In 1852, "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was published, which helped laid the groundwork for the Civil War and the emancipation of slaves. The novel depicted the realities of slavery while also asserting that Christian love could overcome something as destructive as enslavement of human beings. In that tradition, I offer you a short story. The story depicts the realities of growing up LGBT within a traditional Catholic Christian family. You'll experience the internal conflict of the main character and the struggle of his care takers. It is my hope, that one day, true Christian love will also overcome the stigma of being of Gay.
The Indelible Mark
Something told him not to trust Chris. All those freckles made his face seem so ugly and contaminated, and he feared that deep down inside his soul might be just as ugly. But in his usual off-color sort of way, Chris had always seemed friendly enough, and he lived just down the road, so he guessed there was no harm in joining him and his two baseball cronies for the walk home. The worst of it, of course, would be coming up with something to say. He couldn’t just remain silent the whole time; that would make him look like a socially awkward geek, which is exactly what he was. But he didn’t want to give Chris and his buddies any more fuel for that notion, especially after what had happened earlier that day in the locker room. But then again, if he talked, he would probably say something stupid that would just make things worse. Even so, he nonetheless felt relieved that someone was still willing to be seen with him. Maybe he wasn’t such a geek after all. He was probably just being too hard on himself. Anyways, it felt good to be included for a change, so he just smiled and faked an occasional laugh, as they walked together past the faded houses of the little town, talking about baseball, girls, and other things that he had never bothered to pay much attention to. He even risked an occasional comment here and there when he could do so without danger of looking like a total idiot. All the while he thought about how confident he must’ve seemed to them, and how Chris had totally forgotten what had happened earlier.
Before he knew it, they were approaching an alley by the old Mexican lady’s house, which meant they were already half-way home. He couldn’t believe how well everything was going—until Chris mentioned P.E.—that’s when he started to feel the beads of sweat collecting under his arms, and his smile started to feel fake and plastic. Surely Chris wouldn’t bring it up, would he? It took every bit of focus for him to maintain his false sense of being at ease, and now he was far too nervous even to follow the conversation, until he realized it had been turned towards him.
“You like P.E., don’t you Edward?”
He swallowed hard and tried his best to sound like he was telling the truth. “Uh, yeah, I guess so. It’s a good break from Ms. Moraga’s stupid history class.”
“Really?” one of the boys asked, “I never thought of you as being the athletic type.”
“No really, I’ve always enjoyed P.E,” he countered.
Chris turned to him with an ugly, mocking grin. “Yeah, but what you really like is watching all those naked guys in the locker room, huh, Edward?” His coarse laughter was immediately echoed by his two buddies, as Chris effortlessly forced him into a full nelson. “Grab him! Don’t let him get away!” he shouted, dragging him backward into the sandy alleyway. “Grab his legs!”
It happened so fast, Edward didn’t have time to think. He saw one of the boys toss his backpack onto the dirt, and the very next instant he felt the sand of the alleyway scraping against his upper arm, as his body hit the ground. Chris had him in a firm lock, forcing his head roughly to one side with his grimy hands. One of the other boys was lying on top of him, wielding a permanent marker in front of his face. He tried to kick, but his legs were completely restrained. He felt the marker on his forehead, and he could smell the boy’s body odor in his face. His elbow was rasping with pain as it grinded deeper into the hard sand. A dog barked behind the fence. The boys were laughing. Finally, Chris let go of him, and the three boys ran off.
He lay there momentarily in the dirt, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He heard Chris’ mocking laughter echoing in the street, “Faggot! Faggot!” He wanted so bad just to yell back at them, tell them to go fuck themselves, or something like that, but he knew that would be immoral. It was bad enough that he had the boys mad at him; he didn’t need to get on God’s bad side too. But it just wasn’t fair. If he were really a fag, then he would’ve deserved every bit of their abuse and more, but he wasn’t a fag at all; those boys were just a bunch of brainless idiots who didn’t know any better. He could still remember the way that boy’s body smelled pressed against him. And he kind of liked it. The thought kindled a flame of shame that licked at his bowels.
He got up out of the dirt, balanced himself against the Mexican lady’s worn wooden fence, and examined his elbow. It was scratched up a little, but no blood. His knee was a little sore too. He dusted himself off and gently rubbed his fingers across his forehead. He didn’t know what they had written, but he was sure it couldn’t be good. How could he go home now? His auntie would surely be there preparing dinner by now, and he would have to go kiss her on the cheek and tell her he was home, like every other day. But at least Sam, her husband, wouldn’t be there yet. This time of year there was plenty of work at the cannery, so he wouldn’t be home ‘til after eight, which made things a little easier. Whatever the boys had written on his forehead, he knew he couldn’t let them see. He walked out of the alley, and looked into the side mirror of a car parked there by the curb. The word FAGGOT glared back at him in big, black letters of indelible ink. A pang of shame flushed across his face. FAGGOT. He turned away from the mirror with a lump in his throat. The word echoed through his mind. “Son of a bitch!” he whispered, with a tear of anger in his eye.
He had cussed again; he would have to add that to his list. He was pretty sure it was only a venial sin, though. He didn’t mind the venial sins so much, because they provided some filler in his confessions; that way he could sandwich the really bad stuff, like masturbation and what not, in between his counts of the lesser transgressions. It was just another tool for mitigating the humiliation of having to face Fr. Silva in the sacristy before Sunday mass. But he wasn’t a fag. It was so unfair! Now the tear of anger that had been collecting in his eye ran down his face, and another, this one a tear of shame, followed. He tried to use the moisture to scrub the ugly word from his head. But when he looked back into the mirror, the F had only begun to smear slightly. He rubbed harder and harder until it hurt, but the ink only blurred into a black F-shaped stain. This wasn’t going to work. He needed to get to a sink with soap and warm water, but there was nowhere he could go.
He knew plenty of people in town, but he couldn’t face any of them with this incriminating epithet scrawled across his face, unless of course he went to Timothy’s house. Timothy was probably the best friend he’d ever known, and he knew Timothy would understand, but he had already burnt that bridge; he hadn’t wanted to, but he had to do it. It was either that or get kicked out of the house for good. It was really all Sam’s fault. Sam could be such an asshole—but that wasn’t a very kind thought. Edward rebuked himself for thinking of him that way. After all, Sam was really good to have taken him in when his mother went away; he should be grateful for that, and he knew it. But on some level he just couldn’t get over the suspicion that Sam had never really wanted him anyways; he’d taken him in just because he felt it was his Christian duty. And he also considered it his duty to make sure Edward behaved himself as well as any one of the whole entourage of tacky saints they had stationed throughout their house. It was all for his own good, though. Timothy was a bad influence, and Edward knew that just as well as Sam did.
The whole thing was all my fault. I mean, I could tell from the time they were in grammar school that Timothy was a little bit—you know. It wasn’t anything that I could put my finger on, like something in particular that he said or did. He was just too gentle and soft spoken for a boy. Honestly, I liked him; he was such a sweet kid. And even though the thought crossed my mind, it never occurred to me to warn Edward about it. Anyways, I don’t think I could have done it, even if I wanted to, because Edward was always such an awkward boy, and Timothy was the only one who would play with him. They had grown really close, and I was glad that he had at least one friend. After they got into high school they started drinking together. But, then again, who doesn’t drink in high school? I didn’t think much of it, really, I mean, my parents used to let me drink. Drinking’s not a sin. The priest drinks wine at Mass, right? Even Jesus drank at the Last Supper.
So, anyways, one night Timothy was over at our house, and I think they must have been drinking some wine. Sam wasn’t home, since it was peach season and the cannery was working around the clock. I had stewed a pot of chicken with tomatoes and bell peppers, because I had told the ladies at church that I would bake up a tray of manicotti to take to a baptism that next day. I left the chicken there on the counter to cool, and then went to bed. At around two in the morning I woke up and remembered the food, so I went to go put it in the fridge, and that’s when I caught them. The TV was still on, and they were sitting there together on the couch. Neither of them was wearing a shirt. I first realized something was awry when I noticed that they were looking at each other right in the face instead of watching the movie. There in the bluish glow from the TV screen, I could see everything. They both had their pants down to their ankles—and they were touching each other! They didn’t even see me standing there until I turned on the light.
“Auntie Bella!” Edward gasped, quickly jumping to his feet and trying to stuff his swollen man-parts back into his pants.
I was shocked how big my little boy had grown—he certainly wasn’t a boy anymore. It was a truly horrifying experience for a woman my age, and I needed to use everything in my grasp to convey that to him. Now, I usually avoid placing both hands on my hips, because it makes me look a little fatter than I really am, but that night I didn’t care. Timothy was covering himself with one of the nice couch pillows I had just bought at the swap meet the week before, and that really rubbed me the wrong way. I had to make them understand that what they were doing was really, really wrong. I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there shaking my head. “I can’t believe you guys! This is bad—really, really bad!”
He stood there, shirt still off, now covering his package with both hands, even though he had successfully stuffed everything back where it belonged, and where any reputable Catholic boy ought to keep it. “I thought you were in bed!” he said with big eyes.
“What difference does that make? Don’t you have any shame? How can you do this right in front of Jesus?” I pointed at the crucifix hanging right before them on the wall. “You’ll have to answer to him for it—not me!” I wasn’t so much angry about it; I was mostly just disgusted that my nephew, my own boy, practically, would do something so bad right under my nose. It just wasn’t like him. It had to be that friend of his. I glared at him. “And you, Timothy, you need to go home right now,” I pointed at the front door. “I don’t want to see you around here anymore, okay? I don’t need this kind of trash going on in my house, do you understand?”
At first Timothy didn’t budge. He didn’t want to put his pants on in front of me, so he just sat there looking terrified, with my brand-new purple pillow in his lap.
“I said get out of here! Now!”
Finally he got up and turned away from me as he pulled his pants up and put his t-shirt back on. He walked over to the front door, opened it, and looked back at me, “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Arcani, I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t need your apologies. Just leave, okay? Just leave.”
Timothy nodded his head and left, letting the screen door close quietly behind him.
“What’s wrong with you, Edward? You know better than this! I just don’t understand. Why did you do this?”
“I—I don’t know, Auntie.” He was avoiding eye contact.
“You know what you did, Edward? You know what that is?—It’s the sin of Sodom! It’s the worse sin you could possibly commit! People go to hell for this all the time, Edward!”
He remained silent.
“Are you listening to me? I’m worried about you, Edward! You can’t be doing this—you know that! What’s wrong with you? I am so disappointed in you!”
Edward’s mouth began tensing into a sour and involuntary frown, and his body jerked a little as he drew a deep, erratic breath, still staring downward. Teardrops began falling directly from his face to the floor, and he began sobbing uncontrollably. It broke my heart to watch him standing there, so I wrapped my big, soft arms around him, and patted him on the back. I waited there quietly, holding him as he continued to shudder with each breath. There’s no way I could ever describe how sad I felt for him at that moment, but I knew I just couldn’t remain silent while such abominations were going on under my own roof. To rebuke the sinner is one of the spiritual works of mercy; it was my Christian duty, and I had to do it.
“Edward, you have to go to confession. You know that, right? You can’t keep this sin on your soul; it’ll destroy you. And you can’t be hanging around with Timothy anymore either; he’s a bad influence on you.”
He looked up me, “Auntie Bella, it wasn’t his fault. I’m just as much to blame.”
“No, that’s what you think, but I didn’t raise you that way, Edward. Timothy’s not right; I’ve had my suspicions about him for a long time, now. You just can’t hang around with him anymore, okay? I know it’s hard, but someday, when you’re in Heaven, you’ll thank me for it.” I continued stroking him on the back. “But you’re going to have to confess all this to Fr. Silva before you can even think of Heaven; you know that, right?”
“Auntie Bella, how can I confess this? Do you know how embarrassing that would be? I’m an altar boy! I confess my sins, and then ten minutes later I have to face Fr. Silva in the sacristy! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?”
“I know, honey, but you should have thought about that before you did this horrible thing. You have to confess it, or else you’ll be confessing it in front of the whole world on Judgment Day, and then you’ll be off to hell! I’m not going to let that happen to you, Edward, you have to go to confession!”
“I can’t do it, Auntie!” He buried his face in my bosom and began soaking my nightgown with tears.
I gently caressed the short-cropped hair on the back of his head, as I fought to hold back my own tears. I’d never been an altar server before; back in my day it was considered sacrilegious for girls to be in the sanctuary during Mass, but still I knew how humiliating confession could be. I was no angel myself, although I’ll admit I had never committed an unnatural sin like that before. But even so, several years ago I wasn’t able to confess to Fr. Silva after cheating on my husband. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like for little Edward having to confess something like this, so I offered him the escape I had used. “Baby, you have to confess it,” I said, “but how about if I take you down to St. Joseph’s? You don’t know any of the priests over there, so it won’t be so bad. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so I can take you right down there in the afternoon, as soon as I get back from that baptism, and we won’t even have to make an appointment. Come on, now, baby, you can do that, can’t you?”
Edward didn’t have any more secrets. Auntie Bella had told Sam everything last summer. Of course Edward would’ve preferred that she keep the information from him, but it was too serious, and Edward knew that. No one in good conscience could have kept that sort of information hidden. It was probably one of the most painful things Edward had endured thus far, but in a way he was glad he had gotten caught. It was all out in the open now. He had committed the ultimate treason against manhood and decency, but he had confessed his sin, and now he could live his life with a clean conscience. Of course he still missed Timothy, but he knew it was for the best. They had touched each other only very briefly that night—but who knows? If he had kept hanging around with him, he might have actually started to become—you know—and there’s no way that could end happily. Auntie Bella knew what she was talking about. Something wasn’t quite right about Timothy, and the more he hung around with him, the more it would rub off.
When he thought back on the whole experience, he marveled how even before they had sat down together that night, he somehow had this gut feeling that he already knew what was going to happen. Not that he ever imagined they’d get caught, but just that he could smell the sin before it actually took place, almost like he could read Timothy’s mind. He began to wonder if he might have the spiritual gift of reading people’s consciences, like Padre Pio, and he figured he would probably make a great priest some day. He hoped to be able to help people see through all their lies, and face the truth of who they really are.
This smeared blotch on his forehead was nothing more than a lie—a cruel lie—and as such, it had to be eradicated. Maybe there was someone else who could help him. Nobody came to mind. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and began scrolling through his contacts, hoping there was someone he had forgotten, someone who could accept him without condemning or making fun of him. It was a vain gesture; of course, there was no one. Timothy’s number was no longer there. Sam had forced him to delete it after he found out they had been texting each other last Christmas. Since then, Sam had decreed that he would regularly inspect his call log at random, just to save Edward from the potential dangers of people like Timothy. And he had made it unmistakably clear that if he ever discovered they were still keeping in contact, he would have no choice but to change the locks on the doors. The sin of Sodom would not be tolerated in the Arcani house.
Not that any of this mattered, though, since Edward had Timothy’s number memorized. A part of him really wanted to text him right now, tell him he was sorry for everything, and that he really wanted to talk and mend their friendship, that it had all been a big lie just to save him from his uncle’s tirades. He knew Timothy was the only person who could love him with the word FAGGOT branded across his face in permanent marker. He entered the number and stood there looking at it momentarily. The tears again welled in his eyes, but he couldn’t press SEND. I can’t do this; this is a temptation from the devil, he thought. It had been nearly five months since he last spoke with Timothy, and he had cleaned up his life. Since then he had done his best to meticulously avoid even thinking about him, because he knew that thoughts could be sins too. I really shouldn’t be thinking about him right now, he told himself. Even if it’s not really an impure thought, maybe it’s an occasion of sin, something that could lead to an impure thought, like playing with fire. But it couldn’t be as bad as what he had let happen last week. He had let himself fantasize about him in the heat of the moment, and that was a mortal sin for sure. The next time he saw Fr. Silva, he knew he would have to confess having entertained impure thoughts again, but he wasn’t necessarily sure if he would have to explain that they had been thoughts about another guy. He thought he might have to add that detail, since that would alter the conditions of the sin, making it much, much worse. But then again, he had only allowed himself to think of Timothy just as a matter of testing himself, to see if he really possessed some dark inner tendency towards—you know. It wasn’t the thought of Timothy per se that had given him pleasure, but just the sexual content of the thought. It surely wouldn’t have been any different if it had been a thought about a woman, would it? He tried to convince himself, but he couldn’t be sure. That’s why he hadn’t gone to confession last Sunday. Now he wanted to put it off another week, but he knew that was out of the question, because Sam had already interrogated him about not going to communion last Sunday, and he knew he couldn’t get away with it twice in a row. Of course he could just make a sham confession, and receive communion anyways just to keep Sam off his back; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that. How would anyone ever know the difference? But God, of course would know, and God was a lot scarier than Sam. He knew that would be a terrible sacrilege, and sooner or later he would have to confess that too, which would make it doubly embarrassing. He wished he could drive so he could go down to St. Joseph’s again. He wished he could just tell Auntie Bella everything without having to worry about her divulging it all to Sam. He wished Sam wasn’t such a prick—but that was a bad thought. I can’t be thinking this way, he thought again. I should just be grateful that he keeps a roof over my head. It didn’t matter how bad Sam was; he would have to answer for his own sins. Some day his secrets would be divulged in front of the whole world, and then he’d wish he had been as honest as his nephew.
Thanks to Timothy, he had been able to figure out Sam’s secret. Apparently Sam hadn’t been able to keep it from getting out around the cannery, where Timothy’s mother also worked. She claimed she’d had her suspicions for quite some time already, given the way, to put it in her own words, he was “constantly fawning” over Kylie Zhong, one of the line inspectors. Timothy’s mom had never much cared for Sam; she always felt that he considered himself more righteous than everyone else. Not that he had ever said anything directly to her face, but one of the girls in the office let her know that Sam had been condemning her behind her back for receiving communion one Sunday even though she had been divorced and remarried. When Timothy told Edward the story, he knew it was true; it was exactly what his uncle would do in that situation. But he was totally shocked when he heard what happened next. Timothy’s mother somehow overheard Sam inviting Kylie down to the river that Saturday, which she thought odd, since she knew Sam was married. She had no respect left for Sam, and she told her son about it when she got home from work that very same day, knowing full well that Sam was like a father, albeit a lousy father, to her son’s best friend. Timothy let Edward know about it right away, and the two of them conspired to spy on the couple down at the river. Edward wasn’t exactly sure why, but he wanted some dirt on his uncle. And he got it. Sam had told Auntie Bella he had to work that day. But, peeking through a fragrant tangle of cottonwoods and river sage, the boys saw for themselves what he was really up to. But, anyways, all that was Sam’s problem. Edward wouldn’t have to answer for any of that. Even though, for some reason, he felt glad he knew about it, he wouldn’t dare repeat it to anyone, since that would be the sin of exposing the faults of others without a just cause, and he knew he ought to be grateful to Sam for raising him well, and teaching him his faith, regardless of how miserably he failed at being a good Christian himself.
What would Sam think if he saw Edward now, teary-eyed and branded with a sin that cries to Heaven for vengeance? How could he ever explain it? Of course he couldn’t just tell him the truth, that he’d gotten beaten up for getting an erection in the showers. He shuddered to imagine it.
Maybe he should just walk over to Timothy’s right now and wait for him to get home from school. Timothy seemed to be the only one who could do anything for him now. In fact, he could probably even drive him down to St. Joseph’s on Saturday to get his conscience cleaned too. Timothy was the only thing that made sense to him. Why not walk over there right now? He could always come up with some fake excuse for being late; Auntie Bella would believe anything. But as he pondered it further, it seemed like going to Timothy to cleanse his conscience would be like approaching the devil for redemption, which was the most absurd idea he had come up with yet. He looked in the mirror once again and tried scrubbing at his forehead with the hem of his t-shirt, this time using saliva.
* * * * * *
The
canning line broke down, so I got off work early that afternoon. Normally I would have spent the remaining hours
at Kylie’s, but they still needed the line inspectors to help get the conveyors
up and running, so I decided just to go home instead. It was probably for the best, since Kylie had
been acting kind of bitchy those past few weeks, and anyway I was pretty
exhausted after a hectic day at work. That’s
when I came across Edward. At first I thought he was a homeless person, because his shirt looked kind of dirty and there was a large black smudge on his face. When I looked closer, I realized it was him, so I pulled over to pick him up.
“What’s going on Edward, what happened to you?” I asked, rolling down the passenger-side window. Although it looked somewhat smeared, I could easily see the word FAGGOT displayed across his forehead. Oh shit, not this again, I thought, feeling my temper rising. The last thing I needed was more of Edward’s queer drama. “Get in, right now,” I told him, “I don’t want you out in public looking like that.”
The boy hesitated, but knowing better than to defy me, he opened the door and climbed into the pick-up without saying a word. The rosary hanging from the rear-view mirror swayed with the impact of the door.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened, or are you just going to sit there and sulk?”
He looked away from me, staring down a dusty alley off to our right. Still, he didn’t answer.
“Look, Edward, I am the man of the house. You are walking the streets of this town, proclaiming before God and everyone that you are a faggot. Have you considered what that means for my reputation? There’s one thing I want to get straight with you here and now; as long as you’re living under my roof, you will answer to me, do you understand? You owe me an explanation.”
The boy began to tremble, still looking away from me. I knew immediately that he was crying, because he was always crying about something. I guess I shouldn’t have been so pissed off about it, but it just bothered me that he was so soft hearted. I mean, the boy was already a junior in high school, for crying out loud. When was he going to grow up?
“Jesus Christ!” I yelled, “You can’t just cry your way through life, Edward. You’ve got to learn to be a man—a real man—not a pansy-ass queer boy. Can’t we just have a straightforward conversation about something for a change, man-to-man? Just tell me, what the hell happened?”
He held his hand to his face, still looking away from me, obviously making every effort to hold the sobs in. I stared at him for a moment, but I really didn’t want to have to deal with all his usual, overly emotional crap, so I just threw up my hands in protest, put the pick-up in gear, and kept my mouth shut for the rest of the ride home, figuring I’d let Bella deal with him. After all, he was her flesh and blood, not mine.
Sometimes I think I should have been more patient with the boy. I mean, I know he was having a hard time, and all. But it was this whole queer thing that made it impossible for me to pity him. It’s not only that Bella caught him red-handed; he also refused to straighten his act up. After I started checking through the phone bills, I discovered he had still been calling his little queer friend on a regular basis for several months after Bella had caught him. I don’t even want to know what they were doing when they got together. The very thought of it makes me want to puke. And all the while, I’m working overtime at the cannery to support his queer ass so he can keep on doing this evil shit? I mean, I gave the kid a chance. I warned him I wouldn’t keep on doing this. There’s no way in hell I was going to keep on footing the bill so that he could go out and do that shit, because then that would make me responsible for it, and I don’t want to answer for his sins—Lord knows I’ve already got enough of my own shit to answer for. If it were just ordinary human weakness he were dealing with, I’d be able to tolerate it. But this was different. This was some sick shit—some real sick, unnatural shit that I just don’t have the stomach for. And I could never get him to sit down and talk about it, you know, to be reasonable about it. He had always been that way too, even when Bella first dragged his little ass home after her sister took off and left him. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t seem to connect with him. And now I find him moping around town with the word FAGGOT across his face? God only knows how many people had figured him out by then. Jesus Christ! How much is a man supposed to put up with?
As soon as I pulled into the driveway, he bolted straight across the lawn, into the house, and locked himself up in the bathroom. Bella was in the kitchen frying up some zucchini for supper, and she didn’t even get a chance to see what the commotion was all about, which really pissed me off. I mean, a huge argument was about to bust open right there, and Bella hadn’t even seen what was written on his face. That’s the way he was, he never had the balls to look reality in the eyes. I pounded on the bathroom door, swearing I would beat him to a bloody pulp if he didn’t open it. The little faggot thought he could outsmart me, but I just stuck a screwdriver in the knob, and popped it right open.
“Leave me alone! Just leave me alone!” he screamed, pushing past me back through the doorway, water and soap all over his face.
He was crying hysterically as he darted off to his bedroom, FAGGOT still glaring through the suds. Bella saw it this time. “Edward!” she shrieked, “What’s going on?”
“You’re nephew’s a little faggot, that’s what’s going on, Bella! See! Open the door!” I flung open his bedroom door, which had no lock. He was sitting at his computer desk with his face buried in his arms. “Look for yourself, Bella—see the little faggot!” I poked at him, and laughed. I was so angry. All those years of frustration, years of being stuck slaving myself away in the cannery just to raise the sissy-boy nephew of this fat old, asexual bitch; it all boiled over into an irresistible desire to scream the most hurtful words I could possibly think of.
Bella quietly entered the bedroom. She looked towards me and pleaded, “Please, Sam, can we not use that word?” Making her way over to Edward, who now seemed to be browsing through his files, she put her arm on his shoulder, no doubt wishing to offer him some undeserved consolation, when, to my complete and total shock, the screen lit up with a fully-nude photo of Kylie and I lying on a sandy beach—and we were touching each other!
I flushed with embarrassment when Bella looked back towards me, her hand covering her mouth in astonishment. “Get out of my house right now, faggot!” I screamed at the boy, grabbing an armful of shirts, still on their hangers, out of his closet. “You never belonged here anyways! Get the fuck out, you traitor!” Tears were welling in my eyes now too, but they were tears of rage. I stomped out the front door and dumped the clothes on the roadside out in front of the house. When I went back into the bedroom for another load, Edward and Bella were still at the desk, in tears before the computer screen. “Get the fuck out of my house before I kill you!” I screamed, pulling Edward up out of his chair by the collar of his t-shirt.
“Sam, you’re taking this too far,” Bella pleaded again.
“I said get the fuck out of my house, or I’ll kill you—you queer son-of-a-bitch!”
For the first time in years Edward looked me in the eyes; they were filled with terror as I clutched his collar. Scarcely able to form the words, he asked, sobbing, “May I please wash my face before I go?”
“Fuck you!” I screamed. “You try to humiliate me in my own house, and now you want me to let you wash away the shame you rightly earned for yourself? Go fuck yourself, Edward! You deserve every bit of shame that will ever come to you, and then some, you worthless piece of shit! Now get the fuck out of my house, and don’t you even think of showing your little faggot ass around here again, or I’ll kill you for sure!”
I let go of him, pushing him roughly towards the doorway. He walked slowly out of the room and towards the front door. The statues of Padre Pio and the Sacred Heart stared gravely down at him from their posts on the bookshelf. The boy’s lips were contorted in pain, and the inky FAGGOT smear was still displayed across his head. When the door had closed behind him for the last time, I made sure Bella was crystal clear about my stance with the whole situation: he was not to step foot on my property ever again.
“But, Sam, that’s being too harsh on the boy,” she argued. “You know he has nowhere to go, so what if he needs something? What about all his stuff?”
“Bella, the Bible says if anyone refuses to accept the Kingdom of God, then we are to abandon them, shaking the very dust from our feet in testimony against them. We gave Edward a chance to clean up his act, but he refused. He’s a queer, and there’s not a damn thing either of us can do about it. He belongs to the devil now, and I don’t want so much as a reminder of him in my house.”
I could see the tears in her eyes, but she couldn’t argue with Sacred Scripture. So we took everything that had belonged to him, and piled it at the roadside out front. I wanted to make damn sure the whole neighborhood understood that there is no room for a faggot in the Arcani household.
The End
This story might seem unrealistic to some. I wish it were, but research shows up to 40% of all homeless teenagers in the nation are gay or lesbian. According to one study 26% of all gay teens were kicked out of their homes when they came out to their parents. That's one in four gay teenagers. Another study found that more than one third of youth who are homeless or in the care of social services experienced a violent physical assault when they came out. It is the reality LGBT youth live with every day.
What should be are loving response as Catholic Christians? I suggest you read the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops document called "Always our Children." It provides Catholic Christian parents and caregivers with a loving pastoral response and guidance in loving their LGBT children. You can also spend the day reading and reflecting on my previous blog posts to give you insight on your LGBT children.
Peace and all Good,
Brother Sun and Sister Moon
Personal Reflection:
Pope Francis shared this story with reporters when asked about homosexuality. “A person once asked me, in a provocative manner, if I approved of homosexuality. I replied with another question: ‘Tell me: when God looks at a gay person, does he endorse the existence of this person with love, or reject and condemn this person?’” “This church with which we should be thinking is the home of all,” he said, “not a small chapel that can hold only a small group of selected people.”
What are you thoughts on the above statement and how it relates to the story, "The Indelible Mark?" Feel free to share your thoughts or feelings in the comment spaces below.
