Facing the Music (25 page)

It was a good start, but I wasn't saying it loudly enough.

twenty-three

A
s crazy and premeditated as it sounds, I had to plan and schedule my coming out. When I returned to the States and to Nashville, there was no question to those around me that I was in a same-sex relationship. It wasn't a secret so much as it was a question of just how fast the details of my private life were going to spread. There was clearly an expectation that I would come clean, but the question was, how, when, where, and to whom I could tell that story in order to tell it well and accurately.

So many reporters had expressed their interest in breaking the story to the point that it became unmanageable; so, my manager, publicist, and I decided to pick one gay, one Christian, and one mainstream media outlet for the inevitable exposure.

In March 2010, I did three interviews, one each with
The Advocate, Christianity Today,
and Reuters
.
They all agreed to post at the same time, so that we could attempt to control the chaos that seemed likely to ensue, but my story kept getting pushed back. Meanwhile, the tour with Derek kept moving on, the standing ovations kept coming, and the after-show talks were still heavy with the weight of what I knew I wanted but was not allowed to say. I was on lock-down, unable to openly speak anything of my own truth until the media reported it.

A whole month went by, and we were now into April. I didn't know how much longer I could keep my nonsecret from seeming like avoidance. Fortunately, the news was planned to drop that first week, but then pop icon and lust-magnet Ricky Martin came out. Unable to compete with that kind of star power, I got bumped!

As my young nephew Jarrod once said, “You're not Lady Gaga famous,” speaking carefully so as not to burst my bubble, “but you
are
‘mostly' known.” (This was his summation after he Googled me and found I had a better-than-average presence in the Internet universe, but was still lacking in true star power.)

I suppose the good news was that the journalists really wanted to make sure people heard the story enough to wait Ricky out. The bad news was that their hopes of national coverage hinted of the storm that was to come. Apparently, nobody wanted to miss the opportunity to watch the Christians freak out over a so-called sex scandal.

For several weeks, my story was delayed, and life went on as usual. The tour was going well, but I wondered for how long. Our audiences were strong and enthusiastic about my return, but I knew the majority were Christians. But what
kind
? Despite the clandestine conversations and even those who seemed as though they might still accept me, there was no way to know until I spoke my truth plainly.

I had taken a break from the tour to go camping for my birthday. For two weeks, my publicist kept insisting that the story would land any day now, but I had to stop waiting for the phone to ring and get on with my life. To ease my growing anxiety, I took a weekend to retreat to the quiet outdoors.

April twelfth, my birthday, was particularly beautiful. Apart
from a phone text I got from my mother, the day was quiet enough to imagine that Karen and I were the only two people in the world. Nestled in a narrow valley somewhere in middle Tennessee, I was no one of any importance or consequence. I was just another flower on the hill poised to soak up the sun. The spring nights were still crisp and cool enough to forget that I had this strange alternate life somewhere back in the hustle and bustle. My phone had gone silent and I did nothing but quietly count the minutes as they slipped by.

The next day was more of the same. I was standing waist deep in the lazy waters of the Caney Fork River, trout fishing when suddenly, my phone began techno-chirping from deep in my pocket.

I hauled my fly line back to a submissive length and tucked my rod underneath my arm. Bothered by the interruption, I grumbled while I fossicked through the copious supply of vest pockets, certain that when I pulled it out I'd probably learn nothing and drop my iPhone in the river just for the trouble.

It wasn't nothing. It was a text from my management:
It's official. You're out.

Weird. I swallowed the lump in my throat. Nothing about me had changed, and yet everything felt as though it was about to. I was officially a woman of controversy.

The river coursed around me. Downstream, a fish mocked me by flopping out of the water. It was Saturday, and all that business was a world away. Whatever lay ahead, it would be Monday before I could see it.

I put my phone back into my waterproof waders and cast another line. That was that, I thought. Career 2.0 might be over before it even started.

So, there it
was. The door was now open for complete strangers to talk about my sexual preferences. Conservative Christians sounded the alarm. Internet social networks were buzzing, article comments were crashing Web pages, and sermons were being posted on YouTube directed toward me personally about the evils of homosexuality. I ignored most of the Internet junk and asked my friends and family to do the same. It was harder, however, to ignore the lines of communication that were necessary for my work. My Facebook pages, phone lines, email, and even snail mail received hundreds, if not thousands, of responses.

I got everything from “Burn in hell lesbo!”
comments to gay wedding announcements.

All in all, it wasn't too bad. Most of the correspondence I received was split neatly down the national average of fifty-fifty in terms of support and disappointment. Unfortunately, almost every negative, ugly letter came from a person who made a point of identifying themselves as Christian. There were a few letters of support from people of faith, but the challenge of affirmation is that it rarely has the volume to compete with the outrage of anger and disappointment.

The inevitable crush of those concerned with supposed Christian rightness had to be made known. Christian radio stations made it a point to remove my songs from their playlists. Christian bookstore chains deleted me from their search engines. Religious leaders wrote editorial blogs, gave sermons, and encouraged faithful Christians to keep tight to the teaching that homosexuality is a sin.

The unfortunate thing is that none of it was surprising. I expected it. I had seen others judged, labeled, and discarded by those who claimed to speak for God. I did my best to brace for the impact, but nothing prepares you for the way it actually feels when it happens to you.

April fifteenth, two days after G Day, Derek and I were back on the road and performing in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I was excited to be back in the Midwest. These were my people, the same kind of folk that I grew up with, not two hours to the north. I had been looking forward to a homecoming of sorts, but I had heard that ticket sales were poor. Even worse, people were calling to cancel their tickets after they confirmed that I was gay. Our show got demoted from a ballroom venue to the smaller spillover bar area, and there was some talk of canceling the show altogether.

When it came time to do the gig, fewer than fifty people showed up. Derek on his own could draw more people than that, so I was embarrassed that he had to suffer the blow with me. It was clear that it was my fault that nobody dared to come. There were so few people there that it almost seemed silly to turn on the PA. Still, we went ahead as planned and tried to give the best show possible to those who braved the controversy.

I was grateful to those who came, but it was hard not to feel humiliated. I had traveled a long way, fueled by the encouragement that the gifts I had to offer were of value, and now it looked like being gay was a complete disqualification. I tried to keep my head up, but it was so hard to push back all the negativity that flooded in.

You'll be punished for living a life of sin.
The inner voices started in.

God cannot live in a person like you.

You will lose your voice if you give into homosexuality.

I tried to fight them but, in that moment, I wept over the fear that maybe it was all true.

After a few nervous and less than spirited performances, someone from the room asked if I would sing “Martyrs & Thieves.” It was one of the few songs off
Kansas
that
I still felt I had enough Christian integrity to play, but that day I was afraid it was slipping away from me. I didn't feel worthy enough to sing it. I didn't want to, but there were only a few people there and it felt rude not to try.

There are ghosts from my past who've owned more of my soul

Than I thought I had given away

They linger in closets and under my bed and in pictures less proudly displayed

A great fool in my life I have been, have squandered 'til pallid and thin

Hung my head in shame and refused to take blame for the darkness I know I've let win

My voice cracked as the tears rolled down my face. Really, I was only able to sing intermittently. A few kind souls in the audience sang along to fill in what I was unable to sing. I don't remember if I managed to actually finish it. I just played and let myself remember the days when I wrote it. Alone, in my bedroom, back in Pittsburg, praying for a new lease on life. It was my prayer then and it was again. I couldn't hide it. Everyone in the room knew why I was crying. I had been shunned.

After the show, a few of the people that came wrapped their arms around me and gave me the warmest, most genuine hugs.
For the first time, we talked openly about the cost of being gay in a Christian setting. No one whispered. That night they shared the sorrow of the loss with me. Derek stood up straight next to me that night, the same as every night before. Together, their compassion got me through the pain of getting punched on an old wound. I let my heart dare me to lead me with the music. I volunteered to be exposed. Why? Was it worth it? I wondered if the pain of it was a sign that I'd truly shared something meaningful, or if coming back had just been a mistake.

It was hard to push back thoughts of giving in and giving up. It wasn't that people stopped liking my music; it was personal now.
They
didn't like
me
anymore. I was being rejected for things about myself I could not change.

The most devastating rejection that I would experience would come in the form of a package sent to my fan-mail box. I was getting a steady stream of encouraging letters to accompany the ones that expressed disappointment in my character. Most of the sad stuff came in the form of letters, while the larger packages I received usually turned out to be interesting welcome-back gifts like books, art, or music. One day, a puffy package had arrived, labeled with what seemed the girly-scrawl of a young teenager, whom for the sake of anonymity, I'll call “Julie.”

I tore it open in anticipation of something wonderful.

Inside were several of my CDs. The jewel cases were well-worn, the shiny-silver playing surface of the discs scratched from a decade of listening. I had assumed that Julie sent them so that I would sign and return them but, as I read through the accompanying letter, it became clear that she wanted nothing of the kind.

Julie went on to explain how I had completely destroyed her
enjoyment of the music that she once held so dear, and that she wanted nothing to do with my music any more. She only listened to
Christian
music made by
Christian
people. Since I was gay, she explained, it was obvious that I was not a Christian. According to Julie, and the many others who were now letting me have it, no one can be gay and Christian.

She sent the records back because she no longer wanted them and she didn't want anyone else to hear them either. She could have just thrown the music away or quietly moved on. Instead she needed to make a point. She wanted me to know how disappointed she was that I failed to be the Christian she imagined I had promised to be.

It worked.

I was crushed, heartbroken, and angry all at the same time. I wanted to give into the physics of anger and scream over the hurt of rejection. I wanted to hide my face and quit. I wanted to drive to Julie's house (after all, I had her return address) and ask her where the hell she thought she got off judging me? When anger would give way to tears, I found peace in absorbing her blows. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, hoping to be a friend when she needed one most. I shuddered when it hit me that she might be having an experience in her own life when she didn't feel accepted and loved for who she truly was. I didn't have any answers, but I knew what it was like to be unwanted.

Through both the anger and the pain, all I could think of was divorcing myself from Christian culture. I didn't want to live with people who insisted that I was a failure. Rather than being the community that reflected the compassion that I had experienced in Christ's Christianity, it had transformed into the one place
where I felt most unsafe and unwanted. Christianity had turned into the place where my faith, my loves, and my personal experiences were constantly being assessed and judged instead of being nurtured.