Chicago 2001
Now, about that exorcism…
For some reason, after analyzing the epiphany I was discussing in my last blog, I kept being reminded about this unfortunate event. I hadn’t thought about it in years. It was the pinnacle of moment’s in my life when I’d faked being someone else to protect myself. This was the last time that would happen.
“So, Bryan,” Dushane began while driving his giant white SUV. We were headed to his grandmother’s church in South Chicago with his wife B’onca to get some ‘real church.’ We were all in the college gospel choir together. I occasionally led the group and did occasional arrangements and solos. But that is neither here nor there (except for the moment it got me into trouble with my classical music teachers since I was a music major…but that is a whole other story).
“Yea?” There was a long pause before he finished his though.
“You know what everyone says about you, right?”
“No,” concerned, “what?”
“People say you’re gay.”
B’onca gasps, “Dashawn! Shut up!”
“I’m just saying,” he snapped not-so-apologetically apologetic, “that’s all.”
Awkward. Silence. …
He continues, “Well?”
“Well, what?” I asked.
“Are you?”
I could feel my face heating up. I’d never before discussed “the struggle” (the religious-politically correct term used universally for denial). “It’s complicated.”
Laughing, “How’s it complicated? You either are or you’re not!”
“I’m a virgin,” as if the archaic logic that you have to be having sex to be gay would stop the conversation cold in its tracks.
“So? So am I!”
“Ha!” B’onca scoffs.
“Shut up,” they laugh and disturbingly nudge at each other playfully.
“Why’s it so important to you,” I asked.
“I was just curious,” his tone changed drastically, “you’re one of our people and I want to know how to stop the gossip.”
“Couldn’t you speak up regardless?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Are you?”
“I suppose you could say that. But I’m not a sinner because I don’t do anything about it.”
“Okay, whew. Well at least you have that going for you. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you.”
“Neither will I, sweetie,” echoed B’onca with an over-the-shoulder wink.
I followed them into the tiny church that looked like it had been built by a Sears catalogue home kit from the 20’s and slammed down by a tornado on top of an old bag lady in what use to be a pleasant public park. My face was still pumping red heat from embarrassment, anger, and disappointment at my lack of resolve when being tested.
I quickly forgot all of that as the Hammond organ began to wail. The electrical spirit screamed out a jazzy carnival merry-go-round old-school rendition of Fred Hammond’s “Let the Praise Begin.” I was quickly clapping along with syncopated communal clapping and coordinated two-step swaying. Carried away by the music (“filled with the spirit”) and singing from the top of my lungs, I forgot all about the previous conversation. After a good 45 minutes of sweaty spiritual calisthenics, everyone sat with exhaustion. The preacher, a very short and skinny old man, began “prophesizing.”
Close to the first words out of his mouth were, “Jeee Zzzussss…” the crowd- I mean congregation- goes wild with amens, “Jeee Zzzusss has told-a me-a…” amen amen clap clap blablabla get on with it, “Jee Zzzuss has told-a me-a that someone here has a struggle they ain’t a tellin’ nooooo one.”
Uh oh. He just said ‘struggle.’
“Someone in this very room-a needs to confess-a and be cleansed by the holy spiriT-a.”
The room of a church erupts in yes-lords and praise-Jesuses.
“You sir!” He points at me in the back row.
Instantly my face was hot again. You’ve GOT to be kidding me! I look at Dashawn and B’onca. They wouldn’t even look at me. Their eyes were shut in betrayal-hiding amens with their right hands waving in the air in agreement as if they were wafting around the religious fart that had just let loose around me. Silent but deadly indeed.
“Come forward brother. There is no need to be afraid. We are all here for the same thing and for the same one and only-a Lord Je-sus-a ChrisT-a.”
I stood up slowly, pushing hard against the gravity of embarrassment that was determined to slam me to the floor. The people clapped with loud encouragement. Not knowing what in the heck was going on or what I should do about it, I head towards the front. This was not the first time ‘Jesus-a’ had told a minister in prophesy that I was to come to the front. But all of those other times were to sing. (Biiiig prophesy there.)
Once I’d made it along the dirty blood-colored carpet to the front where the golden throne fit the minister better than it did ‘Jesus-a’, he put one hand on my shoulder and took my hand with the other one. “Tell me son, why are you here today?”
I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one having the prophecy. “I’m a sinner(?)” Yes, much safer answer.
“We all are son. What is your sin?”
I’m not Catholic. Why do I have to confess to you? “Uhm…” Play stupid. That always works.
He puts his shoulder-holding hand on my head. “Oh son, I feel something a stirrin.” The audience hollers. He shushes them with a nod.
“Oh?” I meeked out of a half-open mouth?
“Shammalanda leeona nadeea peecheaka lana!” He began speaking in tongues. Something that was definitely never a part of my religious ‘upbringing.’
Well, crap. I just closed my eyes. Surely it would be over soon. I can “recommit my life to Jesus” and just be done with it.
Not so fast. “Babanananana kiki yulu huhu rara!”
The heavy old-lady wobble of the organ started to vibrate the room with thick chords as the people stood up and started to sing-chant, “The lord is blessing me! The lord is blessing me!” They were harmoniously chanting and clapping now.
A gust knocked me to the ground as I was distracted by the rest of the ruckus. What the…Did that old man just push me down?!
On my back, flopped over one bent leg, I snuck a quick peak from my eye furthest from the crowd. He was bending down to me. Oh no, he’s coming in for the kill!
“The blood of Jesus-a…” he shouted, “in the name of jesus-a…right now in the name of jesus-a.” He grabs my head. “Lord Jesus-a!”
The choir kept singing louder and more repetitively, “Th lo-o-ord is blessing me…the lo-o-ord is blessing me!”
“Lucifer of homosexuality…” well, there he goes, “…command you by the name of Jesus-a…” this wasn’t my idea of coming out, “to love the loins of a woman-a…” I’m going to KILL Dashawn.
The congregation wails, literally, while singing, fanning themselves like inflatable air dancers at a cheap car dealership.
I decided to play along to just get it over with. Plus, if I “acted” like I was purified, then maybe they’d truly believe I wasn’t gay anymore and they’d defend me at school. That was all the justification I needed. I began flapping like a beheaded chicken and opened my eyelids to reveal the whites of my eyes.
“…you homosexual slave to Satan” the preacher never stopped, “you have no power here!”
I snuck another peak. This sweating angry snarling wrinkled thing was terrifying. (Are you sure I’M the possessed one here?) Shaking in the fear of his disproportionately big, calloused hand forcing me to head-bang like an epileptic rockstar, I was running out of ideas on what to do next.
Up down up down bang bang bang…. I felt like I was being moved by a Ricky Martin song more than the holy spirit.
Suddenly I heard a sanctimonious voice belt from the audience, “Cleanse that faggot, preacher!”
That’s it!!
I sat up as if having cold water dumped on me while sleeping. Everyone jumps away, starring at me, waiting for what was to happen next.
Think quick think quick. “I…” looking around at everyone’s expectations of ‘cured’ on their face, “where am I?”
The preacher helps me up. “You’re with the family of God, son.”
Turning slightly, I found a woman around my age on the front row. “Wow! You’re beautiful!”
“He’s clean!” Everyone jumps and claps. “The lord-a has delivered as he always-a has and always-a will!”
Everyone was shouting so many different versions of “praise Jesus” and “Amen” in so many different made-up languages that I became very disoriented.
And then I couldn’t stop thinking about my “friends” betraying me and telling the preacher about me (and who knows who else) and someone yelling out “faggot” from their general direction. I start clapping and jumping along with everyone else as I gathered my bearings and remind myself where they were sitting again.
“Wait wait wait preacher!” Everyone tries to hush each other. “The lord is speaking to me now!”
“Praise-a Jesus-a! Our healed brother hears the voice of god!”
Everyone praise Jesus shamalama dingdong blablabla….
“Tell us brother…”
I raise my hands above my head as I begin to free-fall down the steep drop of this spiritual roller coaster. “Someone else here needs to be cleansed by confessing to our breath’rn and cistern!”
“Tell us son, who is it? Tell us who needs to be brought to Jesus’a.”
I walk down from the podium clapping and singing along with everyone to “Love Lifted Me.” After a few minutes of invisible duck-duck-goosing down the aisle, I froze and raised my hands with closed eyes. “Praise Jesus! The lord has shown me the light…”
Everyone Christ-cheers as the world went into slow motion as I bring down one arm and begin to point as I said, “this man has cheated on his wife.”
It was Dashawn.
The room exploded in chaos of every kind. Apparently, Dashawn was the preacher’s grandson.
I slipped out and as I started walking toward the bus station across the street, I could still hear the clapping and hallelujahs and I could have sworn I heard some slapping and what-the-hell-s.
Ten years later, I heard he had gotten a divorce and was living with his boyfriend in Lake Park. This was far from the first or last time I would be privy to such garony – my version of gay irony. (See all posts about Utah.) I suppose we each have our own path. At least my dishonesty hurt only myself and no one else. At least my path has been far more…interesting.
My point has nothing to do with gay rights or the political, philosophical, spiritual or social struggles that surround the people who deal with it… it has everything to do with the youness of you. Life is way more than we perceive it to be. If we try to fully understand the meaning behind our responsibility to ourselves, our actions and emotions, then our histories would have a weaker chance of repeating itself. Be true to your heart, your feelings, your instincts, and above all else, yourself. This applies to all people– gay/straight, Christian/Muslim, Atheist/Religious, Dreamers/Conformists, skinny/pleasantly-plump, rich/not-so-rich, academic/artistic, corporate/entrepreneur, classical/alternative, ambitious/laissez-faire… you get the point. Don’t fall trap to the expectations of others that bind you from being who you truly are. What a waste of time. This is the 21st century. There is no excuse to be anything else anymore – “The Robinsons” are just a read herring so no use trying to follow them. There’s no longer a need to fake your happiness…or exorcism.
“Mirabile dictu, don’t you agree?” is a quote from the movie The Exorcist (1973) that the demon says to the priest. Literal translation: Wonderful to relate.
I Can't Take Me Anywhere 