d.a.n.t.

Once upon a time, I was a Christian. (I joke--but not really--that I am a recovering Baptist and Presbyterian.)

I was a homophobic one, at that. I blush to think of those days. It all started in high school, where there were whispers but no one openly spoke of it. I wasn't for sure if I actually knew a homosexual, but I was certain these poor, misguided souls were bound for Hell. (Possibly possessed by demons, too, but I wasn't too clear on that.)

College was a mind-opening experience for me. I have a vivid memory of standing in a Burger King one evening, when a gorgeous blonde Madonna (think pop singer, not MaryMotherOfGod) began making conversation with me. I was confused because I was pretty sure I had never met this girl, but it was clear she knew me. I finally confessed I had no idea who she was, and she said, "Honey! It's me, Ken!" My hair stylist.

That friendship led to introductions and eventually a theater class, and this is where I discovered that people are people, and love is love. I began to question, if not the existance, at least the morals and values of the God I'd been raised to fear.

To say my parents weren't happy about this would be a huge understatement. I remember a rather loud argument with my mother the day I brought my very feminine and outspokenly homosexual friend Shawn home for the evening. She was polite, but the second the door shut behind him, she said, "How dare you bring that into this house?"

One night the phone rang in the wee hours, and it was Shawn. He'd been assaulted by several rednecks (and I can say that, I grew up there) while leaving a gay bar. I drove as quickly as I could to pick him up, and brought him back to my house to nurse his hurts, Mama's sensibilities be damned.

I would like to tie this story up with a nice little anecdote about how Mama's heart softened over the years, but I can't. To her, homosexual equals pedophile and pervert, and no amount of discussion will sway her from her stance that it's a choice that's made for attention. Her unwillingness to listen to logic and reason bothers me to no end, but I don't give up. Each visit home includes at least one conversation in which I try to change her mind, and she rolls her eyes at me and worries about my soul.

Which brings me to the second part of my confession. To this day, I get a mean little thrill out of telling her about my college adventures with all my gay friends at the gay bars. It makes me snicker when I think about it.