Spaghetti Dinner

She said it was a small event. We'd stop in, an hour, maybe two. Don't worry, she assured me, it won't be long. In and out. Low key. I could just sit quietly by her and we would be gone before I'd ever feel uncomfortable

The room was small and unpleasantly wood-paneled with narrow, high-placed windows. Somehow this made the room look as if we were in a basement when we had just walked up stairs to get inside. There were plastic table cloths covering the long party tables, with metal folding chairs lined up in neat rows. A poster on the wall read, "Jesus Loves You," and was adorned with cartoon sheep.

Sitting down, I tried to make my face neutral. I scraped off the resting bitch face I was born with and tried my best to look like an acceptable human being. Old ladies talked to me and patted my arm. Kids pulled books from the small shelves in the corner, only to be whispered to sternly by their parents and dragged back to their lettuce and carrot shred salad waiting for them at the table.

I studied the sheep poster and wondered why they weren't creative enough to word it, "Jesus loves Ewe." Why was it sheep? Because we are on a farm in the middle of nowhere? Did they allow sheep into the church? I had questions.

"Are you enjoying your food?" asked my friend a little too sincerely for how uncomfortable and bizarre I felt at that moment. I hadn't been to a church, other than weddings and funerals, since I was smaller than the children poking at their salads across the room.

"Why does that poster have sheep on it?"

"What?" She clearly wasn't following my internal dialogue.

"The poster." I gestured with my fork. "Sheep."

She sighed and looked at me like, are you freaking kidding me. But honestly, what did she expect when she brought me here?

Before she could answer my very important sheep question, the pastor stood up to say a few words. He welcomed everyone and thanked them for coming. The money used from this dinner would go towards helping fund their annual summer camp. They seemed to raise what they needed. Everyone clapped. I absently followed along, glancing at the clock on the wall to see if I got to hit my time limit anytime soon. The next thing that caught my attention jarred me.

"There are so many beautiful young ladies at the congregation tonight. We should have asked the young men to come in and look for their future brides." There was polite laughter. My skin prickled. "After all," he continued, "Woman was created from Man's rib. She wouldn't be here without Man and God. Hopefully this spring we will see new blessings brought to the community! Engagements. Weddings. Babies! In that order of course." The pastor thought of himself as a comedian. I clenched my jaw. My friend shuffled slightly in her seat. She could probably feel my energy stabbing her like daggers. I was ready to go.

But still, the old man continued. I was a hostage at this point and ready to run out screaming. "Woman was created for Man. And Man for Woman. This is the only holy, lawful, and righteous marriage." And then they clapped. The whole room clapped. The lump in my stomach had climbed up my throat and lodged itself there. Tears stung the corners of my eyes. I looked at my friend. She didn't clap. She angled herself slightly towards me and looked out of the corner of her eye to see if I was okay. Her big brown eyes read as sympathetic, but the whole moment struck me like a blow I was not prepared for.

I am queer. These people were clapping while denying my human right to marry. They clapped at the thought of my love being dirty and unlawful. They clapped because they weren't like me. They were good.

Just because my friend didn't clap, didn't mean she wasn't one of them. She was raised there. She shared their beliefs. Now the girl with the big brown eyes and gentle smile felt like a traitor. How dare she make me come to this? She knew me. She knew. My emotions flew between rage and devastation, anger and tears.

I stared at my plate of spaghetti while it grew cold. The old man had stopped talking. Ambient chatter refilled the room. Everyone went back to being seemingly pleasant human beings. I wasn't one of them.

My friend touched my hand under the safety of the plastic white table cloth. I glanced sideways at her.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. I didn't respond. "We can go." She squeezed my hand hard until I turned to look into her eyes. "I'm sorry," she repeated, "It's a spaghetti dinner fundraiser. I don't know why it turned into... that."

Hate I thought. It turned into hate.

She opened her mouth to speak but someone came up behind us to offer us more drinks. She yanked her hand away quickly. We declined politely, and she no longer met my gaze. My hand felt cold where she pulled away.

I turned back to my spaghetti, took a deep breath, and looked back at the sheep poster. Without looking at me, she stared down at her own hands and leaned slightly in my direction. Her voice was barely audible in the noisy room.

"You know I love you."

"Then hold my hand." I retorted, while still staring at the sheep.

She didn't move. I turned to look at her. Her brown eyes darting up to briefly meet mine and then returned back to looking at her hands. "You know... You know I can't."

"Yeah." The cartoon sheep stared at me with big dumb eyes. The room around us, this community, didn't see me. Didn't see us. They didn't want to either. She was a part of this community. I was an outsider. I didn't know what that made her. "I know."

"The race of man, while sheep in credulity, are wolves for conformity." -Carl Van Doren