Glossing over it, Part II

So I went to my Gay and Lesbian Faith-sharing Group last night — and can I just first say how cool it is that such a group even exists on Catholic property in the city of Chicago? And what an awesome and faithful group it was. I felt very welcomed, despite my nervousness and realization that the room we were meeting in was the room I used to lead the R.C.I.A. faith-sharing group in, as well as the room where I attended my first (and only) AlaNon meeting. It was ironic of course, because this was a little of both: faith-sharing and support.
So for now at least, I've found my fellow travelers on this Catholic path. It is deeply edifying to share spiritually with other queer Catholics and feel supported in my coming out process. We prayed together, listened to each other's stories and struggles, read the gospel and picked it apart — getting down to how it speaks to us personally. I feel blessed to part of such a welcoming community, and grateful that our new priest has continued the tradition that Fr. B established of welcoming everyone and encouraging openness. None of us ever have to hide within this community of faith.
They're also planning some fun social gatherings in the near future, so I'm really looking forward to building more community.

Glossing over it....

It's been said that God works in mysterious ways. Personally, I believe God has one heluva sense of humor. As I found myself in the 5th pew (Mary side) of St. G's at today's 10am mass, I was happy to see what I have been scoping out for nearly a year posted in the church bulletin: a GLOS meeting. That this comes on the heels of my questioning what exactly I'm doing in this church is no suprise to me. Mysterious ways are something I've come to count on.
Since I started slowly coming out to my fellow parishoners not quite a year ago, I figured it would make sense to come out to the several gay parishoners that I know first. But I somehow got it in my head that coming to a meeting of the Gay and Lesbian Outreach and Support group that my church hosts would be the easiest way to do this. So I scoped out the bulletin, knowing that they held regular meetings, but never saw any announced. And as more and more time passed with me holding out for this meeting — and interacting with several of said gay parishoners — I kept finding myself glossing over it or avoiding it completely. They'll just figure it out on their own, I rationalized. Or word will just spread and they'll know. Everyone must know by now, I hoped.
And then after a lot of time passed, I just thought it was weird that I had never come out to any of the gay members of my parish and wondered what exactly I was so afraid of. Maybe I was just afraid that I had waited too long, remembering my friend D coming out to me years ago and me remarking, "yeah we all already knew that."
So not only did I finally see an anouncement for a GLOS meeting, but the parish was having a ministry fair and GLOS had a table set up. I made my way over to the table to put my name on the list for wanting to participate. What happened next was so comedic and awkward that it resembled a scene from a movie. As I picked up the pen to sign my name, W, (the parish business manager, who together with his partner B have three adopted children, one of which is in the same class as my eldest) went to grab the pen out of my hand and said, "Uh, take a look at what you're signing there." I didn't look up and said, "yeah, I see what I'm signing." An awkward conversation followed where I confessed that it had been hard for me to come out to the parish community, and he offered his support, saying we'd talk later.
So Tuesday night is the meeting, and I'm going to do what I can to get there and complete this process that I've been avoiding for too long. No glossing over it at the GLOS meeting.

funeral postmortem

I arrived about 15 minutes before the private family viewing time was over -- enough time, I thought, to view grandpa privately. I saw my cousins when I came in, eyes full of tears. There were hugs and hellos and then it was time. I made my way in and walked toward the casket. He looked terrible. Not every funeral home can work the magic I had come to expect on 'Six Feet Under.' He was pale and his lips were sucked in, as if he were trying to swallow them. The pic of him and my grandma was perched over his shoulder, a constant visual reminder of what he 'should' have looked like. I touched his hard hands but no thoughts or words came to me. Only the blank realization that this was not my grandpa -- not anymore.

•••

At the wake, I managed to tell a few of my 'big city' cousins that I was gay. They were happy for me -- totally cool with it, asking about my gf. Later that night, our family had reserved a hospitality suite at the Holiday Inn. I figured after a few beers and/or glasses of wine, I'd find the courgage to tell some of the more conservative members of the family. There were suprises all around. When I clumsily told a few of my male cousins by edging into thier 'what women really want' conversation, they were literally speechless. I had actually managed to shock them and as they grimaced, I turned to my brother who swooped in to save me from the humiliation. I owe ya one, bro. I felt so marginalized after that incident, that I went outside to get some air, and called T. Feeling like the new family pariah, I slunk back into the room to collect my kiddos and shuffle back to my hotel room. I was done with the family togetherness for the night. Then I was suprised by a couple of my aunts. My rather conservative aunt from a decidedly red state saw me come in and read my sullen expression. I told her that I was struggling -- and she comforted me, reminding me that our family really was pretty conventional in it's thinking, and that it would take time. As I said goodnight to another of my aunts, she vented to me about how someone had lashed out at her. She too was feeling marginalized. She pointed out that a lot of us feel that way in our family -- convinced that we are the outcast. Though I had never heard our family dynamics described in this way, I knew she had hit on some indidious underlying thing that we do to each other. So much judgement. It's really inescapable in our family. Some are good at faking it to slide by, no flaws detected. I was never so lucky.

•••

We made it the church in the morning with not a minute to spare. We quickly joined the others, cutting into the front of the line. I looked up at my cousins who served as pall bearers -- boys who were now men, attending the dead. The tears filled my eyes, but I choked them back. All the usual pomp of a Catholic funeral mass -- sprinkling the casket with holy water, lighting the Easter candle, the white burial cloth, the insense. Two of my aunts euologized their father and their stories of his life really set the tone. A man of science whose questioning of 'how things worked,' somehow led him down of path of faith and devotion. Stories of the Joliet prison riots, being active in civil rights, marching with Dr. King, and a lifetime of questioning. "Faith requires doubt," he told his children, "otherwise it'd be fact."

•••

Why is our family so judgemental? Why do we criticize each other so harshly? Marginalized is exactly what I had always felt. There is always a gauntlet of criticism I must face when I'm in presence of my family. I'm too fat. I smoke. I work for the communists. My tattoos are sick and depraved. I'm not enlightened because I attend a Catholic church. I profess a faith I don't believe in. (You can't pick and choose, you know.) I'm not gonna make it to heaven. And oh, now I'm gay too. Well, at least they thought my children were delightful and my haircut was just perfect. My aunt said that she thought it was in our genes -- this thing we do to each other. And I think it's also in our genes to think that we're the only one that this is happening to. But I see it now -- we were all doing it to each other. Even the cousins -- the generation that I had thought was free from the type of behavior we'd all witnessed from our aunts throughout our lives. Was this to be our family legacy?

•••

I'll miss you Grandpa Joe. After the funeral, we all insisted on going to the burial site; I guess they don't let people really do that anymore. The grave diggers were at work and I took a picture of them. You'd have been proud of us, learning something about the work, the process, of interning a body. But we all really needed to see you next to Grandma. Twenty-two years is a long time apart. I knew I couldn't leave the cemetary without seeing you lying next to her. We all needed that. I took pictures of the grave and surrounding markers, so that I could find my way back. We took a detour on our way home to the old house on 81st place. We told the Nigerian man that you sold the house to that you had died, and he remembered you fondly. The house never looked so great. I was flooded with memories standing there. Thanks, Grandpa, for always loving me, always teaching me, always guiding me. I trust that you will continue to do just that, from your new vantage point.