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What Won Out
O REG O N'S LGBTO N EW S M A G A ZIN E
W hen it comes to churches, I’m mostly fas
cinated with their outsides. I realize that’s basi
cally the antithesis o f what churches are sup
posed to represent—the faithful emphasize
churches’ guts: leadership, spiritual guidance,
fellowship. Regardless, the things I love: col
umns to the sky, stained glass, towering spires,
ornate brick and statues. I judge churches by
their covers— and much prefer jewels of archi
tecture to the newer tract-home look-alikes
that litter most of our suburbs.
I blame this mild obsession on my upbring
ing. Before a switch to hard-line fundamental
ism, virtually every member of my family was
devoutly Catholic. Eventually, though, conver
sion came (for everyone) and we moved to one
of the above-mentioned soulless structures. But
Catholic imagery was forever burned into my
memory and no amount of reprogramming
could oust it. Relegated to inhabit a cold, com
fortless suburban mammoth, I remained forever
envious of hell-bound Catholics and other ren
egades who frolicked inside the buildings I
adored.
A few weeks ago, I ventured to Canby to
attend my young cousin’s graduation— and, in
turn, make my return to the sort of church I’d
sworn off. (I’m not yet convinced I won’t
someday spontaneously combust, True Blood-
style, if I set foot inside.) My cousin’s ceremo
ny, a service celebrating a move from 8th to
9th grade— apparently that warrants a cele
bration—was grand. It was marked with a
JU LY 15. 2011
off to Houston, an oft-used Love Won Out
meeting spot. There, I was briefly cornered, told
I am loved despite different lifestyle “choices,”
comments that bounced oft now much thicker
skin.
The older I get, the more fascinating I find
these family events. As a sentient, relatively
sane adult, I examine conversion from both
ends. It’s a constant game of mental compare
and contrast, as mid-conversation I’m remem
bering earlier days, times when beliefs weren’t
quite so rigid or staunch. I comfort my present
with my past. And in knowing my appearances
pay homage to my mother, who provokes less
ire from her siblings when her eldest child re
mains somewhat plugged into family events.
Post Fourth, I hurried back to the safety of
the city. I recruited my friend Kevin, and we
sauntered down Stark, amassing beers and lewd
exchanges with all-day drinkers on our way to
watch fireworks on the Burnside Bridge. Hud
dled there, the unimpressive fireworks display
began, and we soon abandoned our posts in fa
vor o f rollicking rounds of karaoke at Ham
burger Mary’s. Halfway lost in thought, I real
ized I’m infinitely more comfortable in our city’s
tricd-and-true haunts than my cousin’s church
or even my family’s compound. And maybe
some of my favorite spots might be a little drab
and worn on the outside— it turns out that’s no
indication of the comforts found inside. J0]
Steve took the stage. My typically inept gaydar
went haywire. I listened intently to his every
into my memory and no amount of
word, studied his every movement, wondering
just how gay he’d been—or still was, or if he
reprogramming could oust it.
ever was. And I wondered, had I never escaped,
dizzying number of speakers, a constant bar how easily I could have slipped through the
rage of Christian pop hits piped over loud queer cracks, ending up dedicated to a life of
speakers— think “Butterfly Kisses” for two Christian servitude.
A few years ago, my cousin’s mother begged
hours straight, long photo slide shows deco
rated with various Bible verses— these kids me to explore Love Won Out, an ex-gay minis
got it all, even a Hummer limousine to take try launched by Focus on the Family in the late
1990s. Their focus is conversion and curbing
them to an all-night party. ( Quinceanera!)
The two main speakers seemed to be the homosexual tendencies. Fortunately, for our
ones who ran my cousin’s school. One was a viewing pleasure, the organization’s website
matronly, librarian-looking woman who offered hosts a slew of staff photographs, which looks
up grand gestures and a voice better suited for more like a collection o f Pride snapshots than a
Michele Bachmann’s political campaign. De church roll call (hint: Look up Alan Cham- *
spite an overheated, ruddy complexion and bers). Although I found my research amusing—
constantly steamed spectacles, she was undeni hut terrifying, I avoided my aunt for years post
ably engaging. Her comrade-in-arms was a intervention.
I slipped out of my cousin’s graduation un
shorter, wildly effeminate man with a shiny
bald head who wept a lot. Just about everything scathed, with only my neuroses in tow. Days
choked him up. W e’ll call him Steve.
later, I ventured to my parents’ house for our
I had spent most of my time creating mental annual Fourth of July mayonnaise-salad fest,
to-do lists and wondering how Grindr would and I again mingled with my converted kin, the
fare in Canby (not well, it turns out) before aunt who still harbors secret desires to ship me How was your holiday ? Email d a n i f . i #
Catholic imagery was forever'burned
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