Smoke & Mirrors

Some days I know my smile looks like the gutter of a falling house, especially on Sunday mornings when my parents and I sat in the very first pew so the lord would see us first. My mother wanted us to be first for God, forever and always. So every single Sunday from the first I could remember we sat in that same pew, in that same Baptists church, learning the same scriptures over and over.

“This step of gay rights is but another stepping stone toward the immorality and lawlessness that will be characteristic of the last days.” Reverend Noland preached as he ran back and forth between the isles. His energy was much like that of a six year old right after having two cans of soda their mommy said they couldn't have because it gave them nightmares. Roland was the guy on the corner with a sign that says “God Hates Fags.”, the guy waving his American flag driving his SUV. The world is hurting because of it.

He jumped and moved with great energy, preaching about how the Lord sent him to save us from the “gay agenda”. Everyone around me raised their hands and shouted “Amen!” after every phrase, but I, I sat there, I sat there silent and still. I did not believe the words of the minister anymore. Homosexuality was not evil, it did not target the children, it was not a sign of Armageddon.

I stood and walked through the middle of all the pews and out the door. I felt many eyes burning on my back, I heard Reverend Noland fall silent as the congregation began to whisper. I knew my mother gave me the look that she'd given me when I cut my hair so short, the look of spite and confusion. The look that said “You will regret your actions.” I sat outside in my Sunday dress until service ended and we took the silent car ride home. I braced myself for impact the entire time. I knew mother dearest was angered. I knew by the way she carried herself, her eyes staring at me through the rear-view mirror.

The moment we walked through the door the fire started. Flames marred my brain. “Tara, how dare you make a fool of me,” were moms first words upon coming inside, “how dare you act so unholy, so unrighteous! We are people of God, we do not walk out during his service!” She stepped closer to me, I could feel her heat radiating. “We are holy people, we worship when we are supposed to, where we are supposed to and I will not tolerate this kind of behavior!”

“We are nothing.” I yelled back. There was a loud clap of her hand to my face, her slap bore nothing but a slight sting and numbness as always. “You think hitting me will change my mind?” I whispered, gazing at her, “you always talk about how we are gods people, but we aren't. You aren't. Dads not. And certainly I'm not. I don't want to be a part of a religion that thinks that just because someone can't help who they love they are evil. I don't want to be a part of this anymore its not who I am.”

I was always the type of person to doubt myself, the family I came from always told me who I was, what I believed and it never seemed right. I was starting to question more and more every day, who was I? Who am I supposed to be? Who is the real me? I turned away from my mother, who was frozen from either shock, anger or both. I marched off to my room an slammed my door, I fell to my floor and cried. I cried and cried until I fell asleep. I didn't know who I was anymore, but I knew I wasn't who my mother wanted me to be.

The next day I went to stay at Rileys. I couldn't be near my parents another day, I needed a break before I became the fuel to their fire.