A Station for Everyone
Play Live Radio
Next Up:
0:00
0:00
0:00 0:00
Available On Air Stations

Ode: This one time, at church camp...

Mike Goll
Ally Karsyn

Easter makes me… uncomfortable.

My anxiety couldn’t possibly be from the time Great-Grandma Kathryn sprayed the lawn with pesticides the day before Easter—and somehow failed to tell my parents about it until the hunt was over, and the candy was eaten.

 

Don’t get me wrong—I like the season it falls in well enough. Spring is lovely will all its pastel colors, bunnies and baby chicks. Easter just has so much buildup with a series of mini-religious holidays like Ash Wednesday and 40 Days of Lent leading up to the main event. The whole “Casey Kasem, Countdown to the Crucifixion” thing creeps me out.

 

I grew up in a fairly conservative Evangelical church. And the pastor always told us that we should celebrate Easter more than Christmas because that’s when Jesus died for our sins. Fair enough. But my birthday is the day after Jesus’s. So that was a heck of a lot more fun to celebrate.

 

But as a good Christian boy, I did my best to celebrate Easter even if there wouldn’t be a boatload of gifts.

 

One year, I drew the finest crucifixion scene a child could imagine. I picked up a red Crayon, really keeping with the theme of sacrifice, and began sketching out the cross. My fluid gestural lines allowed me to capture the essence of the crown of thorns and finish the scene.

 

I carefully put the red Crayon back in its basket and ran over my Sunday school teacher with my masterpiece exclaiming, “Look Deb, it’s Jesus on the cross!” A flash of horror spread across her face. She quickly recovered and said, “Well, it looks like you sure drew that!” Even at that tender age, I could tell she wasn’t paying me a compliment.

 

While Christmas had carols and the occasional hair-burning candle-light services, Easter at our church had a cantata featuring the choir. Services would proclaim alleluias and the resurrection of our Lord in the most jarring—but sincere—way.

 

In my teen years, the choir sang with a PowerPoint presentation running in the background showing a sequence of “Google’s greatest Easter images.” My favorite picture was a woman who was Photoshopped in front of a bright sunburst arms outstretched, face beaming in holy ecstasy. She was wearing a billowy white robe that looked like it was stolen from the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

 

So, I lovingly named her Puffy.

 

Hindsight tells me that this wasn’t the nicest thing to call a woman unknowingly swiped from “Google’s greatest Easter images,” but my sisters were in on the joke. So, each year, when Puffy appeared on screen, we nearly died of church giggles—the kind where you’re body is shaking but no sound comes out.

 

There’s this part about being in my church, in my faith, with my family and church family that brought so much love and affirmation. As long as I followed the rules.

 

You see, as a boy, I’d wear my little sailor outfit at Easter and get my cheeks pinched. As a young man, I’d wear my black suit and get asked if I had a girlfriend yet. “Not yet? Well, I’m sure you’ll find a nice girl soon!”

 

There was just one problem.

 

In junior high, I started noticing that I didn’t really like girls, or at least, I wasn’t interested in dating them. I went through an asexual phase, trying to avoid these feelings because of what it would mean for me.

 

But then, in high school, I did meet a nice girl. Jennie and I were counselors at church camp. I was so nervous but I finally summoned the courage to ask her to be my girlfriend. We had a great friendship, and I thought good Christian boys were supposed to have good Christian girlfriends. We went to prom together, and we’d often hang out with her family and our friends. All of that made me feel loved and supported.

 

Then, I went off to college. Jennie had one more year of high school. She’d come visit me, or I’d go see her, and we’d hug, or I’d kiss her. But only on the cheek. When we’d go to the movies, she’d ask if I wanted the armrest. I’d say, “No, you can have it.” She’d roll her eyes, lift the barrier between us and grab my arm to put it around her.

 

In college, far away from Jennie and my parents, I started to explore a side of myself that I had been taught to suppress. I started talking to gay guys on the internet.

 

On a particularly lonely spring night, I met up with a nice guy in Sioux City. I accidently locked my keys in my car, and instead of calling a locksmith, I let the night go where it would. My time with my new friend was great. So was the night we spent together in his bed.

 

In the morning, I admired his ample cologne collection. I picked up Pi by Givenchy and gave myself a little spritz. He helped me fix my hair and cut the bottoms of my jeans to get the perfect flare. Then, he picked out a leather jacket for me to wear. We held hands while we walked his dog in broad daylight. I listened as he talked about guys and Britney Spears and drag shows at the local gay bar.

 

If this is what it meant to be gay, I never wanted to go back to being a straight college freshman.

 

But I learned that it’s pretty hard to disappear unnoticed when you attend a small Christian college in an equally small town.

 

My band director asked my sister where I was. She asked my roommate. My roommate called my girlfriend, who called my parents. When I resurfaced, I had a lot of explaining to do.

 

A few days later, my girlfriend came to visit me for a spring band concert. I took her aside and told her what I had done. She deserved so much more than what I could give. I cared about her, and I had grown close to her family. Her older brother had been a mentor of mine from church camp.

 

So, in one week, I lost my girlfriend, a good friend and a second family.

 

Telling everyone what happened was hard enough. Having my folks insist I come home for Easter shortly after was next-level retribution.

 

There’s nothing like coming home in shame and then sitting through the choral arrangement of the torture of Jesus. Hearing the choir chant “Crucify him! Crucify him!” was relatable to say the least.

 

After the service, we went to my grandparents’ house for Easter lunch. It gave me a chance to get away from my parents. But having the extended family ask how things were with Jennie didn’t prove to be any respite from my folks.

 

I could only avoid them for so long. The second they found me alone, my dad told me I was choosing to live in sin. My mom diagnosed me with turrets and said that, if I had only been medicated earlier, I could have avoided the gayness.

 

After the Easter Disaster of 2004, I wish I could say I came out, but it took two more years of enduring degayification efforts to get there.

 

Not being gay meant watching old war movies, wearing pleated khakis, avoiding electronic dance music and giving up my favorite jean jacket. You know, because it “looked gay.” To the detriment of my mental health, it meant suppressing the desire to be loved by another man, to be held and to hold, and to live authentically.

 

By my junior year of college, I’d come out of the closet for good. A few years later, I’d come out again. This time as an atheist.

 

Now, I often spend Easter with my husband’s family. All they ask of me is to help them decorate the bunny cake. I reach for the red frosting and chow mein noodles to recreate a crown of thorns around the ears. My mother-in-law is a heck of a lot more impressed than my Sunday school teacher ever was.

 

---

Ode is a storytelling series where community members tell true stories on stage to promote positive impact through empathy. It’s produced by Siouxland Public Media.

We’ll be hosting Ode’s 2nd Anniversary Show on Friday, February 2.

Related Content