E: 4/3/03

Work Diary, 4/3/03

Once, during college, I leaned over and whispered into my friend's ear.
I said, "You know, of course, that I believe in God."

She nodded and said, "Of course," which is probably when I begin hating
her.

I was drunk at the time, and my friend is not one you'd hate. She's
sweet, beautiful, caring. She would give you the coat off her back, to
coin a phrase, and she would never ask for it back. What I hated about
her was her belief, and how I felt the need to profess my own belief in
her presence. I hated that she made me lie, because I don't believe in
God. I hated that even in the grooviness of booze, I got sucked into
the crowd.

I was living with that friend when I met my partner, about fourteen
years ago. My friend and I had a two-bedroom apartment in Boulder with
brown carpet and stairs. The stairs led to a single room - my room -
and we had the luxury of a dishwasher. When we'd moved in, we found
pubic hairs all along the baseboards: blond, black, curly, straight.
Apparently the former renters were four male college students, who left
their thin evidence behind for us to find and gross out to.

When I met my partner, I asked him to leave his apartment in Denver and
come live with me. It was as simple as that, because I knew he was the
one. There was no question; the despair and loneliness of college life
had taught me to jump on any given chance, no matter how remote. I look
back now and recognize my pathetic need, but it's worked out, more or
less, despite the histrionics.

At any rate, I asked my partner to live with me. Within a week my
friend's parents sat on our couch, discussing the situation. They did
not think their daughter should live with a couple, but really they
were concerned about the homosexual aspect of our living arrangement.
The father handed me a paperback book titled, "Helping the Homosexual,"
which I promptly handed back. I wish I could relay my disgust about
that moment, but I can't find the words. During high school, I'd come
to love my friend's parents. I believe they were happy when we decided
to become roommates. The betrayal I felt when they sat across from me
is beyond words, really, because I still refuse to believe the
complete, utter stupidity behind it.

My friend moved out of the apartment. Her parents were surprised;
they'd arrived with the assumption that I would pack my bags and leave.
But even at the age of twenty, I knew that to budge was to lose, and I
was not about to lose. Still, I wish I hadn't made my distaste for my
friend's parents so evident. It hurt my friend, which is something I
did not want to do.

I believe Jesus was a real man. I think he came of age in a time when
he was able to look around and say, "Enough." I think he elevated
himself with his words, a skill he surely had if one is to believe the
red print in the Bible. He was real, I think, and even if he wasn't,
does it make any difference?

I've seen interviews of beauty queens and political figures where the
interviewer asks, "What figure do you most admire?" Often they respond,
"Jesus, of course." It's the "of course" that gets me. Of course it's
Him. Of course. Who else would it be?

If you read the Bible, taking Paul and the others with a grain of salt,
it's difficult to ignore the message. Christians are geared up for a
reason, and it's a good one. It's just the method to their madness that
often leaves me cold. Also - and despite my education, multicultural
training, and desire to do "good" - I resent being made to feel like
all Christians should be viewed the same: untrustworthy, proud, sneaky.
I can't think of another group that makes me feel that way, but I'm a
bigot nonetheless.

Live your life; be nice; don't ignore the lonely. Open your arms.
Realize money is just money. Love somebody; love lots of somebodies.
There's no shame in it, despite what you read, hear, and see. Is
there?