He looked like he could pack more gay up his ass than Liberace chewing on a cock ring at a Cher concert, but he would tell you that he wasn't a faggot. No. He wasn't one of
them. Even though he sported blond highlights, and proudly swung huge silver hoops from both ears; no one would think he liked cock. Better yet, they certainly wouldn't think he was gay if he took his daddy's baseball bat and drove to "the city" to teach a few fags a few lessons. No. He wasn't gay. Not at all. His name? We'll call him Baby Jesus.
There was the sound of someone scurrying up from behind, then a painful slap to our backs. At least we thought it was a slap, and it certainly hurt, but not enough to double us over. We turned to look at the asshole who had just interrupted our gorgeous day. Expecting to find someone we knew, we were greeted by a face that was completely unfamiliar. The unfamiliar face looked just as befuddled as we did, only difference was that he was the one carrying the bat.
It was one of those seemingly rare days in Seattle where the weather is warm, and there isn't a cloud to be seen. The kind of day that reminds you just how beautiful the city is despite the many grey months we endure year after year. It was April 27, 2004 and we were looking forward to leaving the month behind after our car was stolen, I came down with Shingles, and crack heads had taken to crapping outside our apartment building on a regular basis. It had not been a good month.
It was a Tuesday, and I had the day off from the office. We were walking back from the grocery store, holding hands, and laughing the way you do when you're with someone you adore. We probably looked like an ad for
Atlantis Cruises, only without the tans, the six packs, and the vacant eyes, but we were happy on a level that would make your teeth hurt. We had no idea that we were being followed by a pack of young, zealot Christians who were in town on some mission to save the Institution of Marriage because The Gays were out to steal it from them.
From Baby Jesus' expression he didn't expect us to still be standing, nor did he didn't expect us to tower over his 5'2" frame. Think Prince, just without the Cuban heels. You would also think that, given his heavenly connections, Baby Jesus would know to do some basic reconnaissance. I'm no hit-man, but possessing a working knowledge of one's target should be a pre-requisite. He glanced up at each of us and whispered, "Knock that shit off." I looked at my guy Aster, and asked, "What did he say?" but there was no time for him to reply. Baby Jesus had no time to clarify, he had other homos to beat up, so off he ran. Minutes would go by before I realized that he was referring to the two of us holding hands.
I would dare to speculate that we were a threat to Baby Jesus' pseudo-heterosexual-machismo-Christian values, and he was doing what he thought Big Brother Jesus would have wanted him to do, because that's how Jesus would handle such a situation. I'm sure that all Christians are familiar with the chapter in the New Testament where Jesus grabs a baseball bat, finds a couple of cute gay boys, follows them home from the grocery store, sneaks up behind them and beats them to a bloody pulp. Yeah, who could forget that one? Such a bit of true inspiration. I was so inspired by Baby Jesus that I had a t-shirt made that read, "Don't fuck with Jesus, 'cuz he will cap yo' ass."
Until I was fifteen, religion never played a large role in my family. In fact, Daddy was the one to explain the meaning of Biblical myth to me when I was ten years old. We would attend church twice a year at Easter and at Christmas, but that was about it. Today, Daddy is frightened of death, so a few years ago he made it his mission to find Jesus again (as if he had been hiding in the sofa cushions all these years) and can now quote the Bible whenever he deems it appropriate, which could be at any given moment. Mama? She loves Jesus, but she appreciates Him the way you appreciate an old relative who has come to visit...you love seeing them, but you love seeing them leave even more.
Christ would play a much larger role in my life once we moved to Memphis, and then a much smaller role once I left. It was 1985, Daddy was still in the military, and I was placed in a private, Baptist high school. It was the same high school featured in the Blind Side only the real name of the school is Briarcrest. At Briarcrest, students were required to take a year of Bible study (think history class only the George Washington character turns water into wine) and we were required to wear our Sunday best every Wednesday for Chapel. Chapel was 30 minutes devoted to the Baptist way of doing things, and if you didn't like the Baptist way, then be prepared to walk through the gates of Hell. Simple. Easy. Efficient.
It wasn't as if it was just fire and brimstone at Briarcrest. Some days were especially titillating as we would periodically have guests that would come and testify. These events were promoted under the guise of clean, healthy fun, which has always proven effective when dealing with teenagers. On occasion, we would receive visits from semi-partially-somewhat talented-pro football stars; budding, gelded, Christian pop stars, and former-junkie-born-again body builders. They were all obsessed with two things: secular music and our genitalia. According to the Baptists we were a rock-n-roll-sex-obsessed lot that must be tamed, and the only way to tame us was through the blood of Christ. I found it disturbing, but I had nothing else to do. The school sought to utilize the testimony of these guilt ridden, emotionally retarded, stupid people because they clearly had suffered, and through their suffering they had a direct line to God which could ultimately save our souls from damnation. Of course we (the students) couldn't possibly have the same connection to God, because of our swollen, inherently evil, out of control gonads; so we required a regular spiritual neutering, and spaying, if our souls were to be saved. Emotional scarring - at least you'll never need plastic surgery.
Mama helped to put it into perspective for me after one particularly frenzied Christ-filled day, "Shu-gah, the Baptists said the same thing to me when I was growing up. Don't pay any attention to them. You're a polite, sweet young man. You're not going to Hell for listening to Madonna. Your Daddy might send you into the next life, sooner than you'd like, for bleaching your bangs, but you are not going to Hell because of the music you listen to. That's just ridiculous." I think that would be the last coherent thing she would say to me.
Amongst our academic leaders, homosexuality was also a topic of frequent fascination, and discussion. It was right up there with abortion, and how long our hair was. As a boy at Briarcrest you were not permitted to let your hair touch your shirt collar, because that meant you were a tool of the Devil. Given their fascination, I developed a weekly routine where I would come home from school, go to my room, and pray for God to change me, because I was not made in His image. I was diseased, mentally disturbed, and bound for Hell; however, if I prayed with a furious, determined conviction, God would change me and I could live a life with more blessings than I could count. It was like Jehovah Power Ball.
By the Spring of 1987 I felt that Jesus and I were the best of friends, so I arranged for a swim in His purifying waters, which were conveniently located, in a huge porcelain tub, at our church. Who knew we had the Jordan piped directly in? Exciting. My baptism was originally appointed for late '86, but Mama had spent the previous night huffing nail polish remover, so we rescheduled. At the time, I was under the firm belief that if I were to be baptized, not only would I no longer be gay, but I would no longer have to suffer through another P.E. class. "With God, Nothing Is Impossible." (Luke 1:37) That Monday morning proved otherwise as I still thought Simon LeBon was hot, and I still couldn't hit a volleyball with any athletic prowess whatsoever. "Yep. Still gay, and not interested in balls...of the inflatable variety anyway."
That same Sunday (Easter to be specific, because I wanted a big turnout) Mama declared that she would never return to church again after she suffered the ultimate in Southern woman humiliation. I like to refer to it as the Fashion Debacle of '87. Mama was exiting the church in her new, purple Neiman Marcus Easter dress, when she ran into a woman wearing the exact same frock. Both of them managed to suppress their looks of sheer horror as only a proper Southern woman can do. Daddy and I just stared at the two of them. We knew this was not good. Both women regarded the other with nervous, plastic smiles while simultaneously emitting a round of laughter that could only be interpreted as, "I-can't-believe-how-much-I-am hating-you-right-now-but-I-can't-say-anything-because-we're-on-the-front-steps-of-the-church- and-the-minister-is-right-there-and-I-really-want-to-pull-your-hair-and-make-you-bleed-but-then-you-would-file-assault-charges-and-I-am-a-lady-so-I-will-just-stand-here-and-continue- to-laugh-nervously-until-I-can-find-some-way-of-gracefully-exiting-this-ridiculous-comedy-I- have-found-myself-in." They were bizarre, mirror images of purple, pink and baby blue geometrical shapes with clenched teeth. Both with their super-sized brunette coifs, and unbelievably red lips. They looked like Patrick Nagle threw-up on them. Mama never wore the dress again.
I graduated from Briarcrest two years later, went to college, lost 60 pounds and quickly learned the benefits of critical thinking. I also learned to dance with my hands in the air and with pride in my evil, little soul. At least I know Hell comes with a great soundtrack.
As we headed back to the apartment that beautiful day, I remember thinking, "Damn. I really don't want to go to French class tonight." Then the bat hit us with Aster taking most of the blow to his upper left arm. Had the bat been just a few inches higher Aster would have lost most of his face, and be eating his meals with a straw while watching reruns of the Teletubbies. I only suffered a nasty bruise, but mentally, I was just as broken as Aster's arm.
After issuing his pathetic demand to "Knock that shit off." Baby Jesus dropped the bat, spun around and ran. Well, I wouldn't call it running...maybe skipping with a tad of urgency. He reminded me of the kid in first grade who smelled like poo. The same kid who, when confronted with his odorous qualities, would sob uncontrollably and run home wildly swinging his arms from side to side. Aster and I looked at each other in disbelief. Completely dumbfounded.
"What just happened?" I thought. "Wait, that tiny little asshole just hit us with a bat and told us to 'knock it off'. What the hell? Wait! We were just hit with a baseball bat!" I made a start to go after him. What I was going to do once I got to him I had no idea. It just made sense: We were just assaulted. Someone hit us with a baseball bat. Someone hit us because we were holding hands." I needed to go after him, but Aster had the same idea.
"What are you doing?" I asked him.
He countered. "What am I doing? What the fuck are you doing?"
"I'm going after him!" I shouted.
"The hell you are! I'm going after him! You go call the police!" Aster ordered. I just stared at him. In the two years we had been together, I had never heard him take that particular tone. A tone that demanded recognition and immediate obedience. Any other day I would have thought it to be kind of hot, but this wasn't a joke, or a mild flirtation. This was Aster laying down his law, and I wasn't prepared to debate him. I just kept staring at him.
"GO!" He screamed, and I jumped to it.
I ran to the entrance to the apartment building. I clumsily pulled at my left pocket to pull out my keys. They caught on the fabric. I pulled, but the more I pulled the more ensnared they became. Wrenching them away I unlocked the door. In the elevator, my mind was attempting to make sense of what had just occurred. "We were so close to the door. We were so close. So close to home. Why? What was he doing here? Get to the phone. Call the police. Yes! Call the police."
Exiting the elevator, I made the right turn to head down the short hallway to our apartment. I struggled with the lock. I couldn't get the key in the lock. I was shaking. It took both of my hands to get the key in. Running into our home I grabbed the phone. I had a mobile on me, but I completely forgot about it.
Post-Traumatic I.Q. Drop is how I refer to that moment.
Thoughts were coming at me at an alarming rate, and at times were completely nonsensical, "I should call the non-emergency number. No one was hurt. Wait! Are we hurt? I feel okay, but what about Aster? This isn't an emergency. We're okay. We're okay. I'll call the non-emergency number. WAIT! Fuck that! We were hit by a fucking baseball bat. 911! Call 911!" I dialed. I looked out the windows facing the street. "Where's Aster? Fuck! I hope he's okay. The sky is so blue. Oh, those plants need more water. Where
do these dust bunnies come from?" Then the voice, "911, please state the nature of your emergency?" The voice belonged to a woman, and she sounded like a chorus of angels. I started to tell the Chorus what had just occurred, that Baby Jesus was on the loose, and he was very upset, but he had great taste in jewelry, and then my voice started to crack and I couldn't speak. I was fighting the insane need to cry. My entire being was telling me to lie down, curl into a ball, and sob...that's when The Chorus became persistent. She encouraged me to tell her everything, to stay calm, and give her every detail. When I gave all the information she told me, "Just stay calm. I've got a car on the way." She asked if I would like for her to stay on the line until the police arrived. I told her "no", I needed to find my guy.
With his arm broken, but feeling no pain...only anger, Aster attempted to run after Baby Jesus, but Baby Jesus was really fast in his little-itty-bitty
Nike's, and was already in the brown Volvo by the time Aster reached the top of the hill. Feeling defeated, Aster then started back towards the apartment. I remember him coming in. We embraced, and waited for the police. I can't remember what was said between the two of us. I can remember the dust bunnies, but not what we talked about. Odd.
When the police finally arrived they did their best to act like they cared, but no one was bleeding.
I think they really wanted someone to be bleeding. We told them all about Baby Jesus and what he had done, but we were just a couple of fags that got what they deserved. At least, that's how I perceived their reactions. What did I want them to do...hold me? Perhaps the cops did care? Who can say? I just wanted them to be as outraged as we were. For them it was just another day at the office, but without all the bleeding.
We finished filing our report with the police, and Aster was quickly seen by his doctor. He suffered an unbelievable bruise, and a fractured humerus. His arm was placed in a sling, and he was given narcotics and told to rest.
For whatever reason I went to work the next day. I didn't know what to say when asked, "How was your day off?" Where do you even begin a conversation about being hunted, and attacked, and who wants to hear it? Granted, we can laugh about how ridiculously pathetic Baby Jesus' assault was, and we can be grateful that he was a bed wetting coward, but it's the visceral awareness that such hatred exists that has given me pause (even today) before leaving my home, or holding my guy's hand in public.
Baby Jesus was never heard from again. I guess he had better things to do than hide in Volvos and stalk unsuspecting homos. There was no follow-up by the police. I provided a brief interview to a local, weekly periodical but the story didn't have enough drama to be worthy of such a rag. Pity. I thought
Baby Jesus Swings Bat - Hits a Homo would be a top seller.
There would be a rash of further bashings in the coming weeks. One incident was particularly horrifying as a man was harrassed, beaten and slashed with a broken vodka bottle outside of a local gay bar. The man, Micah Painter, survived but his attackers were only convicted from one to five years for the assault. The assailants all identified as Evangelical Christians.
It's been six years, five months, and 25 days since the attack, and while life has only gotten better (immensely so), I do think about that day more often than I would like to. How could I forget that on Tuesday, April 27th at 4:30 in the afternoon a gutless invertebrate slithered up from behind and struck the one I love with a baseball bat? How do you suppress that?
It is because of this incident that I will never again know just how sweet it is to hold Aster's hand with such sweet, complete abandon. If only I had some miraculous premonition that we were at risk, that something like this could happen; maybe I would have held on just a bit tighter, appreciated it a bit longer, and maybe I would have been quick enough to take that tiny asshole by the neck and show him the true meaning of God's mercy.
The next few weeks brought the love, and support, of so many fantastic people. It also brought more baked goods than I care to remember. What is striking is that these people expressed more concern for our well-being than my own family. Some of these individuals we barely knew.
I'm not a religious person, never will be, but if God is love than I've certainly come to know her through David, Juli, Amy, Haewon, Anna & Stefan, Deb, Eric, Darcie & Stu, Tee & Scott, Brenda, Kari-Mae & Jeff, Bardin, Travis & Carrie, Anna S., Angela & Matt, Anne, Elaine, Linda, Laurie, Dr. B., and Jen. All of them (and so many more) were there for us. So, it does get better, and if you feel like it isn't...I know a brilliant group of people who are more than ready to cap an ass for you. Just let me know...
