Extra Credit
I’ve told variations on the following story a lot over the last decade, which varied in part depending on how ‘out’ I was about my own queer identity at the time. I re-read it for the first time since transitioning earlier today. It, uh, hits a lot different than it used to, and now feels like as good a time as any to share it a bit more broadly.
—
My last semester of college, I was one credit shy of what I needed for graduation so I took Intro to Religious Studies. I’d already completed the minor, and going through an overview of material I’d already covered in greater depth seemed like a great way to .
The instructor had asked this older retired pastor to help TA the class (unofficially) because she needed the help. He’d recently lost his wife, so I think part of it was also getting him out of the house.
As any of you who’ve met me might imagine, I more or less aced the class. 100s every quiz, got an improbable 128 on the midterm, and because I opted to write a term paper I had the option to skip the final.
I had a few different prompts to choose from for the paper and I ended up writing a polemic about the Left Behind books as a revisionist narrative shaped by the birth of the Moral Majority, or something like that. It was fine but a little sloppy. My grade for it ended up being like an 88 or something, but I had the option to meet with the TA and discuss what I could improve for ten bonus points. I already had an A locked up no matter what, but it was my last course of undergrad so I figured I’d aim for highest grade in the class. I balanced out a lot of my underachievement with selective overachievement, a trend that’s only recently abated.
We started by talking for maybe 10, 15 minutes about the paper itself. He pointed out some spots where I definitely came off a little too sharp for an academic paper and made some suggestions for how I could improve. I was about ready to pack up and grab my bonus points when he paused and said, “Before you go, if it’s not prying, could I ask — are you queer?”
I sort of hedge for a moment and he can tell I’m uncomfortable getting this question totally randomly at an entirely unrelated review session, so he kind of backs off.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. I can tell from your writing that you still seem to have a lot of anger with mainstream Christian Conservativism and wondered if that’s where it’s coming from.”
Slight pause, and then he starts talking again.
“When I was about your age, I had a very good friend. He and I were thick as thieves, and even though I considered myself straight, I can tell you now, I loved him. Like a brother.” Pause. “Loved him like more than a brother.
“Of course, that was the sixties, and I was in Texas, and I knew what happened to folks like that. But even though we knew we shouldn’t, we tried it anyway. Twice. And it was perfect. But neither of us were prepared to be… like that, so we stopped. And we both met great women, and married them, and fell out of touch.
“She passed away not too long ago, you know. Forty-three years with someone. Stay with someone that long, and you start to take them for granted. You’re so used to them being there that you can’t imagine what it’s like without them. And then they’re gone.
“What you notice most isn’t the sadness. Sadness is a common enough emotion, and while it’s horrible, it’s not the worst part. The worst part is the confusion. It’s been months, and it still takes me a few seconds when I wake up to figure out why she’s not there.
“I hope you live a long life, but it comes with its drawbacks. I’m 76. I’m not in bad health, but I’m old. Now every night, when I close my eyes, I wonder if I’m ever going to open them again. When I was young, it was easy — ‘if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.’ But it’s not like that anymore.
“I think I still believe in God, intellectually, but whenever I think of how much I miss her, it makes me think she’s not waiting for me anywhere. She’s just gone. And one day, maybe not soon but soon enough, I’m going to close my eyes and just… stop.
“And now, in those quiet moments, I’ve started thinking about him again. I know our life wouldn’t have been like I’d imagined. Today, people are a lot more accepting. Back then, I’d barely have been allowed to live — let alone preach.
“But I miss him. I know I’ll never see him again, but I still feel his absence. Less than I feel hers, but it’s there. God, it’s there. And I’m sorry for keeping you so long, but I guess I just needed to tell someone my story.”
