Chapter 3
Grace
Imake my way to class running more than a few minutes late. I got lost in the moment down in that basement. I didn't even realize how quickly time had passed.
I rush through the puddles as the fall rain pours over my leather jacket, soaking my jeans.
I swing the doors open, slipping into the building.
I grab the wall as I try to keep myself from slipping on the vinyl flooring.
My boots squeak as I make my way around the corner to my next class.
I place my hand on the knob and pull. It’s locked.
Great. I hang my head backwards, close my eyes, and groan.
I look through the paneled glass, trying to make eye contact with someone when the professor glances over.
I point to the door handle with a pleading expression.
The teacher subtly shakes their head no and turns their face back toward the other students.
I swallow my frustration as I nod once. I’m certainly leaving a great impression on the faculty so far.
Heading down the hall, I decide to wait out the rain by exploring the library.
I glance into the classrooms, where students are aptly paying attention to their lectures as I pass by.
Damn, everyone here really does give their full effort.
Then there’s me. Don’t get me wrong, I was getting A’s and B’s at my last school.
I was proud of those grades, but the spark in me here? Fleeting.
These hallways are void of decoration, not even a cross in sight, which surprises me. Tall, arched windows are evenly spaced between columns of wooden beams. It’s fairly gloomy in here besides the soft, warm lights dangling from the ceilings; everything is drab.
I approach the big wooden doors of the library and pull hard.
When the doors hardly budge, I peer up. These doors are large and made of a beautiful wood, stained a warm red, almost brown.
Angels are carved on the surface, but they don’t look angelic.
They are carved with harsh edges and sour expressions on their faces.
Big wings are sculpted twice the size of the angels, floating around various flowers and clouds.
I tilt my head as I try to observe more of what I assume is supposed to be a representation of Heaven’s gates. But, all of it just feels… wrong.
I exhale a heavy breath as I pull with more force and finally crack the heavy wooden doors open.
As I squeeze inside, I gasp at the size of the room.
There are rows and rows of books, stairs leading up to four different levels of histories, fantasies, you name it.
There’s a large common area full of long tables, each with a tiny green desk lamp radiating warm light.
There are a few students at the tables silently studying, reading, and some even napping on their backpacks.
I inhale deeply, smelling the ancient books, and find myself smiling for the first time on this campus.
Something about being in here feels safe.
I pull a random book off the shelf, flipping through the worn pages of Wuthering Heights.
I smile at its familiar tragedy. The grief that consumed me as I read their love story, the comfort I felt in its pain.
How many lives are we fortunate to live through because of these stories?
To be surrounded by so many endless stories of hopes and dreams, knowing someone within these pages has felt the emotions I have and continue to feel is everything.
Whether it's the desperation to fit in or something as specific as the resentment toward a father figure like mine. The feeling is irreplaceable. It shows us we aren’t alone.
Literature gives a door for community, a chance to be surrounded by empathy in a cloaked world of devastating selfishness.
I continue to look around in awe of the space, finding an empty corner table in the back.
I place my bag on the back of a chair and settle down onto the hard seat.
I exhale a heavy sigh and roll the tension from my shoulders that I have been subconsciously holding since my first encounter with the priest of the campus. He was certainly menacing.
In the photos of him online, his smile always appeared radiant and even warm.
But in person? I felt my skin prickle in fear in remembrance of being under his gaze.
His eyes were beady, almost snakelike. Alongside the fury radiating off of him for being down in the lower level, I instantly knew I would not want to receive another warning from him.
I shake off the chills that race across my skin from the memory.
I was more afraid of him than the woman that I saw.
Is that really shocking? I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to find any reasonable excuse for the glow.
I must have been paranoid from being in the basement.
Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me. Maybe I am as fucked up as my father thinks I am.
I run my fingers through my damp hair, leaning back, and then rocking on the edges of the chair legs. There is a part of me that believes the words my father has flung at me over time, especially since my mother passed away. My heart clenches at the thought of her.
I haven’t been the same since she left us.
I used to tell my father that I could feel her in the room, and he would tell me that it was my mind trying to comfort my grief.
He’d remind me that she was no longer here, and somehow that hurt more.
I was desperate for one last hug from her, one last inspirational pep talk, or a singing session in our kitchen.
My father was desperate to help me process the loss. He saw me falling into a depression at the void my mother left in my chest. I stopped willingly leaving my bed for school. I stopped playing music on the record player my mother gifted me. I stopped functioning. I stopped living.
It was scaring him. I thought he was scared to lose me after losing his wife, but now I don’t know if he even really cared to lose me or lose control.
He sought counseling and endless support groups until he was led to the church.
He started bringing me to one where he found closure and the community he desperately craved.
Me on the other hand? I found myself fearing the unknown and the weight of my sins constantly in that building.
Sins of lying, envy, and love. I remember crying after sermons, but not tears of joy.
They were tears of grief, self-hatred, and desperation.
I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I still actively participated in the youth group to appease my father, even if it broke my spirit.
I had come out to my father shortly after my mother passed away, feeling regret so deeply for not sharing an important piece of myself with her when she was around.
I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to share a huge piece of myself with him as well.
Maybe this would bring us closer. Maybe this would show him why I felt uncomfortable with myself.
Trying to consistently portray myself in an image that wasn’t me was becoming harder and harder.
Maybe this massive piece of who I am would show my father why I was hurting even more from the environment he was bringing us to.
Why this environment was destroying me. The mask I was wearing to blend in with everyone else was starting to suffocate me.
I was trying so hard to wear the right clothes to avoid the wrong questions.
I even went as far as wearing a crucifix pin on my sweater.
Everything about my appearance was a representation of the Catholic daughter my father created, but hidden inside was a girl clawing at the cage to express her passions outside of music.
Music gave me the freedom to feel true to myself, but I wanted to feel like I did on the inside, on the outside.
I never had the opportunity to explore it.
The more the leash pulled, the more I wanted to release the clip.
Unfortunately, for me, sharing this truth with my father in the hope of establishing a better relationship and uncloaking the shadows of who I truly am remains a decision I regret.
He still can not wrap his mind around what he calls my “phase”.
He continues to think my preference in women is a choice, a ‘sin’ that I needed to conquer.
The church would constantly preach that this sin was directly branded on my soul by Satan himself, and I needed to overcome it.
Everyone fights their own battles, whether it is addiction or dishonesty. My battle is with my own identity.
My father shared my truth with the church without asking.
It suddenly became everyone’s hyper-fixation.
Forget all sins separating us from God. Being a homosexual was the most jarring in their eyes, one that they were adamant about helping me work through.
I was consistently encouraged that it was a sin I could overcome through time and dedication to His word.
They brought speakers to the church about abstinence if I couldn’t control my preference, to those who tried to cleanse it away in prayer circles.
Members of the church would ostracize me rather than love me.
Going as far as to corner me in rooms full of adult males, rebuking me.
Fuck rebuking the demon, they would say my name. They blamed me.