Autoboyography
Page 44
My chest goes tight. “Sebastian . . .”
He shakes his head, wiping tears away with the back of his hand. “You know, I have this dream where I’ve told them everything, about how I had a crush on a guy in eighth grade, and a handful of guys after that, and no one ever knew. In the dream I tell them how I’ve never wanted to kiss a girl—not once—and I can’t promise that I’ll ever want to get married. Then I’m waiting in the woods, and nobody ever comes. Everyone else peels off, heading out with their family, but I’m sitting there with my eyes closed, just waiting.” He blinks up to the ceiling. “I was so relieved that Dad was there this weekend that I almost promised myself I wouldn’t ever do anything to jeopardize that. But what if I never want what he wants for me? What if I can’t do it?”
My throat feels like it’s full of wet sand. I don’t even know what to say. Instead, I pull him to me, pressing his face to the crook of my neck.
“I’m just thinking about this so much lately,” he says, his voice muffled by my skin, “and trying to figure out what it means, but there aren’t any answers anywhere. There are all kinds of essays written for us about falling in love, and getting married, and becoming a parent. Even losing a child or questioning your faith. But there’s nothing about this, nothing helpful at least. Everywhere, it’s like ‘Same-sex attraction is just a technical term; it’s not who you are. You might not be able to control the feelings, but you can control how you respond,’ and it’s such a lie. We’re taught to turn our life over to Christ and he’ll show us the way. But when I pray? The Heavenly Father says yes.” He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “He tells me he’s proud of me and that he loves me. When I kiss you, it feels right, even if everything I read says it shouldn’t. It makes me feel crazy.”
He turns in, and I kiss his temple, struggling to not lose it with him right now. No wonder he’s “not . . . that”—a label would take away everything he’s ever had. I want to be strong. I have it so easy. I have so much support. It aches to see that he has none of that.
“Babe, I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“We’re supposed to pray, and listen—so I do. But then, when I turn to others, it’s like . . .” He shakes his head. “It feels like I’m pushing through the dark and I know that what’s ahead is safe, but no one is following me there.”
• • •
I’m still shaken up when I park outside Sebastian’s house a few days later.
After his confession, he stood up to use the bathroom, and when he came back and sat down next to me, he smiled and it was like nothing even happened. I’ve never met someone who is so good at switching gears and filing their feelings away so they can sort through them later. I’m not sure whether it’s the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen, or the most depressing.
We held hands as we watched TV, but when his phone went off again, he said he needed to get home. He kissed me at the door and looked back over his shoulder as he walked down the driveway, and e-mailed me that night to let me know that everything was fine.
Sebastian is really good at being fine.
The church has changed some of their wording lately, and just like Sebastian said, it emphasizes acceptance and kindness—always with the kindness—to those who are struggling with their sexuality. But it’s not actually a change in position; it’s a way to counter arguments that say the church isn’t welcoming to the LGBTQ community. In reading, I found it’s only recently spoken out against conversion therapy, saying a change in attraction should not be expected or demanded as an outcome by parents or leaders. So Sebastian could technically say that he was gay and not be forced from the church, but he couldn’t be with me. Having a boyfriend would mean he was actively pursuing a homosexual “lifestyle,” and that would still be against the rules.
Basically, it changes nothing.
I put my car in park and hop out. Sebastian’s mom is out front unloading groceries, and even though I really want to ask her who the hell would embrace a religion that excludes people for who they love, I jog up the driveway to help instead.
“Oh my gosh, Tanner. You are so sweet. Thank you,” she says, reaching for her purse.
I follow her into the house, setting the bags on the counter before going back outside for more. I don’t see Sebastian anywhere, but Faith is in the front room, stretched out on the carpet, coloring.
“Hi, Tanner,” she says, flashing me a toothless grin.
“Hey, Faith.” I look down at her drawing and realize it’s some sort of Ten Commandments coloring book. Don’t these people have anything that isn’t church-related? She’s halfway through the current page, on which a blue-haired Jesus is standing on a mountain addressing a rainbow-colored crowd. I sort of love this kid. “That’s a pretty great picture.” I point to a camel she’s embellished with wings. “Very creative.”
“I’m going to glue some glitter on it later, but I’m only allowed to do it in the kitchen. Are you looking for my brother?”
“I am,” I say. “He’s going to help me with my book.”
He’s not, but this remains an excellent alibi.
Mrs. Brother steps into the living room and smiles at both of us. “Wow,” she says to Faith. “Blue hair?”
“Jesus can have blue hair.” Her crayon scratches defiantly over the paper, and I want to tell her to remember that, to remember the things she believes and not let someone’s rules change them.
“Yes, I think he most definitely can.” Mrs. Brother turns to me. “Tanner, honey, I think Sebastian’s downstairs in his room.”
“Thanks,” I tell her. “Nice drawing, Faith.”
“I know,” Faith says, aiming her grin up at me.
“Tanner, there are some cookies on the counter.” Mrs. Brother straightens and motions toward the kitchen. “Can you take them down with you? He’s working on something and has barely come up for air.”
Yes, Mrs. Brother, I can definitely take cookies down to your hot son’s room. My pleasure.
“Of course.” I gather up my things and follow her into the kitchen.
“I’m taking Faith to dance soon, so if you two need anything else, just help yourself.”
A plate with six chocolate-chip cookies sits on the granite countertop. I’m just about to turn toward the stairs when something outside catches my eye, a flash of blue near the swing set. Sebastian had a blue shirt on today. It stretched across the defined expanse of his chest and showcased his biceps. I barely paid attention to anything else. I wonder whether he dresses every morning to torture me.
The sliding glass door slips silently across the track, and I step outside and onto the patio. I can see him from here, head down as he sits on one of the swings, drawing large swaths of yellow highlighter across lines of text in his book.
I cross the grass, and he looks up when he sees me. “Hey, you,” he says, eyes dropping to the plate in my hand. “You brought me cookies?”
“Technically, they’re your mom’s cookies. She just gave them to me.”
“She likes you,” he says, dragging his feet across the grass. “They all do. I knew they would.”
I laugh. “I have no idea why.”
He shakes his head, wiping tears away with the back of his hand. “You know, I have this dream where I’ve told them everything, about how I had a crush on a guy in eighth grade, and a handful of guys after that, and no one ever knew. In the dream I tell them how I’ve never wanted to kiss a girl—not once—and I can’t promise that I’ll ever want to get married. Then I’m waiting in the woods, and nobody ever comes. Everyone else peels off, heading out with their family, but I’m sitting there with my eyes closed, just waiting.” He blinks up to the ceiling. “I was so relieved that Dad was there this weekend that I almost promised myself I wouldn’t ever do anything to jeopardize that. But what if I never want what he wants for me? What if I can’t do it?”
My throat feels like it’s full of wet sand. I don’t even know what to say. Instead, I pull him to me, pressing his face to the crook of my neck.
“I’m just thinking about this so much lately,” he says, his voice muffled by my skin, “and trying to figure out what it means, but there aren’t any answers anywhere. There are all kinds of essays written for us about falling in love, and getting married, and becoming a parent. Even losing a child or questioning your faith. But there’s nothing about this, nothing helpful at least. Everywhere, it’s like ‘Same-sex attraction is just a technical term; it’s not who you are. You might not be able to control the feelings, but you can control how you respond,’ and it’s such a lie. We’re taught to turn our life over to Christ and he’ll show us the way. But when I pray? The Heavenly Father says yes.” He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “He tells me he’s proud of me and that he loves me. When I kiss you, it feels right, even if everything I read says it shouldn’t. It makes me feel crazy.”
He turns in, and I kiss his temple, struggling to not lose it with him right now. No wonder he’s “not . . . that”—a label would take away everything he’s ever had. I want to be strong. I have it so easy. I have so much support. It aches to see that he has none of that.
“Babe, I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“We’re supposed to pray, and listen—so I do. But then, when I turn to others, it’s like . . .” He shakes his head. “It feels like I’m pushing through the dark and I know that what’s ahead is safe, but no one is following me there.”
• • •
I’m still shaken up when I park outside Sebastian’s house a few days later.
After his confession, he stood up to use the bathroom, and when he came back and sat down next to me, he smiled and it was like nothing even happened. I’ve never met someone who is so good at switching gears and filing their feelings away so they can sort through them later. I’m not sure whether it’s the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen, or the most depressing.
We held hands as we watched TV, but when his phone went off again, he said he needed to get home. He kissed me at the door and looked back over his shoulder as he walked down the driveway, and e-mailed me that night to let me know that everything was fine.
Sebastian is really good at being fine.
The church has changed some of their wording lately, and just like Sebastian said, it emphasizes acceptance and kindness—always with the kindness—to those who are struggling with their sexuality. But it’s not actually a change in position; it’s a way to counter arguments that say the church isn’t welcoming to the LGBTQ community. In reading, I found it’s only recently spoken out against conversion therapy, saying a change in attraction should not be expected or demanded as an outcome by parents or leaders. So Sebastian could technically say that he was gay and not be forced from the church, but he couldn’t be with me. Having a boyfriend would mean he was actively pursuing a homosexual “lifestyle,” and that would still be against the rules.
Basically, it changes nothing.
I put my car in park and hop out. Sebastian’s mom is out front unloading groceries, and even though I really want to ask her who the hell would embrace a religion that excludes people for who they love, I jog up the driveway to help instead.
“Oh my gosh, Tanner. You are so sweet. Thank you,” she says, reaching for her purse.
I follow her into the house, setting the bags on the counter before going back outside for more. I don’t see Sebastian anywhere, but Faith is in the front room, stretched out on the carpet, coloring.
“Hi, Tanner,” she says, flashing me a toothless grin.
“Hey, Faith.” I look down at her drawing and realize it’s some sort of Ten Commandments coloring book. Don’t these people have anything that isn’t church-related? She’s halfway through the current page, on which a blue-haired Jesus is standing on a mountain addressing a rainbow-colored crowd. I sort of love this kid. “That’s a pretty great picture.” I point to a camel she’s embellished with wings. “Very creative.”
“I’m going to glue some glitter on it later, but I’m only allowed to do it in the kitchen. Are you looking for my brother?”
“I am,” I say. “He’s going to help me with my book.”
He’s not, but this remains an excellent alibi.
Mrs. Brother steps into the living room and smiles at both of us. “Wow,” she says to Faith. “Blue hair?”
“Jesus can have blue hair.” Her crayon scratches defiantly over the paper, and I want to tell her to remember that, to remember the things she believes and not let someone’s rules change them.
“Yes, I think he most definitely can.” Mrs. Brother turns to me. “Tanner, honey, I think Sebastian’s downstairs in his room.”
“Thanks,” I tell her. “Nice drawing, Faith.”
“I know,” Faith says, aiming her grin up at me.
“Tanner, there are some cookies on the counter.” Mrs. Brother straightens and motions toward the kitchen. “Can you take them down with you? He’s working on something and has barely come up for air.”
Yes, Mrs. Brother, I can definitely take cookies down to your hot son’s room. My pleasure.
“Of course.” I gather up my things and follow her into the kitchen.
“I’m taking Faith to dance soon, so if you two need anything else, just help yourself.”
A plate with six chocolate-chip cookies sits on the granite countertop. I’m just about to turn toward the stairs when something outside catches my eye, a flash of blue near the swing set. Sebastian had a blue shirt on today. It stretched across the defined expanse of his chest and showcased his biceps. I barely paid attention to anything else. I wonder whether he dresses every morning to torture me.
The sliding glass door slips silently across the track, and I step outside and onto the patio. I can see him from here, head down as he sits on one of the swings, drawing large swaths of yellow highlighter across lines of text in his book.
I cross the grass, and he looks up when he sees me. “Hey, you,” he says, eyes dropping to the plate in my hand. “You brought me cookies?”
“Technically, they’re your mom’s cookies. She just gave them to me.”
“She likes you,” he says, dragging his feet across the grass. “They all do. I knew they would.”
I laugh. “I have no idea why.”
