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.