4

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     Around this time, my mother and I were active members of a well-known church in Georgia. This church offered my mother a refuge from the turmoil that awaited her at home. The Bishop leading the congregation was a magnetic and charismatic figure, wielding the word of God with an authority that made it difficult to disagree with him. He was admired by women and emulated by men. His presence was striking. He often mentioned his luxurious cars and multimillion-dollar mansion while dressed impeccably in designer clothes and adorned with jewelry.

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     The Bishop’s sermons on prosperity resonated with the predominantly Black, middle-class audience and attracted many celebrities. However, his messages often included a five- to ten-minute diatribe against homosexuality, which he claimed was “corrupting the Black community.” His pathos-driven arguments suggested that homosexuality was weakening the “strong Black family unit” and preventing men from being real men.

What struck me was the Bishop’s lack of focus on the issue of absent fathers. He never addressed how fathers who abandoned their children and partners contributed to the breakdown of the Black family unit. Instead, the blame was frequently placed on homosexuality. This narrative pleased the congregation, allowing them to direct blame toward an innocuous other.

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     At eleven years old, I was enraptured by the Bishop’s fiery rhetoric, surrounded by a sea of enthusiastic followers. His words held a power that drew me in, leaving me grappling with a part of my own identity. For so many loving people to become genuinely angry and disgusted over an issue, there must be legitimacy in the Bishop’s argument. It led me to believe that there was something fundamentally wrong with me that I needed to address. There was a disconnect between my heart and reality, and I became increasingly aware that most men were free to act as they pleased without facing criticism. As long as one appeared rugged and masculine, almost any behavior was excused, even neglecting education or parenting responsibilities. Yet, the line was drawn at being labeled as “gay.”

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     One particular sermon from the Bishop left an indelible impression on me. He again condemned the “problem” that he claimed was destroying the family unit, and I felt compelled to change. When we returned home, my mother played gospel music and began cleaning. Alone in the living room, I was absorbed by the lyrics when an indescribable pain seized me—a pain that felt like a profound realization of something awry within me. I began to cry uncontrollably, apologizing to my mother for all my perceived wrongdoings. Confused, she urged me to explain my behavior. I remember the apprehension I felt in revealing the truth to her.

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     I told her that I believed God was angry with me and that I needed to change. Until that moment, my mother only had a vague understanding of the teasing and bullying I faced. I detailed the hurtful names other kids called me and expressed my self-loathing. But this was the first time I would reveal to her a long-held secret: from the ages of three to eight, I had been violated by an older male cousin whose name is Waylon. That confession marked a turning point, a moment of vulnerability and truth I had kept hidden for far too long. In response to my confession, she told me that what my cousin did was wrong and that it was likely his fault that I was struggling with my “problem,” being a boy. She looked at me in pity when I told her all of this.

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     It’s one thing to have someone look at you with disappointment, and it’s an entirely different experience to have someone you love look at you in pity. As if they feel sorry for you. I think she was afraid, perhaps hurt.  She looked at me and said sadly, “God hates faggots. You have to change. Faggots die of aids. They are an abomination. And no child of mine will grow up being one.  There was silence. There was nothing to be said. I was a child. I just nodded.

 

     Upon reflection, I understand now that my mother’s words were born from fear and anger when she learned of the years of abuse I endured from my cousin. Her reaction stemmed from a deep-seated fear about what my future might hold if I were gay. Learned fear witnessing her brothers call her son faggot. Despite her harsh words, she is my mother, and I know she loves me more than anyone else in the family.

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     I’ve come to realize, Father, that sometimes people say hurtful things to those they love out of fear. It’s as if they believe it’s better to hurt who or what they love themselves than to see the world do it. When I revealed the abuse to my mother, she likely thought, “No, that can’t be possible. The world will kill you, or you’ll end up killing yourself.”

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     When she shared the news of the years of abuse with our large family, it didn’t seem to faze them. Waylon was well-liked and the most popular among my cousins. My uncles admired him for his masculinity and humor. He was a star athlete, a jock, and had a prominent, charismatic personality. I admired him too, wanting to be just like him—masculine, charming, and surrounded by friends. Unlike me, he wasn’t deemed a “sissy.” However, Waylon’s demeanor shifted dramatically when we were alone, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. In private, he was violent. In private, he was a monster. He would choke, slap, punch, and kick me, repeatedly calling me a “worthless faggot.” Sadly, I believed that violence was the only form of love I was meant to receive. I began to accept it as a part of my reality.

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     One incident stands out vividly in my memory. I must have been seven or eight years old. While we were alone in a room Waylon threw me onto a bed, held a butcher knife to my throat, and violated me. It was in that moment, paralyzed with fear that I thought "perhaps this is how I will die, at the age of seven having my throat slit by a butcher knife as my older cousin rapes me. And when it is all said and done, one of my aunts or uncles will walk into the room, behold the scene of the crime, and say, "Waylon, what have you done? As if they never knew what was happening."  In another episode, I was at my grandparents' house. They had a swimming pool, so it was common for the family to gather at my grandparents' house for cookouts and celebrations during the hot California dog days of summer.  One day while swimming with cousins at my grandparents’ pool, Waylon repeatedly pushed my head underwater. Holding me under the water for what seemed to be minutes. I fought, labored, and struggled for breath, fearing I might drown right there. At first, I thought he was joking, but as time passed and I slowly began to pass out due to asphyxiation, I realized he could quite possibly kill me. All of this happened in the backyard of my grandparents' house. Only yards away from the open windows of the kitchen and living room, where my aunts and uncles could be heard laughing and having a vibrant conversation about whatever it was adults talked about. 

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     As I look back now, I recognize Waylon’s inherent violence. He was known to hit other cousins with brooms and cords, deriving pleasure from the power it gave him. His violent behavior eventually led to his removal from a public high school and enrollment into a military school. Despite this, my cousins, like me, enjoyed his company, possibly believing that someone so charming was entitled to violent outbursts. No one is perfect, charming, and powerful people should be allowed to easily influence the world. That was the frame of thinking.

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     The family’s reaction to these revelations was disheartening. Aside from my furious mother, no one seemed to care. They assumed it was my fault because I was gay and must have wanted it. I was branded the “faggot,” blamed for what happened, which was bewildering given my young age.

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     Even now, when attending family gatherings, the dynamic remains unchanged. Two years ago, Waylon returned for my grandfather’s funeral, and he was welcomed with open arms and affection. Relatives were thrilled to see him and meet his wife. I felt no resentment towards him, having learned to forgive. We even exchanged cordial words, and I introduced myself to his wife. What troubled me was how the family celebrated him while regarding me with shame and disdain, openly mocking me that day even though I read a poem for my grandfather. I was regarded as trash that should be ashamed of my presence. Some of my relatives gloated over my discomfort and intentionally laughed and joked with Waylon. I still struggle to understand why, after all these years, they continue to avoid the truth and place the blame on me.

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     From then on, I pursued ridding myself of the sin that corrupted my soul. I recall going home every day to pray the sin away. Hours before the mirror rehearsing my use were replaced with hours on my knees praying to God. It seemed that everything about me was problematic. I'd pray in the middle of the night, crying myself to sleep. Some nights I’d pray, considering running away. Some nights I’d pray, contemplating suicide. 

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     It takes a lot of responsibility to be a father and a husband. Abuse has a ripple effect that causes pain to impact an entire family.  Our home was a war zone. Every day, my mother received the brunt of my stepfather's rage. Every day, my mother showed up and loved my brother and me as best as possible. It takes time to learn that people love differently, but most of us do our best with what we have and know of the world. 

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Years later, I began reading the Bible myself. I discovered that fear is at the root of all hatred, but perfect love casts out fear. Through scripture, I learned that “God is love, and we love because He first loved us” (1 John 4:19). It’s impossible for God to make a mistake. I’ve been blessed to learn about God’s perfect love for all His children. 

 

His love is like the light of a star that shines billions of light years away. 

No amount of darkness can separate us from his love. 

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​5

 

 

PERSPECTIVE

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     It was the spring semester of eighth grade, and my Science teacher, Ms. Dash, was about to go on leave. She and her husband were on their honeymoon, so she would be absent for two weeks. I didn’t mind her absence; Ms. Dash had been the primary teacher who seemed to enjoy watching my peers make fun of me. She even created the space for them to do so in some ways. Whenever I voiced my concerns about the coarse language being used, she would openly mock me in front of my peers, as if she were in middle school herself, telling me to “stop being a baby, stop whining.” Eventually, I stopped addressing the issue altogether. Sometimes, as I was being mocked, I could see her laughing or holding a grin on her face.  

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     This Monday was different. I rushed to Ms. Dash’s science class, and was greeted with the usual chaos—a classroom full of unruly kids throwing things at each other. The boys in the back were staring at her pet python Bruce, trying to locate the outline of the rat’s carcass, which had been consumed a week before, as it slowly digested in Bruce's stomach. A group of girls huddled near Ms. Dash’s desk, gossiping about her and her husband. A ragtag group of misfits who exchanged Dungeons and Dragons cards or talked about anime. Nubia, the beautiful Nigerian girl, my peers made fun of because of her “large” forehead, sitting alone with her nose buried in a book, as usual. And me sitting on the side of the class next to a window so I could have something to stare at while in the classroom as a means of escape. 

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     But today, no adult was present. Ms. Dash was gone, and the room was more unruly than ever. Students screamed and ran around until the school Dean, Mrs. Morley, walked in, followed by a woman I had never seen before. “Sit y’all butts down! I done told y’all already this ain’t the place to play. Y’all know I ain’t Ms. Dash,” Mrs. Morley commanded. Instantly, most students sat down, though a few remained standing. “Jalisa, I called your mother last week; me and you gonna go to the office and call her again if you don’t fix your face and sit down,” warned Mrs. Morley. Jalisa sucked her teeth and quietly dragged herself to her assigned seat. “And Momo, don’t you be giving me no attitude, I’ve seen you several times this month. What have we been working on?” asked Mrs. Morley. Momo remained silent. Mrs. Morley repeated with a slightly more raised voice, “I said, what have we been working on?” Momo mumbled under his breath in a quiet voice, “Etiquette.” “I can’t hear you,” replied Mrs. Morley. Momo straightened up and replied, “Classroom etiquette and punctuality.” “Exactly, so I don’t know why your pants are falling to your ankles. Pull them up. You know there ain't no sagging here, and sit down where you belong.” Said Mrs. Morley. Momo quickly pulled up his pants and shuffled his way to his seat.  

  

     The Dean continued to address us with a stern familiarity before turning her attention to the woman beside her. “Alright, students of Lithonia Middle School, we have an extra special guest. While Ms. Dash is on her honeymoon, Ms. Whitehead will teach eighth-grade science for the next two weeks. She’s not from around here, but she came all this way to teach y’all, so I expect courtesy and respect. Alright?” The room was silent until the Dean repeated herself, and a chorus of “Yes, ma’ams” followed as was expected in a southern school.  

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     Ms. Whitehead took the floor, her presence immediately commanding our attention. “Who here would like to tell me about your favorite part of science?” she asked. A few hands went up, and after listening to our responses, Ms. Whitehead shared her own. “Neat, those are all cool answers. I like science because it forces me to look at things with a broader perspective,” she explained. “For example, through the lens of astronomy, scientists know our universe is billions of light-years wide, with at least a trillion galaxies.”  

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     My classmates and I gawked, captivated by this information. “Who here knows what a perspective is?” asked Ms. Whitehead.  Nubia raised her hand. Ms. Whitehead nodded, encouraging her to speak. “A perspective is a way of seeing something, but it isn’t necessarily the only way,” Nubia replied. “Very good,” Ms. Whitehead praised her before asking about Nubia’s book. “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s a collection of Octavia Butler’s books. I’m reading ‘Parable of the Sower,’” Nubia said.   “Wow, you have good taste,” Ms. Whitehead admired, continuing her circuit around the room. “Yes, a perspective is basically a point of view. It affects how you see things or your attitude about them. And I love that science forces me to question my attitude toward race.”  

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     As a 13-year-old Black boy, I was shocked yet refreshed to hear a teacher, a Black woman, talk like that. Over the next two weeks, Ms. Whitehead’s time at Lithonia Middle School left a deep impression on me that would resonate for years. 

Many things about Ms. Whitehead captivated me from the start. Unlike the other female teachers who wore dresses and blouses, she opted for flannel shirts, jeans, and cool sneakers. Her choice of music also set her apart. Instead of the typical tunes other teachers played, Ms. Whitehead brought in her collection of CDs, which included Sugar Ray, 311, and No Doubt. I thoroughly enjoyed listening to the music because it reminded me of the coast, of the beach. 

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     What fascinated me most was how effortlessly Mrs. Whitehead moved through the world without seeking anyone’s approval. It was evident in everything she did, including an assignment where we were asked to bring photos of people or places that inspired us. After we shared our images, Ms. Whitehead presented hers—a motley crew of men and women dressed in grungy attire with wild, funky hairstyles and eclectic looks. “These are my friends,” she said, “but we call each other family.” 

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     I studied the photo, noting the happiness radiating from each face. “How long have you all known each other?” I asked. “It depends,” she replied thoughtfully. “Some I met in college, others in high school, and a few while traveling and working on projects. Last year, we all decided to get together and take a group trip to Rio de Janeiro. We don’t see each other often, but when we do, we make the most of our time together.” 

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Rio de Janeiro. I never heard of it and couldn't place it on a map. But I gazed at the photo and saw the group of beautiful friends smiling with the beach behind them. It looked different than the beaches I was accustomed to in California. The sand was white and there were large verdant mountains behind them. The sky was clear.

 

During those two weeks with Ms. Whitehead, the name-calling that once filled the room stopped. I never brought up these issues, yet on her first day, a student casually used the word “faggot,” and Ms. Whitehead immediately stopped the class. “We don’t use that word here,” she asserted. “We don’t use words intended to kill others. If you have a problem with that, kindly excuse yourself and go straight to the office.” Her message was clear; unlike other teachers, my peers understood that she was serious. No one dared to overstep the new boundaries that were set. 

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     It’s incredible how one person can change an atmosphere and broaden perspectives in an environment. Ms. Whitehead’s presence rekindled my love and appreciation for school and learning. On her last day, she gave all of the students a gift card to Barnes and Noble. “I really enjoyed my time with you all,” she said. “Your assigned teacher, Ms. Dash, is returning on Monday. But I want you to use the gift cards to buy yourself a book. No matter what happens in life, always read, and when you have the opportunity, travel. We live in a big world filled with many stories, people, and perspectives.” 

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And with that, she left. That weekend, I went home and cried. Ms. Whitehead was the best part of school, and the thought of her leaving and Ms. Dash returning broke my heart.