by Mia Kerick
No one, not even Laz, my best friend since Holy Trinity Tikes, even says goodbye.
“Take up your cross”
A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another; as I have loved you…. John 13:34
Not one of my Christian, love-one-another-as-I-have-loved-you friends found it in his/her heart to stand by me. This rejection has me reeling. And to Anthony Duck-Young Del Vecchio, reeling is defined as major overthinking.
To my parents’ and siblings’ chagrin (and yes, chagrin is an excellent word, but at this point the SAT seems very meaningless in the larger scheme of things) I skip the late family dinner and go straight to my room. I don’t cite studying for this test or slaving over that paper as an excuse for my antisocial behavior. I simply step into the kitchen, say, “I explained things to my friends and I’m going to bed early tonight”, and duck out.
Mom comes downstairs an hour later with a plate of ziti and sausages covered in tin foil, along with her wide and concerned mother’s eyes, and asks if I want to talk. I tell her that I’m not ready to discuss it, but I probably will be ready at breakfast tomorrow. She hugs me, says she loves me, and that things will get better, and then she leaves, even though I can tell she wants to stay.
And so I lie in bed, flat on my back, doing what I do best—which is probably the worst thing for me. I obsess over gayness and friendships and hell and mostly about letting Jesus down. As a last resort to calm my mind, I turn onto my side, pull my blanket up over my shoulder, and make a mental list of Jesus’s most magnificent characteristics—His humility, His compassion, His ability to forgive, His honesty, and most of all, His willingness to sacrifice for us. Images of a loving Christ form before me on my bedroom wall, where the hand painted kites and cloudy blue skies are hidden by darkness.
But despite my devotion to Jesus, I still know that my gayness isn’t a choice. I can’t turn it on and off like a faucet.
My gayness isn’t a choice… but my Christianity is.
I am incredibly frustrated with myself and with my friends. My next realization shocks me—I’m also frustrated with God.
My Christianity is the only thing that I can change here, I think as I drift off to sleep.
From my spot on the edge of the dirt path, I can see Him in the distance. His eyes are strangely bright, as if on fire from the human pain and fear He can’t avoid, combined with His all-encompassing love for us—for me—that tethers Him to this path. He is bloody and dirty and weary—wearier than I can even conceive of a person being. And as He struggles to put one foot in front of the other, staggering under the weight of the heavy wood, He catches my eye. And He stops to talk to me, crouching slightly to support the bulky mass on his shoulder.
“Anthony, my son.…” His voice is as weak and ruined as His body.
I fight the urge to run to Him, to heft the cross upon my own back and carry it in His place.
He knows my desire and shakes His head to stop me from acting upon my urge. “You are my son, and I love you.” He recognizes my need to help Him with these simple words.
“I love you, too, my Lord! You’re everything to me and there’s no cross I won’t bear for You!” I shout the words into the small distance between us, my voice shrill and frantic with the need to be heard.
“I am carrying my cross.” His response is woven through shallow breaths, in a low but purposeful tone. “Anthony, my son, you must discover your true cross. And then you must carry it.”
He straightens up a measure, and then He staggers forward on His path to my salvation.
I wake up bathed in perspiration—and knowing, beyond a single doubt, that my love for Christ is not something I can be flexible with. I need Him. That fact is plain and simple and perfect.
I lean over in my small bed and grab the Bible off the bedside table. I never turned off the light in my bedroom before I fell asleep, and I know that will make what I’m going to do even easier. I don’t even need to think about the chapter and verse, I know exactly where to find this one. I open my Bible to Matthew 16:24.
Then Jesus said to his disciples, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” Before tonight’s dream, I assumed that “deny themselves and take up their cross” suggested I needed to deny my sexuality and live a celibate life. But in my dream, Jesus said that I must discover my true cross and then carry it.
I have no idea what this means for me and for my life, but it gives me yet another concern to wrap my weary mind around.
A New Look At Friendship
I have literally never sat alone in the lunchroom at school. Not even once, as the occasion has never arisen. Since middle school I’ve had a core group of friends from church—the devout kids clique from youth group who sit together at the “awe-scoff lunch table”—and we’ve always looked out for each other. Until today, when I sit alone at a lunch table in the sole company of the nutritious lunch my mother made. The devout kids stare at me over their sinless shoulders, their mouths agape.
This is certainly big news in their righteous lives.
Unfortunately for me, their abject staring is accompanied by occasional pitiful glances, spurts of solemn discussion, and frequent head shaking. So not only am I consumed with worry over my eternal soul, I also feel like a social pariah. Mom has come through for me, at least. Despite my lack of appetite, I’m plowing my way through a Tupperware container of fried artichoke hearts, a cold meatball sub, and an oversized kosher dill pickle, which I avoid placing against my lips, given the circumstances.
“Hey, Del Vecchio, you eating alone?”
I turn around and there’s David Gandy striking a casual pose, his lunch tray held in one hand. In response, I look obviously around myself, from one side to the other, and act like I’m completely shocked that no one else is there. “I guess I am eating alone. Hadn’t noticed.” I’m a laugh a minute.
David smirks and says, “Well, stuff all of that shit back in your lunch bag, and come sit with me and my friends.”
The devout kids are all going to have individual, soul-splitting coronaries when they see me cozy up with Mr. Out-and-Proud. “Thanks, I guess I will.” I shove my gourmet lunch items back in my brown paper bag as I get up, taking one last glance at my old lunch table. I can’t miss that Laz is still staring at me, mouth hanging open, tongue dangling, and not making even the slightest effort to suck it back in. I shrug and follow David.
“Try not to be so enthusiastic, dude.”
I sit down with David and his friends, all kids who I know are very involved with the music and theater programs at Wedgewood High School. They are nice people, and most are smart, a couple of them are even in my advanced math and science classes. There’s a girl-couple, which still hits me as odd, despite the fact that I, too, am gay.
Maybe this situation will be easier to deal with once I’ve figured out what my true cross is, and I begin to carry it. At this point I can only hope.
After we exchange hellos, I get back to my artichokes, with the intention of keeping perfectly quiet, but David has a different idea. He leans over toward me and says, “Couldn’t help but notice you weren’t sitting at your usual holy lunch table.”
He stares at me as if he’s expecting an explanation, but I’m not about to open up to him. I just got burned by all of my lifelong friends—a guy I’d known for a few weeks surely can’t be trusted.
Despite my silence, David goes on. “Let me guess. Mrs. Martine, your youth group’s ‘spiritual leader’, booted your butt outta Our Way.”
His very accurate prediction is disturbing to me on multiple levels. First of all, it indicates that this isn’t the first time Mrs. Martine has kicked a gay kid out of the Our Way youth group. I assume this, because David, too, was mysteriously missing one day from Our Way early sophomore year, but nobody had been personally close enough to him to ask questions. And it makes sense now. Secondly, and more disturbingly, David had assumed—correctly, I might add—that I�
�d been kicked out of the group, too, and that he knew why. Which translates into him assuming that I, too, am gay. How does he know this? Is David’s gaydar that good?
Do I seem so gay?
I shudder and then scramble for an answer. And as I scramble, I remember that one of the qualities I love most about Jesus is his honesty. I follow His example. “You guessed right.”
An expression that I’ve never seen before on him crosses my new friend’s face, though I’ve never before looked this closely. The name David Gandy defines cool, but his expression is far from that. On David’s face I can see anger and hurt and empathy, not so much as individual emotions, but all morphed together into one pained grimace. And he knows I’m seeing it, because he drops his face into his hands to hide, and then I hear his muffled words. “If it wasn’t such a worn out cliché, I’d say been there, done that.”
Evidently, David and I have more in common than being gay, academically motivated high school juniors. “Mrs. Martine knows how to keep the riff raff out of the group, that’s for sure.” After I crack my joke, I make an attempt at laughter, but it comes out sounding like a goofy snort.
David doesn’t even pretend that my remark is funny. “Town library after school today, ‘kay? We can finish our power point and after, I got some stuff I wanna share with you. Cool?”
I nod and start in on my sandwich. David finally sends me a half-smirk and then lifts his fork to wind around it what is trying to pass for spaghetti with meat sauce. But it will never be able to pass for Mama’s gravy, not even in its wildest dreams.
None of my Our Way friends, or former friends, I should say, so much as smile at me for the rest of the day. In their defense, they’re probably as confused as I am, but they’ve had less time to adjust to the fact that I have a sexual disorder, according to the church. That fact doesn’t stop me from suffering over their rejection. I will admit I’m not sure if this is part of “carrying my cross” or if this is just human drama.
My drive from the school to the library is nothing but an overthinking fiesta, and I look forward to getting my mind on the power point. When I get there, David’s already sitting at our usual table, but he doesn’t have his laptop open as I expect. Instead, he’s leaning back in his chair, its front legs are raised off the ground in a way that makes me literally worry about his stability, and he’s thumbing through a book. When I get closer, I can see that it’s a book about being a gay Christian.
“Del Vecchio, I swung by my house after school to pick up this book. Figured the library wouldn’t have it and that it might be good for you to read.” He speaks softly, but holds the book out to me boldly. “Got plenty more books where this came from, but I like this one the best. Let me know when you wanna talk about it.” His voice is confident, like he’s certain that whatever information contained in this book is going to put my soul’s torment to rest.
I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks as I accept the book. Taking hold of it almost feels like I’m agreeing that I’m gay, and that I’m willing to search for a way to accept my gayness. And truthfully, at this point, I still don’t know what I’m going to do about liking guys. Then I remember what Jesus said to me in my dream, that I must discover my true cross before I can carry it, so I suppose that reading some guy’s theory about how being both gay and Christian can peacefully coexist won’t hurt me in that regard.
“Thanks.” Maybe I’ll read this book, maybe I won’t. I make sure my tone of voice reveals my skepticism.
“Not a prob. And here,” he scribbles two phone numbers and a couple of names on a crumpled scrap of paper that’s on the table. “Give this to your folks. It’s my folks’ cell numbers. Tell them to call if they ever wanna talk about shit.”
Again, I blush as I reach for the paper, but I’m still careful to place it inside the cover of the book, and then I stick them both into my backpack. No matter what, I’m not ready to be seen carrying an “it’s OK to be gay” book around in public.
He then cracks open his laptop and we create the conclusion to our Ride ‘Em Cowboy rodeo power point project. We work well together, even though we are forced to whisper due to library rules. David is what I call sarcastically funny, and I enjoy being with a person who I know isn’t judging me for being gay. In fact, when I’m with him, I stop judging myself harshly, at least for a little while.
Finally, we decide to call it a day and we pick up our stuff and head for the exit. Once we’re outside, David touches my arm with his gloved hand. I stop and look at him. “I know what you’re going through totally sucks right now. It’s written on your face, man.”
I don’t nod or acknowledge his observation in any way. No reaction is the safest reaction.
“But Our Way isn’t the only youth group in the area, and St. Mark’s isn’t the only church.”
His words hit me hard. Like he expects me to change everything I ever was—the entire foundation of my life—in one split second, with this single profound rejection. I don’t say anything, but I can’t turn away from his intelligent blue eyes.
“And Tony,” I don’t miss that he calls me the familiar form of my first name, that, for the most part, only my father and sisters use, “there are other options. Christ is the way, the truth, and the life, for sure, man.” The last time I heard that it had been from Emma, speaking with a rather “I’m da bomb” attitude. “But there’s more than one path to Him. I’ve found a path where I can serve Him, and love Him, and worship Him with total honesty about who I am, among a congregation of other Christians who don’t care about which sex I’m attracted to. When you’re ready to join us, talk to me, dude.”
Every now and then his relaxed language reminds me so much of Laz. That simple acknowledgement feels like a knife to my heart because I’ve lost my best friend, Lazarus, over this issue. I think I wince and I think it would have been quite visible to David, if not for the steady breeze that blows my hair in front of my face.
David pulls his phone out of his back pocket, and momentarily, I’m surprised that a phone fit inside those skinny jeans. “What’s your cell number?”
I clear my throat and obediently recite my number, and then he dials it and calls me. My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.
“Now you got my number, Tony. Call me any time.” He doesn’t smile or wink or do anything else to engage me. He flings his long dark hair over his shoulder and heads for his shiny black Honda Ridgeline.
Saying Goodbye
For the next few Sundays, my family sneaks off to St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church in Lampert, and I help Mom teach the girls their Sunday school lessons in our kitchen between church and the time I leave to volunteer at the Humane Society. And I will admit that although St. Elizabeth’s has a sort of warehouse feeling, where St. Mark’s is a beautiful rustic, brick church, I suffer equally in both churches. It’s because I feel dishonest. I’m in hiding, and my family is, therefore, in hiding with me. None of us have yet come to terms with my identity as a gay Christian.
I listen half-heartedly to The Liturgy of the Word, but my mind is on the bottom line. And the bottom line is this: In the fullness of who I am and who I want to be, I am not accepted by the Catholic Church, in general. I’m no longer accepted by my Catholic friends at school or in the St. Mark’s youth group, and I assume that if the people at St. Elizabeth’s knew the truth about me, they would reject me, as well.
The communion song today is “Holy, Holy, Holy”, a longtime favorite of mine. In fact, back in the day, all of the first graders had learned it and sung it as a group on the morning of our First Holy Communion, all of us holding hands.
Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee.
Holy, holy, holy! Merciful and mighty,
God in three persons, blessed Trinity!
Today I sing the lyrics louder and with more conviction than I ever have before, which sounds dramatic, but that’s because it is dramatic to me. This morning, I’m singing my
goodbye to the Body of Christ…and to the Catholic Church.
The weirdest thing is that this morning I let myself cry in public. Or maybe it’s that there’s nothing I can do to stop the tears. I have come to realize that I can’t participate in something this sacred any longer—not without the full integrity of my soul. And at this point, I’m a total spiritual fraud. I’m not the good Catholic I once was since I’m undecided about what my status as a gay Christian means.
On the spur of the moment, I make a few decisions:
*No longer can I participate in Catholic Mass. I don’t belong here.
*No longer can I partake of Christ’s body. I’m unworthy.
The Del Vecchio family waits in our pew until every last soul has left the church. My sisters don’t grasp what’s going on, I know, but they see my sorrow and they all reach for me to offer me comfort, as if touching me with their little hands will somehow stop my tears. Mom and Dad reach for me, too, all the while crying right along beside me. And I can’t explain the reason, but the physical contact with my family consoles me, at least to an extent.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I finally sob when the church is empty. I search the tear-filled eyes of my mother and then I look to my father for the permission I need. “I can’t come back to Mass.”
They nod, first at each other, and then at me.
“Jesus Christ is the way, the truth, and the life. Our family will find our way back to Him, Anthony,” Mom says, and squeezes my hand.
There’s that phrase again.
Dad adds, “There’s nothing as important as finding our path to Him.” He hooks his pinky around mine the way he used to do when I was little—he always called it the secret handshake for the only two members of the Del Vecchio Boys’ Club. I sob again.
And my sister Mary, who I thought was paying little attention to the facts behind this interaction, leans over to me and brushes her fingers across my forearm. “I know what’s up, Tony. And hear this—we won’t give up ‘til we find the church where we all fit in.”