by Alex Sanchez
The God Box
Alex Sanchez
To those who believe in a loving God and those who struggle to love themselves.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS With gratitude to my editor, David Gale; my agent, Miriam Altshuler; associate editor Alexandra Cooper; and all those
who contributed to the creation of this book with their encouragement and feedback, including Tommie Adams, David Bissette, Theerasak Boon
prajam, Bob Bozek,Bill Brockschmidt, Zach Broken rope, Justin Cannon, David Chen, Robert Harris and Michael Davies, Bill Hitz, Charles Keener,
Jingjo Kongmun, Erica Lazaro, Jayeson Owen, Guillermo Porras, John Porter, John "J.Q."
Quinones, and Pattawish Thitithanapak. Thank you.
Chapter 1
"SEX AND RELIGION DON'T MIX," MY GRANDMA ONCE TOLD ME.
"THE CHURCH SHOULD STAY OUT OF PEOPLE'S PANTS."
That random memory flashed through my mind the first morning of senior year, as I tugged my red rubber WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? wristband--snap!--against my wrist. I hoped the sting would help me forget the sex dream that had woken me. But it didn't. I climbed from bed, hurried through my Bible reading and prayers, then raced through my shower, all the while trying to stop thinking about the dream. When I arrived at homeroom, my girlfriend, Angie, had already snagged us a couple of seats together. She'd been my best friend since kindergarten, when my family moved from Mexico to Texas. Now I surprised her with the latest CD of one of our favorite Christian rock bands. “No way!"
Her bright brown eyes gazed up at me like I was the only one in her world.
"You're so awesome. Thanks!“
While she scanned the CD's song list, I glanced up. A lanky boy I'd never seen before stepped through the doorway. Tiny hoops pierced both ears and his left eyebrow--surprising for our conservative little west Texas town, where even a single earring could get a guy accused of
"going gay." His black wavy hair and cedar skin hinted he was most likely Mexican, and his cinnamon-colored eyes almost pulled me toward him. Who was he? The boy sauntered toward an empty seat where Jude Maldonado--a ratty guy who came to school mostly to make life hell for everybody--had his dirt-smeared cowboy boots kicked up.’
“Sup?" the new guy asked Jude, friendly-like.
"Mind if I sit here? “You blind?" Jude sneered. "The seat's taken.“
All of homeroom turned to watch as New Boy calmly raised his hands.
“Whoa, easy! Keep your chair.“Here’s a seat,"
Angie, always the rescuer, called over. "Thanks."
The boy walked over with a broad smile. "My name's Manuel.”
“I’m Angie. This is Paul. “Paul?" Manuel locked onto my eyes, as if peering inside me, with a look that was part mischief and part something else. "Not Pablo? “Paul," I said firmly.
Although my birth certificate actually did say Pablo, I didn't want to be constantly reminded I was from Mexico. I wanted to be American; I didn't want to be different. During the remainder of homeroom I tried not to stare at Manuel. What was the strange pull I felt toward him, almost like some force stronger than my own? Did he know me from somewhere? And what was up with those earrings?
Throughout morning classes my thoughts kept returning to him. Nervously, I tugged at my WWJD wristband--a habit I had picked up from a friend who used to bite his fingernails like crazy. In order to quit, he started snapping a rubber band against his wrist whenever he caught himself. The pain of the snap, although merely a sting, had helped him stop. In my case, I hoped the trick would stop my mind from thinking things I didn't want to think.
When the lunch bell rang, I eagerly headed to the cafeteria. My lunch group consisted of Angie and two other girls, Dakota and Elizabeth, who were as opposite as hot and cold. Dakota was gangly and tall, with curls of fiery red hair flaring all over the place; she was editor of the school newspaper, Honor Society president, and flexibly progressive. In contrast, Elizabeth was Barbie-doll petite and impeccably blonde, a cheerleader, student council vice president, and adamantly conservative. Both were feisty and fiercely opinionated. The big difference between them was that Dakota was warm and never harsh. Elizabeth acted warm, but she could be cold as an icicle. The two of them, Angie, and I had been friends since middle school. We were all smart, ranking in the top ten percent of our class, and we all belonged to our Christ on Campus Bible Club. For as long as I can remember, my closest friends have always been girls. I'm not sure why.
I just found early on that generally girls were more open to telling you what was on their minds and listening to what was on yours. You could talk to them about emotional and spiritual stuff, like why somebody wasn't getting along with someone else, or how a certain song made you want to dance or cry, or how you felt God was calling you to do something. I had guy friends too, but they tended to be more guarded about venturing into discussions much beyond sports, cars, games, or sex. My Christian guy friends were a bit more open to at least talking about God-related stuff, but even at Bible Club the girls did most of the talking. The few guys who attended mostly lobbed scripture verses as though pitching softballs. In any case, I didn't mind being the only male at our lunch table. It made me feel special. The girls turned to me for advice. Like today: Elizabeth had fought with her boyfriend, Cliff, because she'd seen him talking with his ex.
Angie thought Elizabeth was being too severe. Dakota suggested Elizabeth get more info rather than give him the silent treatment. Elizabeth frowned at their opinions, then asked what I thought.
"Well ..." I gave a diplomatic shrug. "You really think you should crucify the guy just for talking with somebody?" Elizabeth frowned at that, too, while Angie glanced across the cafeteria.
"Hey, there's Manuel." She waved and I turned to see the new guy holding his tray, scanning the room for a place to sit. "Ooh, he's cute. Is he single?" Dakota pushed the red curls back from her face as Manuel jostled toward us. "Hey, can I sit with you guys? I was hoping to see you ."As Manuel set his tray down, Angie introduced him to the others. "Hi!" Dakota flashed a smile.
"Where you from?" As Manuel ate his spaghetti, he told us that he'd moved from Dallas (the nearest big city to us), his parents were originally from Mexico, his mom had gotten a job as a math professor at the little college in our town, and his dad worked as a sales manager for some company .I only half listened to what he said, paying more attention to his voice. It was soft and smooth, not gravelly like mine. I'd never liked my voice. And every time he looked at me, it was like kapow! Something happened inside me that I couldn't explain. Then Elizabeth asked, "Are you a Christian?" "Some days more than others." Manuel gave a relaxed grin. "But I try to be."
Elizabeth's brow knitted in confusion, and I was puzzled too. Either you were a Christian, meaning you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and savior, or you didn't and you weren't.Angie and Dakota moved on to other new-friend questions: Manuel's favorite color? Purple. Favorite season? Spring. Favorite ice cream? Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. He asked us the same sort of stuff and then said, "Hey, does your school have a GSA?" "A what?" Angie's nose crinkled with curiosity. “A gay-straight alliance," Dakota interjected. At the mention of the word "gay," I recalled the dream that had woken me that morning, and my face flamed. “My cousin told me,"
Dakota continued, "that they started a GSA at her school in Houston. She said it caused a huge ruckus. Some churches even tried to stop it. "Ugh!" Elizabeth paled in horror. "They'd never allow a group like that here." "They barely even let us have dances," Angie complained. “So ..."
Dakota, intrepid journalist and always to the point, leaned toward Manuel. "Are you gay? “I expected him to laugh or get angry, but he calmly twirled his spaghetti noodles. "Yep."
Elizabeth's jaw dropped. Angie's eyes grew wide. And my heart skipped
a beat. He couldn't possibly mean it. Could he? “Don’t worry." Manuel glanced around at us, half grinning and half serious. "It's not contagious. “Dakota pealed with laughter, while the rest of us sat stunned. How could he joke like that? Didn't he realize the consequences of what he was saying?
Students would shun and ridicule him-- or worse. He had to be kidding. “Are you serious?" Angie asked, and Manuel nodded. Elizabeth braced herself on the table. "You mean you're a practicing homosexual?" Manuel studied her a moment, as if debating whether to take her question seriously. "Well, actually, I think I've got the hang of it by now. “Elizabeth frowned, and Angie commented, "I don't think any of us have ever met
anybody gay before. “Manuel gazed toward me. Quickly I averted my eyes. Why was he looking at me}"But you can't be homosexual and Christian," Elizabeth sputtered. "That's impossible!
“Well . . ." Manuel gave a casual shrug, although his voice sounded a little defensive. "What about John Three-Sixteen? Or did I overlook the fine print? "In our little corner of the Bible Belt, it wasn't unusual for someone to cite the famous verse: For God
so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. But I'd never heard anybody quote it to include someone gay. I'd been taught that gay or lesbian people had turned away from God. As I glanced up at the girls, a million questions swirled in my mind. If Manuel truly was gay (which I still couldn't believe he'd actually admit), then why was he quoting Scripture? Had he ever actually read the Bible? Didn't he understand he was going to hell? My friends and I stared across the table at one another, as if each expected one of the others to defuse the bomb of confusion that had landed in our midst.
And inside myself, doubts and worries I'd fought off for years bombarded me. Without anyone noticing, I slipped my hands beneath the lunch table and snapped my wristband against my wrist.
Chapter 2
MY EARLIEST MEMORY OF BECOMING A CHRISTIAN TAKES PLACE AT THE
LITTLE CHURCH MY MA JOINED WHEN MY FAMILY MOVED TO TEXAS.
One wall of my Sunday school classroom displayed a bright life-size mural of Jesus draped in pristine robes. Handsome, white-skinned, and blue-eyed, he sat surrounded by beaming children from different nations. One boy wore a turban, another a serape. A girl wore a kimono.
Each child leaned forward as if listening raptly, while Jesus pointed toward the billowy clouds above him. Though the painting now sounds sort of contrived, when I was a boy it impressed me vividly. I sat in the front row, staring at the mural, while hearing the passionate stories of Moses, David, St. Paul, and Jesus. I wanted to be like them: brave, pure, and good. I wanted to feel God's strength and love.
For my First Communion present, my ma gave me a leather-bound Holy Bible. The rich, clean smell of glue and fresh ink seeped into my lungs as I turned the crisp tissue-paper pages with their shining gold edges. I carefully ran my small hands across the words Jesus spoke (printed in red) and the multicolored maps of the Holy Land. So began my love for the book that would guide my life. All through grade school I carried my Bible everywhere, memorizing whole chunks of Scripture, striving to show God how much I loved him. I'm not exactly sure why winning God's approval was so important to me, but it was.
Then, in middle school, my faith received a huge test: puberty. My health classes had prepared me for the biological consequences. My voice started to change and my first pubic fuzz appeared. But no one had forewarned me that the most noteworthy consequence for boys might pop up inside my pants at moments that totally mystified me. (Like at little league, when a teammate scratched his tightly uniformed thigh, or at Vacation Bible School, each time my suntanned youth minister leaned close and I smelled his musky cologne.) At home in my room I pondered my unwanted physical reactions and began to detect a worrisome pattern: They were all directed toward guys. A sickening feeling gripped my stomach. Around that same time I had begun to hear in church that homosexuality was a sin and that "Sodomites" were destined to hell.
I didn't want to sin, and definitely didn't want to be condemned to hell. So why was I having these feelings?
At school one boy who the other guys said was "queer" got beaten up nearly every day. I watched and recalled the story of the Good Samaritan. I wanted to help him. But what if people began to think I was gay too? Instead I turned away. I began to be on guard--even when asleep.
Although my health texts had advised me to expect sex dreams, mine weren't about the opposite sex like those books said. In my dreams I was being hugged and kissed by boys. I woke up in a sweat, confused and terrified. After fumbling for the light, I scrambled to my knees beside the bed.
"Why am I feeling this way?" I asked God.
"You know I don't want to. Why is this happening to me?"
I listened in silence, waiting for an answer. But none came.
Too ashamed to talk to anyone about it, I went back to my health books, desperate for hope. To my relief, I discovered two tiny sentences buried in a footnote: During puberty some girls and boys may feel sexual curiosity toward others of the same sex. Such feelings are a temporary phase that will soon pass. I drank from that promise like from some spring in a desert of doubt. And just as I'd tried to bury the fact that I was Mexican, I stuffed the possibility I might be gay into a box deep inside my heart. To escape thinking about it, I involved myself big-time in sports, competing in swimming, track, and especially cross-country, going on long runs and praying with each step. I spoke openly to everyone about being a Christian. And to Angie I professed my love. She and I had been pretty inseparable ever since my family had arrived from Mexico. At the time I didn't speak a word of English. The boys in class cracked up and made fun of me, but the girl beside me with the sleek black ponytail told them, "Shush!" and gently corrected my pronunciation. I repeated the words she taught me over and over, determined to get them exactly right, till she'd finally tell me, "Take it easy! You're too hard on yourself." The guys teased me that I'd catch girl cooties, but I ignored them. Like Angie's name suggested, she was kind of an angel for me.
By second grade I had progressed to the advanced reading group, stopped speaking Spanish altogether, and started going by Paul instead of Pablo. Angie and I sat side by side at lunch, hung out at each other's homes after school, talked for hours on the phone, and I Med way past bedtime. In middle school, at a birthday party truth-or-dare game, Angie and I kissed for the first time. It was just a peck, really. But it made us officially boyfriend and girlfriend. After that we walked hand in hand at the mall, went to dances together, and gave each other gifts and heart-shaped cards. By high school, we were voted
Cutest Couple, even though we never majorly made out--much less did anything approaching sex.I never spoke to her about the confused feelings
that troubled me, maybe because I feared talking about it would make it more real. I wasn't ready for that. And besides, how could I explain what
was happening when I didn't understand it myself? Instead I prayed for God to change me and hoped that Angie wouldn't end up hurt. What if she
did find out my secret thoughts? On the outside, I was a model of ail-American heterosexual Christian boyhood. (Being tall for my age no doubt
helped.) But on the inside, I felt like a fraud, smaller than a bug.
Chapter 3
SNAP! I POPPED MY WWJD BAND AGAINST MY WRIST AS THE END-OF-LUNCH
BELL CLANGED THAT FIRST DAY OF SENIOR YEAR. Elizabeth stood hurriedly, almost knocking over her chair. "Well . . ." She gave Manuel a tight-lipped smile. "It's certainly been interesting meeting you. “Dakota steadied Elizabeth's chair and told Manuel, "I'd love to interview you for the school paper sometime." Angie gathered her tray and offered, "Let me know if you need help finding your way around. “I merely mumbled, "See you," and got up to leave."Hey, Pablo!" Manuel reached out, handing me a slip of paper. "Here's my screen name and phone number. “I gritted my teeth, trying to be polite. "I told you, my name's not Pablo. It's Paul.
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br /> “Okay, sorry, Paul." He gave me a big full-on smile. "You want to hang out after school? “Can’t.
I've got choir practice." I grabbed my tray to leave, glancing at the screen name, Get Real BeReahji2."Hey." Manuel stopped me again. "Can I have yours?" I grappled for an excuse.
Couldn't he take a hint? Reluctantly, I jotted down Jesus_Rules_3r6 along with my cell number.
"Cool." Manuel beamed. "Thanks.” All during afternoon classes, I stared out the window at the school's parched September lawn, too angry at myself to focus on my class work. Why had I given some admitted homosexual my screen name and cell number? Was I stupid? No, I was beyond stupid. How could I undo what I had done? Simply not answer if he contacted me? For now, there was only one thing I could do: pray. I’d never understood the debate over prayer in schools. Whenever I wanted to pray, it didn't matter where I was--in a classroom, at a school football game, or in the crowded cafeteria--I simply did it. I didn't need any constitutional amendment for permission. I knew Jesus was with me at all times and everywhere. I merely needed to speak his name in my heart. As I did now: Jesus, I'm really scared. I know I shouldn't have given Manuel my screen name and phone number. Please forgive me. And could you maybe have him lose it? Or at least not call me? I ask you this with all my heart. In your name. Amen.
After school I met Angie in the seniors' parking lot to go to church choir practice. When she saw me, her brow creased with concern. "What's the matter?” Nothing." I forced a smile, but she didn't buy it."Hey, it's me." She pouted and tossed me her car keys. "I can tell when something is bothering you. “Cagily, I slid into the seat next to her. How could I explain how angry I was at myself for giving Manuel my info and how scared I was he'd call? As I started the car engine, I fumbled for something to tell her. "Um, I don't know. I guess maybe I'm nervous about the coming weekend. “That wasn't a total lie. Several times a year our church's youthchoir performed at the main Sunday worship. I loved singing and connecting to God that way, but as every performance approached, I'd feel a little jittery. “You always stress . . ." Angie reached across the seat and squeezed my shoulder. "But every time you do fine. Relax. “The touch of her hand soothed like a balm. Even though it sometimes annoyed me how she could keep so cool when I felt ready to lose it, her steadfast calm was also one of the things I loved most about her. Choir rehearsal that afternoon was uneventful, with no calamities or screw-ups. Singing always lifted my heart and put me at peace. After practice, Angie invited me over to her house to eat and study together, as she often did. She lived about six blocks from me, in a ranch-style house with a St.