by Jacob Tobia
A little over a year ago I went on a retreat called Chrysalis. While on Chrysalis, we had a nighttime candlelight service devoted to recognizing our sins and giving them to God. What I realized that night is that for so long, I had been trying to hide a fundamental part of who I was from God. It’s a funny idea really, I was trying to hide a part of me that God had shaped, that God had formed. I had forgotten that God loves me no matter what, and not only that God had made me, but that God had made me in his image, and that because of that love and that creation, who was I to question why I was made this way? Who was I to hate who I am? It was at that point, at that service that night, that I said to myself, “This stops now.” So I approached the altar, taking slow, careful steps. I kneeled in front of the cross, and I began to pray, and I said, “Hey God, it’s Jacob, and I think I have something to tell you.” And I paused for a second, I took a deep breath, and I told God, “I’m gay.”
Now, I’m not one to claim that I’ve heard God very often. I’m not the kind of guy who says that God talks to me—Lord knows I’m not a prophet—but at that moment, I swore I heard God say, “I know. I’m here, I love you.” And that was the moment I knew. I knew that who I was, that who I am is beautiful. I knew that God loved me no matter what. I had spent SO long hating who I was, and all in a moment, in two simple words, that hatred disappeared, and I knew that I was a child of God and that no matter what the rest of the world told me, I could always be confident in myself and my life because God loves me regardless. That God’s love is so complete that nothing can get in the way of it.
That’s when I got it. I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
I guess that what I’m trying to tell you tonight is that God made you for a reason. He made you just the way you are. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. Sometimes that word fearfully seems out of place, but through my life, I’ve learned that it’s not just something to disregard. It’s a reality. Sometimes who we really are is scary. Sometimes who we are isn’t easy. Sometimes we can hate who we are. We hate fundamental parts of our personalities, of our bodies, of many things. But the promise we have in God is that all of those things are not only wonderful, they are intentional, they are beautiful. And sometimes that is a scary idea, sometimes that is hard to accept.
We all have parts of ourselves that we hate, we all have insecurities, whether we think we’re too fat, or too skinny, or too smart, or too goofy, or not pretty enough, or not good enough at sports, or not cool enough, or whether we think our nose is too big or our feet are too small, or we have too much acne. If we think that we’ve done something that God could never love us for, or if we are a certain way that God could never be okay with, or if we simply cannot accept ourselves. Tonight, I invite you to take whatever it is that you hate about yourself, whatever it is that you think God could never love, whatever it is you think is disgusting or wrong or ugly, and give it to God. I invite you to know that you are fearfully and wonderfully made, that you are a child of God and consequently, every single part of you is perfect in his eyes. You are created by God and you are beautiful. Never forget that.
Let us pray. Dear God, I thank you for all of the beautiful people in this room. I thank you that we are created in your image, that we are all perfect in your eyes, and that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. I pray that you will guide us, and lead us in a direction of love and of self-acceptance. I pray for everyone sitting around me, I pray that whenever they feel ugly, whenever they feel downtrodden, and whenever they feel that who they are isn’t good enough, I pray that you will be with them and that they will see the beautiful creation that they are. I thank you that you love us not in spite of our “flaws,” but because of them. Please watch over us and be with us tonight. In your name we pray, Amen.
By the time I’d finished the talk, each person was in tears, myself included. I’d known that God loved me just the way I was, but it was the first time in my life I’d proclaimed that truth in public. I hugged the adult leader who I was closest to on the committee, and we prayed over the talk, prayed that God would guide me and help me get through it.
A day later, I got a call from Michael, our youth pastor, who I adored. He wanted to know whether I had time to meet him after handbell practice that week.
Uh oh.
The next day, we walked to the Wendy’s across the street and Michael bought us both Frostys. If anyone buys you a Frosty before a meeting, odds are they don’t have something nice to say. They’re just hoping that the sweet, cold, chocolaty goodness will lull you into accepting bad news with grace.
In this case, the Frosty strategy proved ineffective. Michael told me that after speaking with a few adult leaders, he didn’t think they could let me give my talk at the retreat. It wasn’t that people had a problem with my talk per se—it was that he wasn’t sure some of the adult leaders could handle the conversations that would follow. He was worried—and in retrospect, rightfully so—that a number of adult leaders would respond negatively to the talk, say bad things about homosexuality, or freeze up completely when they broke into their small groups. He wondered if I might keep my message, but change my topic. I told him I’d think about it.
I was heartbroken and furious. But I wasn’t angry at Michael. He’d supported me steadfastly after I came out, and besides, it wasn’t even really his decision. He was simply the messenger who’d been tasked with delivering the unfortunate news.
Instead, I was mad at my church family. The whole community. The collective that had let me down heinously and cut me to the bone. I felt like Jesus, forced by the Pharisees to deny his own divinity. I felt like Galileo, forced by the Inquisition to recant his suggestion that the earth revolves around the sun. I felt like Oscar Wilde, compelled to deny his love when put on trial.
How could they do this to me? It was my spiritual journey, it was my testimony. Who were they to tell me that my path with God wasn’t good enough? Who were they to tell me that the love I knew wasn’t real? Who were they to tell me that God didn’t love me just as I was? How dare they.
As I drove home from church that night, something broke inside me that in some ways I’m still mending. It was the first time in my life that I felt not just redirected or ignored, but silenced—literally, figuratively, emotionally, all of it.
All I could think about was the impact this decision would have on the middle schoolers. I thought about who I was in sixth grade, just how scared I was of my difference, of my identity, and how much it would’ve meant to me to hear someone a few years my senior speak in such a positive, healing way. A talk like that could’ve saved me. A talk like that could’ve cut through five years of shame, loneliness, and self-hatred. At the tender age of eleven or twelve, a talk like that would’ve changed my whole world.
That was, and still is, my deepest lamentation about what happened. We had the chance to circumvent so much hurt. By opening up a conversation and allowing queer people at my church to own God’s love for them, we could’ve healed.
I stormed into the house to tell my mom what’d happened. I was screaming. I was furious—not at her, but at the world. And, as anyone who has raised teenagers knows, my mother did exactly the thing that she shouldn’t have—she tried to help me understand where the church leaders were coming from. That sent me over the edge. I stormed out.
I blazed through the woods behind my house, walking until my legs couldn’t carry me anymore. I collapsed in sobs, the gravel digging into my knees. I knew God still loved me, but why couldn’t the rest of the world?
While my sorrow that night was acute, the real tragedy was that it was only the beginning of the silencing I’ve endured, the silencing that I often endure, each time my identity or political consciousness takes a step forward.
In the end, I still gave a talk. But I did exactly what they asked of me: I edited it, keeping the message and changing the topic. It made me feel dirty, stained, dishonest.
La
ter in the evening, they let me give the talk as I first wrote it, but only to a group of high schoolers at a separate event. By that point, it felt empty. Hollow. It’s hard to tell people that you embrace who you are, after you’ve heeded their command to be silent about it.
* * *
—
Following the incident with my testimony, my relationship to my church became strained. It was difficult to listen to the sermon without feeling cynical. It was difficult to feel God’s love in that place. So I grew distant. I went to church less frequently.
In terms of being a functioning member of heterosexual society, the freedom that came with my distance from church was lethal. In terms of being a queer person with self-esteem and the ability to own their identity, that freedom was a blessing. I had the space I needed to experiment, to explore my queerness to its fullest extent. This exploration reached a fever pitch the spring of my junior year, at the mall (because of course).
That spring, I was hanging out with my friends Katie and Davis, a straight couple who were totally badass and super active in the Gay Straight Alliance at school. Collectively, the two of them comprised the entire straight side of the group. And as far as they were concerned, I was their official third wheel. We weren’t a throuple, per se, because they would only kiss each other, not me; but I’d like to think we were emotionally polyamorous. I’m not sure if Katie or Davis would agree with that assertion, but it’s my memoir, so I’m entitled to my delusions.
On a mundane Saturday in late February, Katie, Davis, and I were hanging out at Katie’s house when she decided that she wanted to go to the salon. Neither Davis nor I were interested in going with her, but we didn’t want to just hang out at the house. Katie agreed to drop us off at the mall on the way to her appointment.
Davis and I spent an hour or so wandering around before we got bored of the whole place. In high school, the mall wasn’t nearly as entertaining as it had been when we were younger. What once felt like an incredible place to explore now felt stale, a place you came to get generic Christmas presents for people you didn’t care about that much.
Unamused and underwhelmed, Davis and I sat down on a bench. We texted Katie to see when she would be done, but she was going to be another hour or so. I should note that this was before you could check Facebook on your phone. I’m not sure Instagram even existed back in 2009. This was the old-school type of boredom. There were no cat videos to entertain us.
An idle mind is the devil’s workshop, and in this case, the devil had some serious fun. After about five minutes of doing nothing, Davis looked me in the eye, dead serious, and uttered the nine words that would change my life forever:
“Dude, do you wanna go buy some high heels?”
I stared at him blankly, unable to compute. One of my best straight friends was proposing that we purchase high heels for ourselves. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Wasn’t I supposed to be the one proposing this to him? Wasn’t I the one who was supposed to drag him, kicking and screaming, into a women’s store to buy girly things? Mind whirring, I said nothing.
Undeterred, Davis continued.
“Wouldn’t that be awesome? You know how we were talking about gender being a spectrum in GSA? Well, let’s go buy some heels. Katie will flip.”
The truth of what I was being asked finally landed, and it hit me square in the solar plexus. I knew what I was supposed to say. I knew the safe answer. The safe answer was, Nah, I’m okay. I mean, I’m gay and all, but just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that I like to wear high heels. Besides, won’t it be awkward to go into a women’s store to get them? And what will our parents say if they find them? I don’t think that’s such a good idea. And I don’t really want high heels anyway, I mean, aren’t they uncomfortable?
But that’s not what came out of my mouth. What came out of my mouth was:
“Oh my God, totally.”
The rest, they say, is herstory.
A few moments later, we were standing outside Charlotte Russe, which carried the flashiest, tallest, most fabulous heels Crabtree Valley Mall had to offer for twenty-five dollars or less.
I took a deep breath. For Davis, it seemed like this was just a fun experiment, but for me, it was much, much more. I thought back to all the times I’d walked past this very store, uncertain why it entranced me so much, wishing I could walk in. I thought back to the first time I’d gone into Charlotte Russe with Meredith, how transgressive it had felt, how I’d had to feign disinterest in the garments and shoes. I thought back to the moments when I’d been caught red-handed experimenting with gender as a child, nails sloppily covered in polish, lips messily adorned with color.
I couldn’t let those memories hold me back forever. I refused. So I summoned all of my queer courage, feigned some confidence, and put one foot in front of the other.
As I tramped along the tiled mall floor toward the store entrance, I felt myself on the brink of something massive. I was no longer entering the store under the aegis of disinterest or female companionship. For the first time, I was walking in of my own accord, in full (well, maybe partial) ownership of my desires and dreams.
When we crossed the threshold, I felt like an insurgent, like a spy, like I was in a James Bond movie. Davis was Daniel Craig, I was the Bond girl (or perhaps Dame Judi Dench), and we were running into a cocktail party, guns blazing, to assassinate the Russian ambassador. We stormed (well, walked swiftly) past the racks of clothes and headed straight to the back, to the sale section.
Though I played it cool, I was frantic. It was abundantly clear that we didn’t belong. Would we be asked to leave? Would they refuse to sell us something? Would someone call mall security? Would they call my parents or fine me for disorderly conduct or something? Was the sky going to fall? Y’all, it feels like the sky is going to fall. I’m not out freaking out, you’re freaking out! Omg, stop telling me not to freak out, it’s only making me freak out more!
The emotional weight was gargantuan, but the reality was tepid. Yes, one or two of the women in the store shot glares of contempt in our direction, and a few others stared disapprovingly. But for every woman who was nasty (and not in the cool, Nasty Woman, fuck-you-Donald-Trump way), there were a few gorgeous souls who gave us knowing glances. In some cases, we even got smiles.
As we looked over the sales rack, clearly overwhelmed and disoriented, a store clerk approached us to ask if we needed any help.
“Yeah, um, yes, so, we are, uh—” I choked.
“Where can we find your cheapest high heels in the biggest sizes?” Davis interjected. Efficient.
The sales rep was lovely, albeit taken aback by how hard I was wigging out. She focused on talking to Davis because he wasn’t hyperventilating and crazy-eyed and sweating.
“Well, our sales rack is over here, and we have the largest sizes grouped in this section. There are some size tens, and there might even be an eleven or two in there, but that’s the biggest they run. Let me know if you need any help!”
She floated away and we started searching. I looked as fast as I could, desperate to get out of the store. Insular in my quest, I found a pair of size 10, black faux-leather pumps with a four-inch stiletto heel and a one-inch platform. Why I thought that was an appropriate “starter heel” for someone who’d never walked in high heels before, I will never know. Go big or go home, I guess? For expediency, I tried on only one shoe. My foot barely crammed inside, but I figured that was good enough.
I threw the shoes back in the box and turned around to find Davis confidently, albeit clumsily, strutting around in a pair of purple velvet heels with cheap metal buckles. He was beaming. “Look how great these are!” he exclaimed.
His courage was both inspiring and off-putting. How could he be so unafraid of what this meant? How could he be so bold? How could he just stand there in high heels in a women’s store like it wasn’t a massive deal?
I wor
d-vomited, trying to hustle him along. “Haha yeah that’s great are you gonna buy them awesome love it can you take them off now so we can go? youlookgreatpleasegetmeoutofhere.”
Before I could rethink the decision or what it meant, I hurried both of us to the register. Davis’s heels were seventeen dollars. Mine were a whopping twenty-three.
As we walked out of the store, I could finally begin to breathe, and my nerves gave way to giddiness. I was overcome. It was the kind of giddiness that comes from getting away with something, with pool hopping and not getting caught, with crashing a wedding reception and getting free champagne, with beating the final level of a video game, with a first kiss. It was a breathlessness, a high. A feeling of complete and utter joy. Unstoppable waves of satisfaction and freedom and power and self-actualization. Not quite an orgasm, but still pretty whoa. All that over a shitty pair of twenty-three-dollar high heels that were a size too small.
“Davis, can you believe what we just did? That was so, so—”
“Awesome?” he interjected. I nodded in agreement.
An hour later, Katie picked us up outside the Chick-fil-A. Davis rode shotgun and I hopped in the back.
“Katie, you’ll never guess what Jacob and I did,” Davis exclaimed, opening his shoebox to show off his new acquisition. “We bought high heels!”
“You did what?” Katie was a font of pure, unadulterated excitement.
“It was Davis’s idea!” I interjected jocularly (and perhaps a bit defensively). “I swear to God.”
“Hon, I am thrilled that you have your own pair of heels; it’s about damn time. Do you know how to walk in them yet?”