My Meeting With the Gay Devil

I was so certain once. I was also really wrong.

The gay devil used to be inside me. Not in a fun way.

That’s what I would tell myself as a kid when I thought Leonardo DiCaprio was cute or when I NEEDED that Abercrombie & Fitch catalog.

Others had a gay devil, too.

On a family trip, a relative who was even more entrenched in Catholicism than me, drove us past a gay club. “You gotta see this,” he said.

I was about twelve and we had just eaten dinner at a place where the schtick was waiters throw hot dinner rolls at you.

Outside the club, a leather daddy was walking, alone, in chaps with yellow stitching. Everyone in the car laughed. But I was thinking, “His gay devil is winning.”

Years later, the gay devil followed me to college in New Orleans. The audacity.

I saw a flyer for a campus club called Gay Outreach at Loyola (GOAL). I sent a letter of outrage to the university president, Father Bernard Knoth, SJ.

I used words like “betrayal,” “sin,” “abdication of duty.” And plenty of exclamation points.

Soon after, I got a message on my dorm room answering machine. Father Knoth wanted to meet.

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In high school, soliciting donations to fund a class trip to Washington, D.C., an elderly accountant I approached said he wouldn’t contribute because he only supported Baptists. He said Catholics had it all wrong.

I researched, visited my priest, called my Sunday School teacher. I cracked open an encyclopedia and the Catechism. I knocked on the accountant’s door again and rattled off my newly learned talking points about transubstantiation and concupiscence.

The only thing we agreed upon was that being gay was evil. He was impressed. Mostly, he seemed amused. He funded my trip in full. And I learned confidence could pass for truth.

I sat confidently across from Father Knoth, his giant grand desk between us, his striking view of campus behind him. He opened a manila folder. My letter inside. He was no match for my old, trusty talking points. He closed the manila folder.

Like the accountant, he seemed amused.

But I was not amused.
I was certain.
I was so certain.
Was.

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More helpful than “othering” gay people would have been if all those priests over the years had warned me that time and certainty are enemies. That time never loses.

Time came for my relative who drove us past the gay club. He left the Catholic Church over the McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish sandwich.

“The Pope used to say you’d go to hell—HELL—if you ate meat on Fridays,” he said. “So I’d always eat fish, fish sticks, those damn fish sandwiches. Then they just said, ‘Never mind, you won’t go to hell anymore—our bad.’ They have no credibility.”

Time came for me, too.

College life brought friendships and education about religion that small-town talking points couldn’t survive. When “othering” stopped making sense, the rules and institutions behind it did, too.

I started to warm to the one friend who’d been with me the whole time. The gay devil. After really meeting him, turns out he’s not so bad. I actually kinda like him.

And time came for one other person.

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My senior year at Loyola, I was nominated to be on an activity programming committee. The appointment needed to be approved by the president of the university.

I once again sat across from Father Knoth. I was less confident this time. I planned to pretend we’d never met. But he pulled open a drawer. Removed a manila folder. Only one piece of familiar paper was inside. My letter about GOAL, now three years old.

“I don’t feel that way anymore,” I blurted.

I didn’t elaborate. He didn’t press. He approved my appointment.

Time came for him years later, long after I graduated. Abuse allegations from before he was in New Orleans turned revered Father Knoth into, simply, Bernard.

Time doesn’t always undo everything. Not memories. Not regret.

I still see the leather daddy’s face as he watched us drive past all those years ago, that yellow stitching.

I hope he didn’t hear our laughter. I hope he didn’t spend a second thinking about it. I hope when we were long gone, he had a wonderful night, a real devilish good time.

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TL;DR

I was so sure about so much.
Was.
Time showed me what certainty costs.

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