning. She placed my head against her shoulder, muttering a string of biblical verses against my forehead, rocking me back and forth: I was her little girl again, the one who hadn’t rough-housed with boys, the one who hadn’t walked straight to the menswear during back-to-school shopping, some ideal daughter I loathed with every fiber of my being. For the longest time that night she never relinquished my hand.

I remember my mother gesticulating in a booth of a diner, frustration lurking behind every word, as she relayed to my two sisters, my older sister’s husband, and me the rumors that claimed I was a butch, a lesbian, a dyke, a freak. My older sister glanced at me, as if she were searching for answers I didn’t have. Closing my eyes, legs trembling under the table, I took a shuddering breath as I burst into tears, hiding my face into my shaking hands. I couldn’t bear looking at my mother then, couldn’t bear explaining it to them. So I lied through my teeth, I’ve only liked boys, while in the deepest crevices of my heart, there lingered feelings for a friend who’s just recently passed away last month (September 9, 2011).

I love my mother, but…how can you be the best possible you for someone when your own mother — unbeknownst to her — denies a piece of you so fragile, so empowering, very much an integral part that makes you you?

Dad, I’ve neglected you for awhile. I don’t know you well enough to predict the consequences if I were to send this to you. I can’t say we’ve talked much about love, or about life, or about our lives as father and daughter. This does not invalidate our quiet bond. How could I, when we’re so similar? Sometimes, just leaning on you, my silent, impenetrable wall, offers me the greatest comfort and warmth. We easily slip into contentment. I can hear the ocean waves lapping against the white sands of Hawaii, long hair blowing in the wind, my heart full because I got the chance to sit there with my daddy, no care in the world, except for the worry bubbling in the pit of my stomach.

What would he say if he knew? What would he do? If you can’t even tell me you had a heart attack, how would you expect me to tell you I’ve had boyfriends, but I thought about girls, too, the ones who’ve rendered boys as mere candles next to her brilliance?

I want to tell my parents that I haven’t fallen in love yet—I’ve come close, but they all end up the same: I love the idea of a person I’ve fabricated and imposed on them, not the reality that sets fire to bridges between these infatuations, or they leave me first. (R.I.P, D.W.) Rarely with my family have we been on the same footing, which is becoming more and more evident in my third year at Duke. Lying is second nature now, something I never fathomed as a possibility. I was taught that lying was an ugly sin against your family. I was also taught that home was my sanctuary, my shelter, the center of a child’s universe. Sometimes home…isn’t safe. And that is terrifying.

I want to tell you, when it (eventually) happens, I’m head over heels for a person; they just happen to not be a man, and you won’t mind. When you meet her, I want to lean over and whisper, unabashedly and with no hint of irony, “She could be the girl of my dreams,” and you’ll grin and say, “She deserves you.” During holidays, when our fragmented family comes together under one household, the room lit up by your wonderful smiles and big, gracious hearts, I want my boyfriend—I want my girlfriend to receive the love I know you’re capable of giving. You’ll glance my way, say, “Welcome home, love, you’re always welcomed, never forget that.”

Unfortunately, I can’t have these things, not unless I tell you, and even then it’s not guaranteed. Not unless I unlock those secretive rooms floating in my head for you and you accept everything in stride could we be okay. You’ll say, “Thank you for sharing this with us. You won’t ever have to hide again.”

I will always love you, no matter what, you’ve once, twice, countless times, said.

I love you. I love you I love you I love you. Please, let it be true. (It won’t be.)

Sincerely,
the girl behind closed doors

An Ode to Mom

So this week, I had a very significant anniversary. It was my three-year anniversary of coming out to my parents, which in my life—and in many of my LGBT friends’ lives—marks one of the single most significant moments in my life. It was the moment when I committed to never hiding who I was again. It was the moment when I began to start the process of becoming a whole person.

I call it my “Gayday.” It’s like my birthday, but for me it’s so much more significant. After all, on my birthday, most of the work was left to my mom; on my Gayday, I did all of the work.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. For me, my Gayday was the culmination of years of work, of self-discovery, and of building courage, but for my parents, it was only the beginning of all of the work that they had to do. My parents had to begin to do the work of understanding what it would be like to live with a gay son, which is no small task.

So at any rate, yesterday, December 15^th, was my Gayday.

That makes me three-years-old, and with all of the profound insight of a three-year-old, I’d like to take some time to reflect on the one person who is most important to every three-year-old: my mom.

I’ll never forget how my mom reacted on the night I came out. After watching a Goosebumps marathon on Nickelodeon and feeling nostalgic as all hell, I decided that, for whatever reason, that was the night I was going to come out. I was just going to do it. I was just going to march downstairs and tell them. First I called my best friend Paige to make sure that she was on call in case things went badly and I needed a pick-up, and I called my brother to let him know that I was finally going to do it. For whatever reason, I couldn’t seem to find my parents in the same room that night. So I spent a few minutes wandering around the house trying to see if they’d naturally settle in the same place; when it became abundantly clear that they wouldn’t, I just asked them both to come downstairs, “I just have something I want to talk to you about.”

“What’s wrong sweetie?” asked my mom.

“Nothing, I just want to talk, that’s all.”

So now my mother and my father are standing across the island in our kitchen, we’re all standing up, and I jump in.

“There’s not really a way to preface this, so I’m just going to say it…Mom, Dad, I’m gay.” The words dropped to the floor, and my father let them crash and shatter at his feet, but my mom swooped down, caught them, and cradled them gently in her arms.

My mother’s reaction was remarkable. All she did was ask questions, as if it was a new hobby that I was picking up and she was curious. She asked things like “how long have you known?” and “who else knows?”—you know—basic sorts of things.

My father didn’t react quite as positively, but that is a post for another day, and rest assured, it’s a story that ends well. But for the moment, fast-forward a few minutes and I’m out the door. I wasn’t running away for good: I just needed some space. So I went to Paige’s house, drank hot cocoa, and cried for all that I thought I had lost.

My mom called at around 9:00 and only wanted to know if I was safe, and if she could pick me up. I said that she could and that I had never planned to run away forever. She said that she knew and that she understood.

When we got home, we sat down on our favorite couch, she held my hand, I leaned on her shoulder, and we talked until 2 am in front of our fireplace. I have never felt more loved by my mother than at that moment, when she sat there holding me, and telling me all the things that I needed to hear. She told me that my father would come around, that he just needed some time. She told me that she loved me no matter what, and that I was her son and nothing could take that away. She told me that she was amazed by my bravery, by my courage to be myself. She told me that she had had a sneaking suspicion that I was gay since I was 4, and that she had even talked to a therapist about what to do if her son was gay. She told me that her only worry, her only concern, was that I wouldn’t be able to live the life that she had always wanted for me—a life free of discrimination, free of hurt, and free of the prejudice of others. In the midst of everything that she could have focused on, she only focused on me. All she wanted was for me to be happy regardless of my sexual orientation. On a sillier note, she also made me pinky-promise that I wouldn’t get HIV, which I assured her wasn’t even a concern given my current lack of a dating life at the time.

And I told her a few things. I told her that she should still expect a beautiful marriage, that she should expect to meet my boyfriends as they came, and that she should still expect grandchildren—beautiful, adopted, wonderful grandchildren.

From that point on my mother has been my pillar. It was her who supported me when I began to get involved with my high school’s GSA, and it was her who claimed me as her son when I came out to 2,000 Methodist church leaders at the NC Methodist Annual Conference. It was her who lent me a shoulder to cry on when I faced the pain of religious marginalization, and it was her who was the first to congratulate me on a successful youth march at the NC Pride Parade or a great meeting of the Triangle GSA Council.

So to all mothers out there who support their gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender children, know that you are our rock, know that you are loved, and know that you make more of a difference in our lives than you could ever understand. And thank you. Thank you so much for being everything that you are.

And to those of you whose mothers have not been supportive, know that they love you. They truly, truly do. Your mothers love you more than you could know, no matter how terrible they are showing it. I promise.

I started this post by talking about how yesterday was my 3^rd Gayday and yesterday my mother, because she is hip and wonderful and the best mother that I could ever, ever ask for, sent me a text message that I will never delete:

“I just realized that it’s the third anniversary of your coming out to us. It was the night before our cantata at church, which is tomorrow…I know, a very strange association. I just want to say thank you for helping me to see the world in a better way. You are still the bravest man I’ve ever known and I love you very much! Mom”

I love you Mom. Merry Christmas.

The Pinhook and The Flowergirl

"It's supposedly super queer!"

I wasn't sure what to expect, but, feeling spontaneous, I accepted my friend's offer to venture to The Pinhook in downtown Durham. I'm glad I did.

One of the headlines that night at The Pinhook was the band of the partner of a female friend of mine. I have always been a fan of live, original music, but this particular performance hit me in a very special way.

The night began with a band which already seemed to have pleased the crowd fairly well (I recall them singing about corpses in some body of water...). Eventually, my friend's partner took the stage. After a few songs in the set, she dedicated a song, "The Flowergirl," to her partner in the crowd. I felt myself getting excited.

I saw everyone else getting excited, too.

The band began to play, and I immediately sensed a connection between the two: the eye contact, the smiles, and the general happiness. Through all of these, they were saying so much more to each other than the story told in the lyrics of the song.

The crowd adored it. There was such a strong presence of acceptance and embrace in the room. That was the first time I had ever experienced something like that. A woman was singing to her lover, another woman, and no one thought twice about it. It was a celebration of love that may not have been so celebrated just a short time ago.

I couldn't stop smiling.

To those two: Thank you for your love.

You have nothing to worry about. I just want to be a part of your life.

Today, many, many great things happened. I was sitting in the Trinity Café at the Chocolate Fountain Social, thinking, reflecting, soaking in the great energy, and laughing at the chocolate that was all over everyone’s faces and noses.

I think in a few short hours, several things came full circle for me. The chocolate fountain social was my first LGBT event when I was a freshman, latched on to Chris Purcell. Now, there are so many new faces! It was wonderful to see. And of course, the oldies (but goodies) who I love to see: Janie Long, Jack Grote, Chris Perry, Justin Harris, Megan Weinand, Olly Wilson, AJ Biggers, Michelle, Aliza…and so many others (I’m not excluding your names for malicious intent, I am just unsure of your level of outness).

I also got news today that I have the opportunity to be in next semester’s show of The Laramie Project. (So psyched!) So while sitting there, just chatting and taking a few photos, I just got the most incredible feeling of how fortunate I am to have all of you in my life. The LGBT Center and Blue Devils United have single handedly provided the best kind of community I could have hoped for. Perhaps this is the sentimental senior in me talking, but I know I am truly lucky to be a part of your lives. So amidst this reflection, I made the decision to start putting some really important conversations in motion.

I left the Chocolate Fountain Social and I called my Nana, to come out to her.

Now, if you know my family’s religious affiliation, you can imagine why I’ve put this off for so long. And to be honest, I have always been terrified of losing my birth family, and my access to their lives. Nana was definitely shocked, because she said, “Well, this is a HUGE shock.”

But you know what? I just told her I feel like I’ve had so much good news to share and I am so happy, that nothing should keep me from communicating with my family. I told her about my house and living with my partner, and how I just want to be sure and respect her boundaries and be open to her questions and opinions.

And she told me, “You have nothing to worry about. I just want to be a part of your life.”

This is so, so, so much better of a conversation than I anticipated. She made sure to remind me what her religious beliefs were, but she did so in the most respectful, beautiful, understanding way. It’ll still be a process, and I’m sure once she recovers from the shock, we can have more conversations.

“Life is too short, it’s not my job to judge anyone.” –My Nana

Thank you all so much for providing the best support and the best community I could have ever hoped for. It is through seeing your smiling faces, as well as hearing any turmoil/struggle/doubt that makes me feel so free to be me.

When I think back to this time freshman year, I would have never believed that things would have turned out this way, but I know I will always look back and think of all of you and be so proud to know you.


Much love, and hope for bright futures,

Summer Puente

Yeah, but it IS about sex.

There’s something that’s been bothering me for a while about homophobia.

It gets mentioned here and there in writings—someone notices how inappropriate it is that as soon as people think of same-sex couples, they picture two guys getting in on and are immediately disgusted, whereas with straight people, that’s not the case.

I’ve always been careful to make a distinction between homosexuality itself and any particular sex act. Being Catholic, I have a hard time with the “love the sinner, hate the sin” mantra, but it helps me keep the two apart—something I think more people need to do.

See, it shouldn’t matter, but there’s a huge difference between being gay and having sex with people of the same gender. They can’t be the same thing because they’re not even in the same category. Gay is an adjective, a descriptor, something that people might happen to be. And sexual activity is none of anyone’s business. That’s it. Case closed.

The video posted on the blog a few weeks ago about homophobia and anti-gay violence in Uganda was deeply disturbing. But it bothered me primarily because the tactics being used by these politicians and religious leaders are awfully misleading. Whether or not the activities like “eating poo-poo” in gross-out videos are common among the community is none of anyone’s business. The problem is, Uganda is debating sex when it thinks it’s debating homosexuality. If the law is against homosexuals, then they need to be talking about homosexuality, not sex, and those videos have no place in such an argument.

Now let’s talk about progress. Stateside, the issue of whether homosexuality is moral or immoral, largely, doesn’t matter. All reasonably reasonable people agree that there’s no issue there (I mean, sure, this is contentious, but my point assumes this, so if you have issues here, let me know, but I’m moving on). But if people don’t find being gay problematic, then what they really find problematic is gay sex—and it strikes me as though if people find this problematic, it tells me two things about them: [one], that they’re really breaching the privacy of gay couples every time they think about the issue (weird, isn’t it?) and/or [two], that there’s really an unhealthy level of obsession with gay sex, even among the homophobes. People say that homosexuality is the issue, not sex. But I don’t agree. If you have a problem with The Gays (and Lesbians and Bisexuals and the Queer and Transgendered communities), it’s because you’re violating our privacy by picturing us in bed together (or, God forgive your dirty mind, in bed with you).

If you don’t like it, don’t think about it. Pretty simple solution. If you can’t do that, then figure out what makes you so obsessed with gay sex and get past it. Homosexuality != (does not equal!) gay sex. It’s a fact. It’s no business of anyone’s whether I’m sexually active or not. If I have a boyfriend, is it reasonable to assume we’re having sex? Well, no, but we don’t think about these things with straight couples. Why should we for gay ones? It just doesn’t matter, folks! Move along!

Everyone agrees that friendship, intimacy, and love are all pretty good things, regardless of gender. So, homophobes (especially the ones in my extended family), just honor me this request. When you fondle, kiss, or otherwise show affection in public, I think it’s great. I am an enormous fan of PDA and, generally, seeing examples of love in the world. But I do not, and will not, picture you having sex. It doesn’t (and shouldn’t) happen. When I see your babies, I don’t picture you conceiving them. All I ask is that you do the same for me.

If you find yourself disgusted by thoughts of gay couples, then get your prying mind out of the bedroom and expand your definitions of love.

(note: I just realized I posted this as BDU, rather than my account. I’ve already multi-linked here, so I can’t change that now, but know that this post comes from/represents Matt Lyons and not Blue Devils United)