"We have a problem," Mom said, as my dad placed a piece of paper on my bed. So you can imagine what happened when my dad found out I was looking at gay porn on the family computer. I couldn't watch R-rated movies ever, and sex scenes, even PG-13 sex scenes, always had to be fast-forwarded.
I was only allowed to listen to Christian music, attend Christian rock concerts, and go to the skating rink on Christian night, which was the last Monday of the month. Virginity: "Tell them you can lose it whenever you want, but they can never get it back." Smoking: "You can get cancer from just one cigarette." Because this denomination's view of God informed some of my dad's ideas of fatherhood, I was raised with very strict rules, many of which were encapsulated in confusing one-liners:Ĭuss words: "People who cuss have the mentality of an eggplant." My dad was a pastor with a denomination called the Church of God. To be Christian meant, in the first place, not sinning, and if I won at that game, then the prize was being raptured away with all of my fellow Jesus Freaks. What you need to know for this story is that I grew up hearing all the time that God sent people to Hell for sinning, and if I didn't want to go to Hell, then I needed to invite Jesus into my heart after each sin act I committed, whether that was whispering a curse word, puffing on a cigarette stub I found lying in the front yard, or kissing someone's belly button during a particularly experimental game of Truth or Dare. I thought it had something to do with balls. I was only in fifth grade, but I knew she meant something by that, even if I didn't know what it was. "Oh, Brandon! Great job!" She seemed thrilled for me.
And I caught it and got Kyle out!" I said in a very accomplished voice. Later that day as I walked into my classroom, my teacher, who no doubt heard about the miracle on the kickball field, asked me about my amazing play. The gym teacher just stared at me wide-eyed and gaping-mouthed. I vaguely remember Amanda Lovelace passing out. did I just.? And as I opened my eyes and looked down, there, cradled in my arms, was a red kickball.Įveryone cheered and hooted and whistled. As soon as I felt it hit, I shut my eyes tightly and squeezed my arms around the- Wait. I locked my gaze onto the red, hurtling mass, and opened my arms, letting the thing slam right into my stomach. I wasn't quite sure what to do, but for some reason, I thought-for better or worse-I'd try and catch it. As everyone clapped and hoorayed, I froze motionlessly staring at the red ball whirling toward me. This boy got up to kick, I think his name was Kyle, and he just-BAM!-killed it. We were all playing kickball during gym class, and as usual, I was stuck somewhere in the outfield. We were, as I learned from four years of therapy, a work in progress, and I liked the place we were progressing to.Īfter a few minutes of quietly waiting, someone came in to perform an EKG on my dad. It'd been a rocky few years ever since my evangelical parents found out I was gay, and only recently were things getting better. Not because he and I had a great relationship at that point, but because we didn't. I was 24 years old, and I was worried I was going to lose my father, and I didn't want that to happen. I used to think winking was his brain's way of taking a snapshot. I looked at his sunken eyes as they fought to stay open, as they winked at me every now and again to assure me that he was invincible. I looked at his skin, which, in spite of its olive color, looked pale. I looked at my dad as he sat there hunched over, rubbing his opposite elbows with calloused hands, and cracking fingers. "Well you've been just tired for a long time."Ĭoughing, and then quiet. "Are you kidding me right now? Look at yourself." "It's really nothing, Beje." My dad calls me Beje, which he got from shortening the initials of my first and middle names: Brandon Joseph.
My dad sat down on the edge of the hospital bed, shivering and occasionally coughing.Ĭough. After taking his vitals, she escorted us to our room and told us the doctor would be right in. A different nurse appeared and told us to follow her. The nurse dialed a number and spoke hurriedly into the phone. "My dad's having a heart attack, and you need to see him right now." "Beje," he said, as we walked to the front desk, "just let me handle this. My dad has a family history of heart stuff, so when the chest pains started around midnight three years ago, my mom made me take him to the hospital. "Where others see but the Dawn coming over the hill, I see the sons of God shouting for joy." -William Blake