Jeremy Schnotala
“Faggot”
I grew up in a Christian fundamentalist family. Religion drenched every decision. The plumbing couldn't back up without it involving Jesus somehow. Sales at the Kroger were issued by God himself. I tolerated the faith healings and prophecies and hellfire sermons my entire youth, hiding my own gay apostasy with dogma. My life depended on it. I was thirty-five when I finally came out to my family and the result was everything I expected. What I ultimately remember of the whole thing was one of the last conversations I had with my mother. It was on the telephone and she was explaining why God wouldn’t permit her to allow my husband and I to come visit. "I was making goulash this morning, Jeremy," she said, "and the Lord spoke audibly to me." (Yes, she said audibly.) "He told me I can’t commune with the homosexual spirit. I have to stand by my God," she ended, emphasizing my. Who uses the word commune, I thought, and said goodbye.
I’ve been exploring that piety lately in my writing, both in my first novel (Leaves of Lilacs) and a collection of short stories where religion and bigotry place the characters in worlds where they have to navigate their own spirituality and identity without their familiar confidantes—friends, lovers, mothers. It’s interesting, because the Jesus I learned about from the periphery of prayer circles and the back pews of sanctuary sermons, was never the goulash Jesus. Incidentally, I’m sure you can guess which way that part of my family all voted in the most recent election. I guess I never picked up on the version of Christ they were teaching at all. I'm glad for that. I also know that I hate goulash to this day and will never touch a bowl of it again in my life. I swear.
I’ve been exploring that piety lately in my writing, both in my first novel (Leaves of Lilacs) and a collection of short stories where religion and bigotry place the characters in worlds where they have to navigate their own spirituality and identity without their familiar confidantes—friends, lovers, mothers. It’s interesting, because the Jesus I learned about from the periphery of prayer circles and the back pews of sanctuary sermons, was never the goulash Jesus. Incidentally, I’m sure you can guess which way that part of my family all voted in the most recent election. I guess I never picked up on the version of Christ they were teaching at all. I'm glad for that. I also know that I hate goulash to this day and will never touch a bowl of it again in my life. I swear.