Umpqua: I Am On The "Friendly Atheist" Blog

After the shooting at my school (Umpqua Community College) happened, the school was suddenly in the national spotlight. So I thought that some people would like to hear my story about being an atheist at UCC, and trying to start an atheist club there last year.
But my blog is small, and even people who would want to hear it might not get to. So I contacted Hemant Mehta of the Friendly Atheist blog, whom I had long respected and admired, about being a guest writer there. I thought I could be friendly enough, after all.
Here is my story, which I don't feel I should reprint here--after all, I wrote it for Hemant's blog. But I will provide the link to it, and I may elaborate on the same story here on this blog if I have time.
Some people who have commented on The Friendly Atheist have said that they would like to see me contribute more to that site. I think that I will (with Hemant's permission), if I have something that would be of interest to all or most atheists, and is specifically on the topic of atheism or religion. Here, it is more about life's journey, so that I talk about all different subjects, and interesting or funny incidences that happen to me.
If I write again for The Friendly Atheist or any other site, I will provide the link on this blog.

It's All Over When The Bigot Says Fuck

I became friends with someone before I knew that she had an evangelical background, and was, for all intents and purposes, still in it. She threw a fit on Facebook right after the marriage equality ruling, apparently thinking that people didn't "accept" the fact that she wanted to make millions of people second-class citizens.
This has bothered me ever since, and being in class with her almost made me physically sick. The worst part is that she is so very "nice," and I don't think she wants to harm anyone. But apparently, she believes that God wants her to.
I don't care that she was a Christian, but there is really no excuse not to be an LGBT-affirming one. There is much dispute about the "clobber" passages, so that nothing is really "clear," as much as some people would want it to be. Even if it was, I believe that that would be the most damning evidence that at least that part of the bible was NOT written by an all-loving God, and that it would be immoral to harm or condemn people when they are not harming anyone else.
I wanted so very, very much to tell her, matter-of-factly and without anger, that "acceptance" does NOT include taking away people's equal rights, and that if she would vote against equality at the first opportunity, that she has no right to call herself any LGBT person's friend.
But I felt that I could not say anything, because I saw her almost every day.
I was very much bothered literally every time I saw her or thought about her. She was well-meaning, but still supported policies that harmed people. She thought that "loving" people gave her a right to do whatever she wanted. She thought that the bible was a license to get her way.
In other words, she was me, about ten years ago.


Lately, though, things seem to be looking up. I feel so much lighter and freer ever since I heard her cuss. We can now be real friends, rather than my feeling like a fraud for talking to her.
In class the other day, she talked about seeing the elderly people who came into the store where she works, and the unique way in which they walked. "They're just like, 'Get out of my way, I'm going to get to wherever the FUCK I wanna go!'" she shouted, laughing. It surprised me, and warmed my heart.
I remember when I first started cussing, at around age thirteen. It was the beginning of the end, and though it took a long time, I am finally free today.
There are other little clues that I believe point to her impending escape.
She was the one who laughed longest and loudest, a few days before that, when another person pointed out, "I think in this play, 'Dear mother!' means, 'Oh, fuck!'"
That same day, she did an impression of a British accent. "See? See? I'm just a cockney bastard!"
Practicing for a small skit, a male friend of ours said, "I guess I can stand in for the other lady right now."
"He's a lady!" she smiled.
"Well, except that's not how I identify," he mildly protested. "I identify as a man."
(This guy is straight, as far as I know, but I think the correct use of the verb "identify" is probably a sign that he's an ally.)


"Ruth" at twenty reminds me of myself at about sixteen: Surrounded by evangelical friends and family, knowing exactly what she "should" be but secretly longing to be herself (whatever that is, because she doesn't know). Afraid to say what she really thinks out loud to herself, much less to others (if she even knows what she really thinks). And wondering how much, exactly, is what God expects her to be, and how much, exactly, is what other people expect her to be.
I'm guessing at all of this, of course, except for the evangelical friends and family. But I believe that she is exactly what I was: Stuck. In so many ways.


But she is different than me in a lot of ways too. She has many gay friends, being in theater, whereas I only knew my mother's lesbian coworker at my Stuck Age, and that not very well. She has seen the film "The Laramie Project," in one of our classes, about people's reactions to Matthew Sheppard having been brutally attacked for being gay.
"I just thought, 'What if it was Harrison?'" she said, about a mutual friend that I have also written much about. (I thought that was in poor taste, actually, because Harrison was helping with that class and could have walked in at any moment--though I was thinking the exact same thing as she was.)
In other words, she has less of an excuse, and may not take as long to escape the institutionalized bigotry.


She's probably torn, but there is an easy solution (well, relatively easy, though it takes admitting to yourself what you actually believe). So she can't "come out" as an ally right now; I say, don't. There's no reason, though, that she can't tell her closest friends that she is for their equal rights, but that she can't say anything publicly right now. (She has been, I think, intentionally vague and hard to pin down on the subject, probably because she herself doesn't know quite what to believe.)
It's kind of like another friend of mine said to me once, when I mentioned him being an ally, "I actually do consider myself to be gay, I'm just not very public about it." (Although my mom once saw him swaying down the street in rather "feminine" short shorts and a crop top, so he's probably more public about it than he realizes.)
Still, the solution remains the same. But that would take actually figuring out and coming to terms with where one really stands, not where they stand only because they're afraid of hell.

Ruth has mentioned that she is going to be "Waldo" for Halloween. She will dress as someone who is literally lost. How poignant.
Harrison will be a "gender-bent" Poison Ivy, making me wonder if "they" (Harrison's chosen pronoun) will eventually become a "she." Meanwhile, I have decided to dress as what I consider myself to be in real life: A Fairy Godmother.
I consider myself to be a "Fairy Godmother" because I agree wholeheartedly (if God exists) with Ruth's ironic line in an upcoming play (by Oscar Wilde, a gay man): "I was wrong. God's law is only love."

Not Hetero Pudge And Ronny: Chapter Sixteen

This is the latest installment of my subversive Accelerated Christian Education fan fiction. To see more chapters, go to the "ACE Gay Porn" page at the top of this blog, or to my Deviant Art page here.


 
 Jamal Michael Kindharte and Pastor Alltruth emerged from the pastor's office just as Happy and Becky were coming out of the children's classroom. Becky Meekway taught Sunday school to the children, and Hapford Humble assisted her. Pastor Alltruth did not look pleased.
Happy smiled at J. Michael. "Hi, Michael," he said quietly. Happy was a very tall, large-built young man, with pale blue eyes, light blond hair, and what appeared to be a form of Down Syndrome.
"Hello, Happy, how are you?" J. Michael shook his hand.
"Nice to see you again, Michael," Becky nodded.
"Hello, Becky," J. Michael nodded in return.
"I missed the sermon today," Becky said. "Was it a good one?"
"It was...interesting," J. Michael said tactfully.
"He's just passionate about what he believes," Pastor Alltruth said shortly. "He may be mistaken about some things, but that doesn't mean that he's not right about the sinfulness of homosexuality."
"It's not a sin, Pastor," Happy said quietly.
J. Michael and Pastor Alltruth gasped, staring in shock at Happy. Becky. strangely, did not seem surprised.
"What did you say, Happy?" Pastor Alltruth demanded, forgetting to be especially nice to Happy, like everyone usually was.
"Being gay is not a sin. It's gay sex that is a sin," he explained slowly, obviously nervous.
Alltruth explained slowly, as if to a small child, "It is a sin, though, because they choose to defy God's natural order of things."
"It's gay sex that is a sin, not being gay," Happy repeated, after a second or two.
"But Happy, homosexuals choose to sin," Alltruth said, getting a bit annoyed.
"But sometimes they don't," Happy said, looking down at his feet.
"I think what Happy is trying to say, is that Christians can struggle with same-sex attraction, and yet choose not to give in to it. Isn't that what you meant to say, Happy?" Becky smiled at him.
Happy nodded, still staring at his feet.
"Yes, but Jesus said that if you lust in your heart, it's the same as if you committed the sin."
"But surely Reverend Rayford doesn't lust in his heart?" Becky asked, trying to be respectful. "I'm sure he talked about still being tempted, at least some of the time? It's like a straight man, who chooses not to lust after a woman, right?" Becky smiled, placatingly.
"No, it's not!" Alltruth frowned, his patience at its limit.
"But if it is a sin, then surely Jesus Himself was tempted to do it!" Becky said passionately. "The Bible says that He was 'tempted in every way, like as we are, but without sin...'"
"The bible also says that women are not supposed to speak out in church!" Pastor Alltruth snapped, shouting and glaring at her.
Becky became red, looking down at her feet and shrinking away from him.
"Pastor, please," J. Michael interceded, stepping between them. "She's just mistaken," he smiled, though he now wondered about that.
"Michael, stay out of this! This isn't your place--I mean, your church!"
"You're scaring them, Pastor."
Furious, Pastor Alltruth flew back into his office, slamming the door with a bang.
The three stared after him for a long moment.
"Th-thank you," Becky finally said.
J. Michael didn't know what to say. He looked over at Happy, who was in tears. J. Michael wondered if he really wanted to be at this church, where women were intimidated and the pastor yelled at a mentally retarded person.
"Come on, we should get out of here," J. Michael said quickly, tugging on Happy's arm. "Give him some space."
"We forgot our umbrellas," Becky said, looking out the windows of the exit doors, where a heavy drizzle came down. "We got here early, and when we walked, it wasn't raining that badly. We were waiting for it to let up."
"I'll give you two a ride home," J. Michael said quickly.
"Oh, um, I don't know if I should..." Becky hedged, biting her lip. Girls were most definitely not supposed to accept rides from guys, even fellow believers, for fear something would happen. J. Michael wondered if she was especially hesitant to take a ride from a black man.
"It's okay, we got a chaperon here," J. Michael smiled, looking over at Happy. "It would be a shame if you two had to walk in the rain."
"Well, I guess it's okay, then," Becky said finally, looking relieved. J. Michael knew she would feel safer with such a large man as Happy with her. He knew every man would have to have these thoughts when dealing with women, but he thought bitterly that he especially had to be careful, and especially with white women. He wasn't about to leave them here with Pastor Alltruth as he was, though.
Happy got in the front seat, Becky in the back seat. Happy looked too upset to talk, so as they drove off J. Michael asked Becky, "So Becky, long you been teaching Sunday school?"
"I took over from Sandy about a year ago. She got married," she said, leaning forward to talk and referring to her older sister, who was about J. Michael's age, maybe three years older.
"I'll bet the children are pretty funny," he remarked.
"Oh, they are! The Israelites are the Lizard-lites!" she gushed. J. Michael laughed, and even Happy cracked a slight smile.
"I remember hearing a story about you, when you were younger," J. Michael said. "The teacher was telling the class to obey their parents, when they told them to wear their rain coats, and you asked, 'What if it isn't raining?'"
"Yeah, I wish someone had told me to today," she grimaced. "The teacher said that we must obey our parents, no matter what, and God would reward us."
"But what if it's not raining?" he asked, slightly amused and at the same time wanting to make her think.
"But it is raining," she said.
"But what if it's not? Then you're wearing your raincoat for nothing--or believing in a false doctrine."
"But God will reward you for submitting to authority," she said.
"God will reward you for subscribing to a false doctrine?" he contradicted, a little more fervent than he meant to. "I'm sorry. I just think that our leaders are human too, and as such, they could be wrong."
"They ARE wrong!" Happy said suddenly, vehemently. He was starting to cry again.
"Yes, Happy, there are wrong," J. Michael said, almost whispering. "And if they're wrong about one thing, they could be wrong about another."
"He's very compassionate," Becky explained. "He reads a lot, and he just wants people to have an easier time. He knows they're hurting, because their churches don't understand the difference between being gay and acting on it."
"Yeah, I don't think it's right to be gay--I mean, be a practicing homosexual," J. Michael said, correcting himself. "And I don't think they should get married. But I don't agree with them being discriminated against. That's just wrong. I have relatives who would know something about that, first-hand."
"Sounds like you're a little more enlightened than Pastor Alltruth," Becky said quietly. "This is my house. Happy lives just across the street. Thank you, Michael," she said as she got out.
"No problem. Remember what I said about the rain." 

Going Back To Umpqua

I went back to Umpqua Community College, for the first time since the shooting, on Tuesday. The media and many people from the community were there on Monday, I knew, but my class was on Tuesday.
There were no flags hanging from the tops of utility trucks, like I had seen in pictures of Umpqua College Road on Monday, but I did drive past many signs showing support.
There was also a large purple RV with the words "Billy Graham" splashed across it, sitting on the side of the road by the college's first driveway. I assume that was as close as they could get legally. There was a man sitting in the open door. He wasn't Billy or his son Franklin. The ministry people had obviously thought that we didn't have any churches in Roseburg, so they sent a Port-A-Preacher.

There wasn't anything else that had changed, when I walked into the small theater in which I had my acting class. Of course, I had arrived a few minutes early.
The substitute for our teacher arrived and I shook hands with her. The original teacher had had to take time off, after what happened. Apparently it had affected her very closely.
I was only the second student to arrive. After all of the others had arrived, that was when the parade began.

 In addition to the nine students and our new teacher, there were, crowded in that space:

Two therapy dogs
Two dog handlers
Another guy from the therapy dog agency
Three social workers from an organization known as Community Health Alliance
Two people from the community college in Salem
The director of the art and theater department


The famous comedian, Carol Burnett, was one of the dog handlers, but she lied and said that her name was Barb. We're onto you, Carol.
"There are people all across the country thinking about you--and praying for you," Carol said, significantly. The dog people made us all take business cards for both of the dogs, Hannah and Moses, whom they said each had their own Facebook pages.
This is what the cards looked like:

And the bible verses on their cards match the bible verses on their Facebook pages, in the "About" tab.
"They're like Pokemon cards," the man who wasn't a handler said. "You gotta collect them all. Except they all have the same power. They throw Comfort-Bombs!" he said enthusiastically.
His joke made me uncomfortable.

As far as I could tell, all the dogs have biblical names. I found a "Jonah" puppy on Facebook, but that was all I could find in a cursory search. (Edit: I have since found a Cubby, a Susie, a Zippy, a Tabby, and an Angel, though "Angel" doesn't really count as secular. There are still a lot of biblical names, though, Jacob, for example.)
There were also large Jesus-fishes splashed across the dogs' vests, in addition to the fishes and bible verses on their cards. All of this is a huge violation, in my opinion, of these dogs' freedom of religion. You can't tell me that every single one of those dogs is a Christian. That's statistically impossible.
These "Lutheran Church Charities" people are obviously compensating for not being able to preach or give out gospel tracts in the places where they go to help. And I thought I was a little militant by wearing my tiny rainbow flag pins everywhere. (Yes, I wore them that day, and I was glad that I had.)
Of course, I did appreciate all of these offers of help, from many different people and animals. But I knew that the people who really needed help the most were probably absent. And these helping people couldn't reach out to them.
I also knew that at least for me, it is most difficult long after a tragedy, not right after. I can easily say, "My cat died yesterday," for example, but a week or month afterwards, it's extremely difficult to even think about it, much less talk about it.
I didn't really need it (though others might have), but it was neat having dogs in the class, and petting them, because they were cleaner and calmer than my two large, difficult-to-wash dogs.
And I was polite to the Lutherans and the others. I smiled, and said "Thank you," for their prayers and cards, though I was a little uncomfortable with so much attention and their overly soothing tones of voice. I smiled, but (with church people) they didn't know that I wasn't always smiling with them...

Not Hetero Pudge And Ronny: Chapter Fifteen

This is part of my subversive Accelerated Christian Education fan fiction. To learn more or to see more chapters (sixteen so far), go to the "ACE Gay Porn" tab at the top of this site, or to my Deviant Art page here.

 
"That's okay, Pastor. I can see myself out." Jamal Michael Kindharte smiled politely, trying to counteract the slight edge in his voice that he couldn't help.
He had been preparing for this awkward conversation for a long time now. The long meeting in the old, white pastor's office had involved a lot of passive-aggressive pleasantries. Pastor Alltruth had been "concerned" that "Michael" would be more "comfortable" in his old church. J. Michael had just smiled and reassured him that he was right at home anywhere that the word of God was preached.
Alltruth had been taken aback for a moment. "Um...but surely there is a slight cultural difference...?" the old white preacher had objected.
"The only culture I need is the culture of committed believers. That is the culture here, is it not?" he had nodded, a smile plastered on his face. "We are all one in Christ, after all."
"Well, yes, but...you grew up in that church. Do you really want to abandon it now?"
He had been asked this question, sometimes in anger, by some of his own friends and family. He knew, though, that this was what he wanted to do--or rather, what needed to be done.

The hurt, for him, ran deep.
Their school system was still segregated. The commute to his all-black, private Christian school was almost an hour, while the white school (truly, the white school), Highland, was only thirty minutes away. He had passed it twice a day, every day.
He later realized how truly disturbing it was that his black school was called Harmony--as if that should be the primary goal of the African-American community: "getting along" (and it didn't refer to "getting along" among themselves, either). He believed, and had no doubts at all, that the message was deliberate. Black people, judged by white people, according to white standards, of how well they got along with whites.
There were all these "little things" that had disturbed, all his life. He had been called Jamal in the first few weeks of first grade, and remembered the day that his teachers had first started calling him by his middle name. He had been confused, but had eventually gotten used to it. He only realized, years later, that, if memory served him, it had coincided with a special visit from the head of the white school, who had visited their classrooms and had spoken in chapel. He wasn't sure whose idea it was to change his name, and sometimes doubted that he was remembering it correctly. The worst part was not knowing for sure, and not being able to bring it up or wonder aloud without sever condemnation for "playing the race card."
 But he wondered if making blacks doubt themselves was not a tactic to leave whites off the hook for their actions. And when he thought of all the other "little things," they sure seemed to add up fast...
He got into the habit, when he was older, of asking his supervisors and principal how long they had been teaching, and (a few days later, so that they wouldn't suspect what he was doing), how many times they had spoken at the other schools. Most had only spoken a handful of times, if that. Speaking at the Philippino school was also much more common than speaking at the white school.
Yet he knew the head of the white school by name, he was so familiar with him.
He started noticing that some girls were told their hair was "unkempt" when they wore it long. The dress code encouraged girls to have long hair, as it was "proper," but very curly hair became "messy" when it got long and stuck out at the sides. Those girls fought a losing battle with their hair, trying different products and things, but could never really please the black, female monitors, most of whom had straight or nearly straight hair. He wondered if they would have been hired otherwise. He noticed that teachers were especially fussy the day before a white guest speaker came.
He didn't realize, until he got to college, that the word "apartheid" was a bad thing. A very, very bad thing.
And that American slavery was almost never "mutually beneficial," with women raped, families torn apart, and people abused, tortured, and killed. He knew now why most of his teachers seemed so uncomfortable when the topic came up--because they knew better! They knew that they were teaching the children a lie.

He also learned, in college, that all of these "little things," that so bothered him, had a name: Microaggressions.

There was now a word to fit all of the many times that he had had to "wonder." For all of the times that whites said he was equal, then had dismissed out of hand what he had to say about his own life and what had happened to him.
For all of the times that they had said they respected him, then had not bothered to make him feel respected.
For all of the times that they thought not "hating" someone was enough.
For all of times that they professed love for him as a brother in Christ, then had spoken badly about bills protecting his equal rights--even those that were decades in the past, when they were sorely needed, as bigotry was much more present (or rather, as he knew in his heart, more openly expressed and "acceptable").
For all of the times that they affirmed that Christians should marry "within their own culture," making him if a black man, even a committed believer, wasn't good enough for their daughters.
For all of the times that white people made excuses for violence and discrimination that seemed so very plain and obvious to him, even when these horrible people were not fellow believers. (But what did he know? They said he was an equal, but acted as if his mind was inferior and incapable of making correct observations, unlike theirs.)
For all of the times that the races should be "separate," while white people controlled all of the power structures. (And apparent "separate" did not include master-slave relationships.)
For all the times he had apparently "played the race card" when trying to bring up real concerns.
For all the times someone had uttered, "I'm not racist, but..."

So he had come home, now, and had set his mind to changing things.
He had gotten opposition, it seemed, from almost every direction (though his mother and a few of his friends understood). Some thought he was turning his back on his community. Others were concerned for what would happen to him, both within the church, and, in an unspoken, heavily implied way, to his physical safety.
He sometimes even doubted himself, wondering if he was doing the right thing, especially with his mother's concerns. But he felt that he had to see just how far he could go in his little cause. Some black children might not be as strong as he was, able to resist those implied messages and weed out the bullshit. He especially didn't want his future son or daughter to have to deal with that, and so he felt compelled to at least try to change the system from within.
And so he had prepared himself for this uncomfortable conversation, writing down his points and trying to anticipate what the old white pastor would try to say. He knew he was probably not the first one to attempt this. He hoped that he would be the last to have to.
And so he had smiled, nodded, and politely but firmly told Pastor Alltruth that he would feel right at home in a church where he knew he would not be welcome because of the color of his skin.

Umpqua: "AJ Would Have Been Martyred!"

 This is embarrassing, because I hit the "Publish" button by accident, before I had actually written this post. Sorry for any confusion.

I went to a family reunion recently, or as I morbidly call it, my "Look everyone, I'm not dead!" tour.
I attend Umpqua Community College, and I had talked to my grandparents that very day to tell them that I was okay. But when my grandmother greeted me with a hug yesterday (our family custom), she said, rather emotionally, "I haven't seen you since all this happened! I am so glad you are all right!" I thought she was making too big a deal out of it, but, well, it was a mass murder, and I certainly am grateful that I'm alive. They probably didn't know that I had my class in the afternoon, either, with the shooting in the morning.
My mom tells me that at one point, my "Uncle 'Phobe" remarked, intensely, "Just think, if AJ had been there, she would have been shot, because she would have said, 'Yes, I am a Christian!'"
Supposedly, the gunman targeted Christians, though I have learned that that was not exactly the case.
I'm not sure my uncle should have said such a thing to my mother, either. The thought of losing a child has to be a parent's worst fear.
And as for what he said, you can probably tell that most of my family does not know that I am kind of, well...not. Sometimes I'm not even sure that the word "atheist" accurately describes me either. I don't really know what I am, but I know very well what I'm not.
As my mom told me this story on the way home, she said, "And I thought, no, she wouldn't have!"
The tone in her voice almost sounded as if she were saying, "You BETTER not!"
A few days after the shooting, as we were talking about it, she had said, "You remember this: I would rather have a live coward than a dead hero!" And when she said it, I felt...loved.

I am rather surprised that my Uncle 'Phobe thought that I would say that. I had assumed that he thought I wasn't a "real" Christian anyway, after disagreeing with him about gay rights. Apparently he thinks that one can be saved, and also be "wrong" about things. That was a pleasant surprise.

I used to be bothered about not being able to express my doubts in front of my family, or even call myself an atheist to my family, but after learning about all of the shit that LGBTQ people have to go through, I rather identify with them, as a bisexual person and an ally, more than I identify with atheists. Whether one believes in God or not is really of no consequence to me now; what matters is how people treat one another. And yes, I did think that religion led to bad treatment, until I met a lot of good-hearted gay and allied Christians.
But I do think it's ironic that if my extended family knew that I would say the right words to save my life, they would worry about me so much more, not less. And that saving my own life becomes a wicked act, when I don't even do it at other people's expense. And even for most of my gay Christian friends, I can't imagine them denying Christ.
What I can imagine, however, is an all-loving Christ being perfectly understanding about things like this. My own mother would rather have me say that I hated her, and live, than to say that I loved her, and die. I know--I asked. And she feels this way, well, because she cares about me.
I wonder what that says about some people's conception of God...

Not Hetero Pudge And Ronny: Chapter Fourteen

 This is my Accelerated Christian Education fan fiction, which has sixteen chapters so far. You can see all of it on the "ACE Gay Porn" page at the top of this site, or on my Deviant Art page here.


The knocking persisted.
"Who is it?" Marcy called, glancing at Pudge and trying to keep her composure.
"It's Ronny," said the voice from outside. "Um...Mrs McMercy?"
Marcy instinctively rushed to the door, grabbing Ronny and pulling him inside, as if it were dangerous out there.
Ronny looked frantically from one to the other, a frightened expression on his face, and Pudge was suddenly aware of how obvious it was that both he and his mother had been crying.
"Is something wrong?" Ronny asked. "What happened?"
"Nothing is wrong, Ronny," Marcy explained quickly. "It's just that...well, it's a little complicated, but nothing is really the matter, dear."
"But--did I come at a bad time?" he asked.
"No, honey, though I'm afraid we did forget that you were supposed to come by today."
"But--is everyone all right? Did something happen to someone?" Ronny was getting more upset and agitated by the minute.
Marcy put her hand on his arm. "It's all right, Ronny--really!" She glanced at Pudge, raising her eyebrows questioningly. Did Pudge want to tell him, or keep it to himself?
Ronny had a devastated, desperate look on his face. Suddenly Pudge remembered that look, from Ronny's accident, years ago, in which Suzy had been killed.
Ronny thinks someone has died! Pudge thought with sudden clarity. Ronny was probably still haunted by that experience; who wouldn't be?
Pudge knew what he had to do. "Ronny," he said decisively, standing up and taking a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "Nothing is wrong. Nobody is hurt. We're just discussing...the fact that I'm gay!" he said quickly, before he lost the nerve.
Ronny was silent for a moment, mouth open, clearly stunned. "No one got hurt?" he repeated, as if half listening.
"No, honey, no one is hurt," Marcy reassured him.
Ronny seemed to suddenly realize something. "What--you're...?"
"Yes," Pudge nodded, looking Ronny square in the eye, and with a calm that surprised himself. "I am."
"And you're okay with this?" he asked incredulously, staring at Marcy.
"Yes," Marcy said softly, looking at Pudge. "I am okay with it. He's my son. I trust him."
Pudge nearly cried, so touched was he by her response. This was nothing like what he had expected!
"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely, not caring if Ronny heard.
"Huh. Wow," Ronny muttered. This was nothing like he had expected--this was nothing like he had gotten, and he hadn't even been homo!
...At the time, a small voice whispered inside his head. He ignored it, for now.
"So you're still going to that one church?" Ronny asked. "With the big steeple, and the dresses, and the...?" he trailed off, glancing at Mrs. McMercy's well-concealed ankles. 
"Yep," Pudge sighed. "Still going there!"
"And they're not okay with it?"
Pudge snorted in a rather bitter laugh. "Ha! You have no idea!"
"That is actually what we were just discussing," Marcy spoke up. "We will have to decide whether we want to continue going there..."
Pudge was surprised. Give up their church? He had grown up in that church! He had gotten saved, then baptized, then had prayed and learned and grown in that church. How was he supposed to give all that up? Maybe he could keep it a secret, and if he didn't give in to sin, it would all be okay.
But then again, he was uncomfortable when people started talking about "perverts" and homosexuals. This was HIM--but it wasn't him! He didn't want to sin! He wasn't one of those people they talked about, but he knew that if he told them, they would think he was. And if he told them, truthfully, otherwise, they would assume he was lying, and tell him so. He might even be kicked out or shunned. Even his boss at the grocery store went to that church...
He wasn't what they would assume he was--unless, of course, God had given him over to perversions already. A moment of fear briefly paralyzed him, until he tried to reassure himself. He didn't want to sin, and he hadn't sinned yet--at least, not with someone else, and not enough to be considered a "lifestyle"...he hoped.
"Maybe I should come back later?" Ronny was saying, pulling Pudge out of his thoughts.
"No, it's all right, Ronny, really," Marcy answered. "You boys relax, and I'll make us all some lunch."
Pudge flopped back onto the couch, while Ronny took the chair next to it.
"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?" Pudge asked quietly.
"No, of course not." Ronny paused, unable to think of what to say. "I mean, sometimes, even I, myself...never mind," he said quickly.
"But I thought you liked Suzy!" Pudge blurted, without thinking.
"I do! I did," Ronny protested, correcting himself. "She was...she was great."
There was a long, awkward silence between them.
"I loved her, in fact," Ronny finally said low, his voice nearly cracking. "I...I killed her...but I loved her."
"You could find forgiveness, Ronny," Pudge said automatically.
"Will that bring her back?!" Ronny snapped.
"The casserole is still heating!" Marcy answered crossly, as she returned. "That's why I'm coming back!" 
Ronny stared at her, an expression of hurt, fear, and confusion darkening his face.
"Mom...we were just talking about Suzy," Pudge explained quietly.
"Oh. I'm sorry, Ronny. I didn't realize." She sat down on the opposite end of the couch to Pudge. "Some people didn't care for her, but I liked her. She was a nice girl, for the most part."
"She was," Ronny nodded, putting his head in his hands. "And I killed her."
"Oh, honey, that was an accident," Marcy began.
"I killed her," Ronny repeated. "It was my fault. I should have been the one to die."
"Don't say that, Ronny!" Marcy corrected him sharply. "You didn't know any better!"
Instinctively Pudge reached out and put a hand on Ronny's back, then realized what he was doing and snatched it away self-consciously, stealing a furtive glance at his mother. He had been taught in church and school all of his life to avoid physical contact with the opposite sex, for fear of promoting lust, but now he was not sure what was okay for him and what wasn't. He had been forbidden to touch girls all his life, and taught to avoid lust all his life. But now these two things were clearly not the same. It didn't feel right to touch anyone now. And though he hadn't meant it in "that way," he was afraid Ronny and his mother would think he had.
Neither of them seemed to notice, fortunately. Marcy got up, crossing the room and knelt on the ground to be at Ronny's level.
"Ronny, look at me," she began, as he looked up. "No, Suzy should not have died. But you are not going to solve anything by hating yourself, and letting us, and the rest of the world, lose you too. The world has already lost one great young person, it doesn't need to lose another. You want to honor Susie, then make your life count for something--don't waste it or throw it away. Promise me you won't make us lose you too."
Silently, Ronny nodded, tears in his eyes.
"And Ronny, you can find forgiveness, too," she continued.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. McMercy," Ronny cut in, "I know you mean well, and I know you're just trying to help, but it's not going to bring her back, and it's not going to make me feel better."
"Well, all right, but at least think about what I said before."
Ronny nodded. "Okay." He actually, almost, felt a little bit better now.

I Go To Umpqua Community College

I did not know the shooter, but I am good friends with people who did. As far as I can tell, no one I know was hurt or killed.
My gay baby, "Harrison," is unharmed. My conservative-in-all-the-wrong-ways friend "Ruth" is unharmed. (I am glad, though I hate how she is a mixture of good and evil. She doesn't deserve death, she just deserves to have her rights taken away from her until she understands.)
The young man who danced with a loaf of bread after not being interested in me is unharmed. All of the people I have mentioned on this blog are unharmed.
The killer, Chris Harper Mercer, was to be a production assistant in my very first play in which I had been cast. When my mom learned of it, she had to lie down.
The play was called "Blithe Spirit" by Noel Coward. It was a comedy about a pesky ex-wife who is also a ghost. Given the subject matter, I am guessing that it will be cancelled now.
"I painted with him!" Ruth said.
Harrison's phone cracked the previous day, so they (I learned recently that Harrison is actually androgynous, and so goes by "they" and not "he") decided to go without it, on what turned out to be the worst possible day to do so. I was only worried for an hour or two, since I contacted someone who was sitting right next to them, on the bus, I presume. But others were worried, very much so. I tried to tell those people that Harrison was okay, whenever I saw someone asking about them.


I was at home at the time of the shooting. I have an afternoon class, and I was going to go to school later that day. My mom called and didn't even say hello before ordering me, "You are not going to school today!"
"Okay," I said, knowing something was wrong. "Why not?"
"There's been a shooting. Like, fifteen kids are dead!" (Supposedly, we now know it's only ten. "Only" ten.)
I went on Facebook to learn more, my heart sinking. Someone I barely knew messaged me, "Are you okay???" I said that I was.
There was a lot of frantic scrambling, on Facebook, to see if friends were all right. It was chaos. I decided it needed some organization, so I made a huge, long, public list of every name that I could find that was all right. I also made a special page, "List of Umpqua Community College Shooting Survivors," and updated both lists every time I found a new name. I knew that people I didn't even know would search for something like this, so I created that special page.
I was somewhat of a celebrity over the next few hours. People were liking my posts, sharing them all over. People commented, saying, "Thank you for doing this," "This is a blessing," etc. I have had four new friend requests, and people that I sent friend requests to months ago accepted.
"Where is Harrison??!!" somebody shouted.
"I saw his name on a list of people who were okay," someone else said.
"Yes, it is AJ's page," one of my friends informed them, mentioning me so that I could see her talking about me.
"I don't know, I just saw a screenshot of it," the former person said.

"Oh Ruth, I was so relieved to see your name on AJ's list!" gushed someone that I didn't even know, had never even heard of.

People gave me as many names as they could. Sometimes they would say, "My brother is all right," or "I saw Jane Doe's niece, Nancy." So I said, "A brother of John Doe, who is also confirmed unharmed, but whose name is unknown." I also said, "Nancy Doe--I believe it is Nancy Doe, she is the niece of Jane Doe." I listed their names even if they were total strangers to me.
I wanted to give as much hope to as many people as possible, and people were very grateful for it. I thought it was kind of cool that I had left my "gay pride" filter up, from the marriage equality ruling months ago. So total strangers knew that someone who could be gay was doing this.

I don't have nearly as much trauma and grief from this as some others, but I am feeling very shocked by this, in a sort of fog where I don't quite know what to do with myself. Suddenly, my hometown is famous, and not in a good way. Instead of struggling to pronounce, "Umpqua," people now know our name like they know Laramie and Columbine. I never thought I would ever be so close to the center of the action, especially this kind of action.

I don't know when the next family gathering is, but I assume my Uncle 'Phobe will probably ask me about it. If he mentions it, I will say, "Well, it wasn't the gays, because this lesbian wasn't on campus." (I'm bi, but it's not like he would know the difference.) I've just decided to come out to my family by being myself and making jokes about my gay self, whatever those jokes are at the moment.

There are rumors that the Westboro Baptist Church ("God hates fags" people) is going to attend the funerals. If you see any news videos, look for me, the girl in the bright pink t-shirt that says "Fag And Proud" and holding a sign that says "UCC Gay-Straight Alliance Club."