I Hope You Remember

When I first came out as trans and as a lesbian, I was deeply involved in my church, they were like a second family to me. When I first tried writing about my feelings after going to church for the first time after coming out as trans, this is what I wrote. I previously read this at the 2014 May A-Camp Staff Reading.

Do you know how hard it was for me to walk into church that morning? Even if you took away all the nervousness that came from me being afraid that my hair wasn’t perfect or my eyeliner was smudged or my dress was too short, it was still the most frightening moment of my life.

I was so afraid that everyone would judge me and hate me. I was afraid that I would lose the friends and family that had welcomed me in and embraced me for the past fourteen years. I was afraid of the way people would look at me. But then came the smiles, and the compliments and the hugs. And then I saw you.

You were standing there with a friend who didn’t know you as well as I do, and both of you were staring right at me.

You were the person who teamed up with me the first time I ever volunteered with the Youth Group. Your three kids were in the group and you helped show me the ropes. You were the woman who gave me inside jokes to share, rides around town and a second family. You were a friend, a mentor and a support system.

But in church that morning, I didn’t see any of that. Instead, I saw the tears you shed the first time you saw me after telling your son that I was spitting in the face of God.

I hope later that night when you remember that you cried after you saw me — whether you cried out of pity or anger, judgment or wrath, bitterness or just misunderstanding — I hope you also remember a few other things.

Like that time I helped teach your youngest daughter how to swim while you were lounging by the side of the pool. Like the time I ran a mile to your house so your kids could show me the bird’s nest they found and couldn’t wait to share with me. Like the three and a half years your oldest daughter called me her best friend. The four years I taught your youngest in Sunday School. The seven years I taught your kids in Youth Group. The seven years we’d been friends.

I hope you remember the time I got in trouble for teaching that the Bible says God gave birth to us and comforts us like a mother. Or that Jesus said a “real man” would turn the other cheek instead of picking a fight and that he also compared himself to a mother hen. I hope you remember that I was the one your daughter called when she thought she had an STD. I was the one your son called when he got in trouble with campus security. I was the one your daughter drunk dialed, the one your son confided in, the one who talked your kids down from the edge.

I hope you remember that time you gave me a hug because I was scared of roller coasters and all those times you cooked for me and all those times I cooked for you.

Once, when your daughter’s boyfriend chose drugs over her, she texted me in the middle of the night so I could come sit next to her as she cried on my shoulder. Another time, she called me to ask, “Is being gay a sin?” “No,” I told her, “It’s as natural as anything else God created in the first six days. Did you know that homosexuality is found in over five hundred different species of animal?”

And now, as you look at me with those judging eyes, so quick to cast me out of your life, I wonder, did you know that the Parrotfish, Clownfish, Reed Frog and a half dozen other animals can change their sex when they feel like they need to? Now, I know you don’t believe in evolution, so you must believe that God specifically created them to do just that. Couldn’t God have created me the same way? Or couldn’t you have found it in your heart to see me as a friend instead of an enemy? Couldn’t you have just loved your enemy if that’s how you had to see me?

I can’t answer these questions for you, and seeing as you’re refusing to speak to me, I doubt that you’re going to answer them either. But me sitting in that pew wasn’t about you or what you thought. It was about me, and it was about my chosen faith and my chosen family, and as much as it hurts me, I feel like I can no longer count you as a part of either.

As I took my seat, I looked away from your glare and I looked to the faces of my friends — my family — who were sitting there with me, who were giving me love, affirmation and telling me that I’d never looked more like myself than I did that day.

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Mey

Mey Rude is a fat, trans, Latina lesbian living in LA. She's a writer, journalist, and a trans consultant and sensitivity reader. You can follow her on twitter, or go to her website if you want to hire her.

Mey has written 572 articles for us.

27 Comments

  2. I can now read this article with your voice in my mind, Mey. Omg youre so amazing. Your writing is always amazing.

  3. What an incredibly strong and brave person you are, Mey. Despite your close relationship and falling out with this former friend, I’m glad you still had a support system within that community afterwards.

    A-Camp Staff Readings will remain as one of my favourite parts of camp because of submissions like these.

  5. this is just as moving here as when I heard you read it at camp, Mey. thank you so much for sharing it with us again.

  6. Thank you, Mey, for sharing this with us. I have tears in my eyes and I just think you are even more amazing…if that is possible.

  14. I clearly remember the courage it took to come out that first time.

    The courage it must have taken to remake your life as you have is more than I can conceptualize.

    I’m glad that others at least, understood and supported you.

  15. “And now, as you look at me with those judging eyes, so quick to cast me out of your life, I wonder, did you know that the Parrotfish, Clownfish, Reed Frog and a half dozen other animals can change their sex when they feel like they need to? Now, I know you don’t believe in evolution, so you must believe that God specifically created them to do just that. Couldn’t God have created me the same way? ”

    yes. yes. yes.

  17. What a special way to write about something as difficult as this – fierce, but somehow also free of hate. Thank you.

  21. So many feels. And tears. I related to this so damn much. Still don’t feel at home in any church community, or with my family for that matter, but we’re working through the latter.

  25. I heard you read this at A-Camp and it was just as touching to read again now. Thank you for sharing Mey.

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