Visions of My Grandmother

Writing has been very hard lately.  With classes, teaching, and working in West Hollywood, I often find myself wanting to lay on the couch more than read a book or write a blog post.  However, I am continually honored to be a part of the Feminism and Religion Project and I hope you enjoy my post this month.

xoxo

John

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I haven’t dreamt of my grandmother since her passing one hot summer July evening.

The night, and the days that followed, continue to be a blur.  However, as my family members continue to see her in their nightly visions, I, go on unabatedly longing to see and hear the voice of a woman who made me feel the presence of the divine with each passing story. 

My sister saw her in a dream when she was buying shoes, my mother has seen her multiple times when she would be undergoing a particularly stressful situation, and I, left alone and oftentimes wondering through an abyss of loneliness and disarray, wake up each morning wondering why, I am left all alone.

We often question the divine, his/her intentions, and specifically whether or not we will ever see resemblances of those long gone in our daily lives, but I’m here to ask and ponder whether or not my inability to see my grandmother has to do with the fact that she was the one person I was not honest to during her lifetime.    

I never told my grandmother I was gay.  I’ve often wanted to visit her grave, clench my hands together, and pray that she forgive me for betraying the trust she instilled upon me long ago.  However, even today, I cannot bring myself to make that trek, up the hill into the countryside where her ashes lay below the ground.

Yes, my grandmother would meet the boys I was dating and yes, I would talk about my life in a way that it would be obvious to anyone else that I was gay, but I never uttered the words, “Gladys, I’m gay” to her.  I could handle rejection from my parents, I could face the dismissal from certain family members, but her rejection, the rejection of my hero and best friend, was one thing I was not willing to face.

The only time she ever entered into my dreams was a year ago when I found myself entering her house and seeing her sitting in her chair with its back turned towards me.  I called her name, I kept questioning whether or not she had heard me (she was always hard of hearing), and the more I called out her name the more she just sat there, in her chair, silent, and unable to  turn around and look at me.  

How does one who doesn’t really believe in the divine pray?  How do we manage the complex emotions that we feel when loss and heartache overcome our power in faith?   More importantly, who, when we are unable to deal with the guilt and pain we have inside, do we agnostics pray to? 

I’ve never really pray, but when I do I pray to my grandmother.  I do not pray to a God or Goddess that I do not know exists or not, but rather an entity who I hope still watches over me. 

However, like with many of the prayers that we cast into the unknown, I too find myself on the same boat, hoping that one day, my divine grandmother will forgive me of my sins and welcome me back into her loving arms.

I look forward to finally walking into her house in my dreams and seeing her warm smile greet me at the door but until then, I’ll continue to sit here and pray. 

 

8 Simple Rules for Being a Queer Godfather

This month I decided to write about an event that changed my life: the day I became a Godfather.  I am honored that I am able to write about issues on the Feminism and Religion Project but proud that I have the ability to share my story with our readers.  Enjoy.

xoxo

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I often wondered why I wasn’t asked to be the Godfather of my niece and nephew.  It made perfect sense to me that I would be the best person to guide and provide spiritual care for either of them as I was the only member, in both my family and my brother-in-law’s, getting a PhD in Religion.  I didn’t think there would be much to it.  I would go, hold my nephew, and watch a priest pour water over his head, and then go and enjoy some very sugary cake in my sister’s backyard. 

On August 18^th, 2012 my wish came true and I became the Godfather to my sister’s second child, Drew.   I had always believed that there was nothing to being a Godfather.  That it was a title in name only and a tradition that many individuals bestowed upon members of their family as ritualistic habit rather than a sacred institution of spiritual care and upbringing.  Boy, was I wrong.

In various posts housed on this blog, authors discussed their hopes for the future and their wish to change the systems of domination that many believe to be a source of entrapment in specific religious traditions.  As an advent agnostic, I always found religion to be an interesting force of social control rather than way of life that some people believe it to be.  Becoming a Godfather was more than just a reentry into the Catholic traditions I had long given up but rather a journey back in time that would grant me the ability to rewrite the wrongs I felt as a kid growing up in a tradition I not only didn’t understand but also didn’t feel like I belonged in. 

Looking into my nephew’s eyes as he quietly sat in my arms while the priest poured water over his head, I made a wish for my nephew and said my first prayer in a long time:

Dear Nameless Deity,I know I haven’t been the most faithful as of recent but I want you to know that I promise to take my role as Godfather seriously.  I understand now that Drew’s journey is just beginning and that I am here to help him along his way.  Bestow me with the ability to answer Drew’s questions when he gets older and to be there to guide him through life as a friend in his spiritual journey rather than an authority who dictates instead of listens.  Keep him safe and keep him in your thoughts, amen. 

(Me Holding My Godson Drew, my mother holding my nephew Brady, and my niece Emma dancing)

I realized that I wasn’t going to be the a-typical Godfather.  As a self-identified queer male, I realize that Drew, if raised in the same traditions that I was, would one day have questions not only about faith but also about his Uncle and now Godfather.  How would I answer them and more importantly, what would I say when and if he ever asked me if I was going to hell? 

While he slept in my arms I came up with 8 rules I promised to live by when and if Drew ever would require the spiritual guidance I was sworn to deliver.  I reinvented the tradition to create a better future for my Godson rather than the recapitulate the dominating forces that entrap rather than empower and confuse rather than answer:

1. Answer all his spiritual questions regardless of how hard they may be for me and how awkward they might be for him to ask.
2. Treat him with respect and dignity.
3. Give him the resources he needs to continue his spiritual journey if he so chooses.
4. Do not lie to him about the Bible.
5. Educate him about various interpretations of the Bible and g-d. 
6. Go to church or whatever religious institution he chooses to attend without hesitation or judgment. 
7. Teach him the differences between theological questions and religious ones. 
8. Love and listen to him, no matter what he chooses to believe or what he does throughout his life.

It is my dream that one day we can create a world with new traditions started by the simple actions of making new spiritual promises rather that reifying old ones.  One step at a time and one wish and a prayer later, change may be right around the corner or in the hopes and dreams of a child just starting their journey in their Godfather’s arms. 

(Me Holding my Godson Drew and his sister Emma)

Writing is Hard

As I sit in the public library, I realize that writing, or at least getting back to comprehensive academic writing, is very difficult.

I see and now understand why people are constantly writing, always putting out pieces, whether they are for the world or their own personal use.

Sitting back and examining all these articles and papers I have in front of me for my addition to the Feminism in the 21st Century Anthology are daunting.  This chapter needs to be good, no GREAT!

It deals with my grandmother, twitter, feminism, community, online spaces, and digital story telling and thankfully it doesn't have to be in 140 character or less.

Well, back to the grind...

Until next time.

xoxo

(If you want to check out the basis for my chapter, look at the twitter feed I created a couple of years @storiesofself)