On Sexuality
Sexuality is a spaghetti. It’s a pile of randomly scattered noodles all supporting and leaning onto each other to complete a yellowish mess. I’m beyond understanding how the lump stands as it does, but I can enjoy it. However, those who say they have the answers to the toss-up terrify me.
When I was a small, impressionable child of ten, I kicked my legs in the pews of my local church. My mother sat to my left. My teenage sister sat to my right. I held my mother’s hand. The preacher, stomping the stage with spiritual wrath, waved his arms toward his flock. It’s as if he was throwing theology at us like tennis balls.
“We are under attack!” said the preacher. “Christianity is being abandoned–yes, abandoned!” His cadence was a spiking mountain range. His voice was a booming blast, and even the few atheists’ hearts were rushed.
“And for what? Degeneracy! A man with a man, a woman with a woman?” His questions seduced us. His answers gave us climax. “It’s revolting!” My mother shook her head up and down. Her eyes and mouth were peeled open. She squeezed my hand. The older women whooped. “God doesn’t make mistakes with his children. The serpent is in these sodomites, and only we can save them!” At the age of ten, I didn’t kick my legs any more. I sat in a still fear. I was a mistake. There’s a serpent inside of me.
But no more. I grew up. I learned that sexuality isn’t a virus or a snake slithering in my gut. It’s just spaghetti. I can string it through my hands and it won’t bite me. I wish the world was as comfortable with spaghetti as I am.
