Memories of being 'Outed'

2006 already seems to have much in common with 2005. 2005, with the endless drumbeat of 'the attack on Christianity', the spin-off 'War On Christmas', 'religious leaders' calling for an assassination of a foreign leader, denouncing the right of an entire city to ask for God's help should they need it, pointing to the 'behavior' of a city's residents (often out-of-town visitors) for the reason it drowned, terror at the thought of gay marriage, and other matters purportedly related to religion picked at the scab of a memory I'd tried to suppress. All I could do was hope for a better year ahead. But 2006, with the kickoff of Pat Robertson's remarks about Sharon and the spectacle of another 'Justice Sunday', seems to be shaping up the same as 2005. Until that day, only my closest friends really knew my secret. I really made a point of not talking about it or giving any hint about it away. They took it in stride. To them, I was just a guy to have a beer with or work out with. But that day I slipped. Maybe it was the whole post-election religious right talk that made me drop my guard. The memory I lived with through much of 2005 is about the day, back in 2001, when I was publicly 'outed' by a complete stranger. I know why she spotted me. It was the way I looked on that day. Not by my physique. After recovering from an illness, I'd returned to my workout regimen and was benching 425 pounds again. My 'California tan' and bleached-blonde hair (from the sun and surf) might have been a hint- but they certainly weren't what gave me away. That whole combination meant what it always has meant- I might be or might not be... well... 'different' from what is expected by some. It broke down to what I was wearing. The problem was that I had on a yellow 'muscle tank-top' that was a gift from my 'better- half'. That's what gave me away on that fateful summer day of 2001 or, rather, that's what assisted in exposing me. On that day, upon returning from the grocery store, my 'better- half' informed me I'd bought the wrong toilet paper. Having spent the first 6 years of my life (when basic lessons are learned and lifelong imprints are made) in a place where outhouses were considered luxuries, I didn't quite seem to be able to grasp the different sensitivities of the rear region- particularly when it came to something called 'soft and scented paper'. I offered to (was gently ordered to) return to the store and, once returning, fell victim to my brain-block on toilet paper again. I drew a blank on the name brand. I blame that on O.S. (Outhouse Syndrome)- the inability to understand the difference between Charmin, Scott's, or any other 'brand'. I thought a trip down the aisle containing household paper products would jog my memory as I was not about to call home to say I couldn't remember something relayed to me just moments before (the pride thing before the fall- akin to the 'asking for directions' thing). I wish I had. My 'outer' was in that aisle. I mistook her for my savior (toilet paper- wise). She was 60 something, dressed nicely, and so 'American grandmotherly' that, from a distance, one could imagine her dabbing 'eau-de apple pie' behind each ear in the morning. I decided to ask for her help. After explaining what I thought my 'better-half' wanted, she smiled understandingly and pointed to the lower shelf behind me and told me which brand was the most desirable. As I leaned over to reach for the rolls, I heard the troubling words. I closed my eyes for a second trying to think of how she knew and immediately realized it was because of my appearance or, rather, my tank- top which exposed the symbol I wore. The words she spoke were, "Excuse me sir, are you a Christian?" I responded, despite the alarm bells going off in my head, "Well, yes I am." But then I added, "I was raised Catholic." The small gold cross I was wearing had slipped out of my tank top. The cross was my mother's which she gave me prior to her passing. She looked at me in a way best described as 'sadly' and offered, "Catholic? Really?" She added, "I'm Christian". Her face was grandmotherly but her eyes said, "J'accuse!" The alarm bells were getting louder. I struggled with whether to make a quick exit or to defend my being raised a Catholic due to circumstance and later reaffirming that accident of birth while taking many of the best things of all religions to heart. She spoke again, "We had some Catholics live near us. They were very nice". 'They'? 4 letters translated into a verbal punch. I wondered if she realized she had just called me a 'they'. I decided to leave it alone and simply dismiss it by blaming my religion on my ancestry, "Well, I'm of Slavic descent and Catholicism is something I grew up with. I think it's still part of the Christian family- isn't it?" She quickly responded with, "Oh, we had some Slavs- I think they were Polish- that lived next to us before we moved here." She then got a look on her face that one associates with the initial smell of stench and followed up with, "Nice people but you could smell their food all around the neighborhood when they cooked." 'They' and 'but smell their food'? Verbal punches number two and three. My ancestry, my studies, and my belief of the sanctity of holding religion private were all being pilloried by this knowing or unknowing conveyance of intolerance. Although I'm not Polish, I share something in common with Poles (and with certain other select groups of people). We were a favorite choice for the 'eugenics' movement (the U.S. and Germany- circa 1930-45 come to mind) by those who spoke as she did. Sensing it was time to disengage, I replied, "Thank you for the help with the toilet paper." She wouldn't let go. She followed me down the aisle. She asked if I'd been to the new church in town that will remain nameless. Suffice it to say that the word 'Crusade' is on the facade. Without waiting for a response, she pulled out a card- a business card. The name on it, she explained, was her son's. He was the 'lay pastor' of the church. I bit my lip as I wanted to sarcastically tell her that we had some 'lay priests' in the Catholic church (as evidenced by news reports) but decided against it. Instead, I thanked her and took the card as I made my way out of the store- discarding the card on the way out. When I got home, I told my girlfriend (my 'better-half') what had happened. She laughed. She knew better than most how seriously I took such things and probably realized how troubled I was by it long before I did. I learned a lot from that experience. I learned that I shouldn't really talk to strangers about toilet paper because that could lead to a discussion about religion, which these days, seems inevitably to lead to politics. And we all know that nobody should discuss the combination of toilet paper, religion, and politics in polite company. A discussion such as that can easily lead to talking about outhouses, forced sterilizations, special furnaces, and war.