Former Executive Editor of Essence Magazine,
Executive Channel Producer for NiaOnline,
and Freelance Writer
FemmeNoir
A Web Portal For Lesbians Of Color
Essence Article "COMING OUT" LINDA AND CLARA VILLAROSA,
MAY 1991
Confused and not sure about her sexual orientation, she did not explore her feelings because she was trying to fit into a white neighborhood and didn't want to do anything others could think of as wrong.
Finally, in college, "I came out because I couldn't stand not being myself any more." But then she went to work at Essence magazine and was again afraid to come out. "I think what happens when you're black is you feel your community is an oasis against some of the white racist people you know, and you become really afraid you're going to lose that."
But, once again, she found she couldn't stand hiding any more, and she took the chance: "My boss and I were in her car coming back from a weekend editorial retreat, and she was saying something about fixing me up with her brother-in-law. And I just blurted out, I'm a lesbian. She was embarrassed about the brother-in-law and very kind. And that Monday, I came out to just about everybody else at work, and everyone was fine."
Villarosa, one of the most visible and outspoken Black lesbians in the U.S., is a highly regarded and successful journalist living in New York City. She graduated from the University of Colorado, where she was a journalism major and an athlete. In 1989, Villarosa joined Essence, a magazine aimed at African American women, and soon became its health editor.
On top of her work at Essence,
she has edited or co-edited a number of books, including "Body and Soul: The Black Women's Guide to Physical Health and Emotional Well-Being,"
One of the few books to address the health concerns of black
women, and "
Finding Our Way: The Teen Girls' Survival Guide."
A parent herself, Villarosa also edited a book on parenting, The Black Parenting Book: Caring for Our Children in the First Five Years.
In May 1991, Essence's Mother's Day issue, she came out to seven million readers in a widely acclaimed Essence article she wrote with her mother and was later promoted to executive editor of the magazine. Villarosa wrote the article to emphasize the strong relationship she and her mother have after experiencing the coming-out together. "My mother was the most important person I came out to," Villarosa said. "I was most afraid of her rejecting me. She wasn't thrilled, and she was initially unhappy, but she never told me to get out of her life. Now she sees my being a lesbian as part of who I am."
In another landmark essay,
Villarosa tackled the religious component of Black homophobia
directly in "Lesbianism and the Bible," in Essence's September
1995 issue. In speaking on university campuses across the
country, Villarosa tries to communicate the significance of
African Americans being open about their sexuality.
Villarosa said her experiences have been more of a blessing than
an impediment.
"Being black, being a lesbian and being a woman - these are all
terms that I use to define myself," Villarosa said. "I can't
imagine just breezing through life as anything else. I haven't
had it easy, but it has made me a stronger person."
As former executive editor of Essence magazine, Linda Villarosa managed
a staff of 35 "creative personalities" and still had energy to
volunteer every Monday night at Streetwork, a clinic for
homeless teenagers; served on the board of the Black Gay and
Lesbian Leadership Forum; speak on gay and lesbian issues at
colleges around the country; and be an active member of the
National
Lesbian and Gay Journalist Association.
Since
coming out publicly as a lesbian in a piece she co-wrote with
her mother in the
May 1991 issue of Essence, Linda found her
co-workers to be more accepting of her sexuality. "And now since
I'm their boss, I think that they've become much, much more
accepting!" joked Linda in an interview. In an
interview with Hannah Davis of the Park Slope Food Coop where
Linda Villarosa was a volunteer, she stated, "But seriously,
everybody here is really great. I am pregnant and everyone is
very supportive of that. I bring my lover to events here and
everybody is fine. It's like a family and that is why I have
been here for so long."
Villarosa remarked on her longevity with Essence, "The longest I've ever
had any kind of job, ever." She mostly enjoyed working as part of a
collective. Weekly editorial meetings—of 7 senior editors and a
rotating group of junior editors—involve an intense decision
making process. Linda was also grateful that she did not have to
separate her political beliefs from the work she did at
Essence. "The articles [in Essence] are all around progressive
thinking: forward thinking for women, forward thinking for Black
people and for all people of color."
Essence tends to have more progressive and political articles
than other women's magazines because there is a dearth of
magazines that specialize in Black women's lives. Heart & Soul
and Health Quest are geared to Black women's and men's health
issues, but there is no Black women's political magazine, for
example. "The interesting thing about Essence," explains Linda,
"is because there is no other magazine like it, we end up having
to do everything. You page through and you've got, let's say, 10
articles on hair and makeup, and then you are reading an article
by Derrick Bell about affirmative action. Or then you're reading
about prison reform and then you're reading, you know, about
male/female relationships, and then you are reading about hair
again and then you are reading about food. And every month there
is that kind of mix." Essence has a progressive agenda and
strives to move Black women forward. "We are specific about some
subjects like abortion. We are not going to be anti-choice in
Essence, we are not going to do any thing negative to Black
women in Essence."
But what about gay and lesbian coverage? I know that in the
February 1996 issue, Alice Walker came out as bisexual, but
flipping through the June issue of Essence (with Terry McMillan
on the cover), I was sure that Essence, like most mainstream
white women's magazines, took a heterosexist slant. Founded by a
group of men in 1970, Essence continues to have a
disproportionately male audience for a woman's magazine—25%. The
Brother's column, which men write with women in mind, is
extremely popular among male and female readers alike. Along
this line, every November is a men's issue; this November,
Nelson George steps in as guest editor.
Essence has won two
awards from GLAAD (the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against
Defamation); one for Linda's 1991 Coming Out piece, and one for
Essence's coverage of gay and lesbian issues in 1995. "When
lesbian readers complain about Essence, they complain to me,
specifically," says Linda. In reader surveys, the vast majority
of female Essence readers identify as heterosexual. Nonetheless,
Linda informed me, six out of twelve of last year's issues had a
story by or about lesbians or gay men. Linda was most proud of
the piece they did on single fathers. One of the fathers was gay
but, "It wasn't like, this is the gay dad, just this is one of
the dads." This is just the effect editors at Essence are
striving for: instead of making a big deal of lesbian and gay
issues, they should just be a part of the magazine's editorial
mix.
The person who has most influenced Linda's life is her energetic
mother, a former social worker and bank vice president who now
owns the largest Black book store in the country—the Hue-Man
Experience in Denver. "She's really a good example of somebody
who changed careers late in life and made it work."
The person who has most influenced Linda's thinking is
writer/activist Angela Davis. "It was a proud day for me when I
got her to write the forward to my book (Body & Soul). I really
believe the things she says about a progressive agenda."
Linda's debt to Angela Davis is clear in her own activism. She
spent three really intense days in Seattle, trying to keep an
anti-gay measure from making it on the ballot. Raised
Episcopalian, Linda grew disillusioned when she was repeatedly
attacked by anti-gay Christians. "It's a real shock when you see
people who could've sat next to you in the church choir telling
you you're going to hell," she says. Her job was to bridge the
gap between white gay and lesbian activists and Seattle's
non-gay black community. She spoke on radio shows, traveled
around the city with a progressive minister, and wrote about her
work in the September 1995 issue of Essence. Linda describes her
experience as "life changing."
Linda Villarosa is also a mom--twice over. In 1995 she and her partner decided to have a child. They chose a mutual friend, who is also gay, to be the father, and following a technique they'd read about, Linda used artificial insemination to conceive. In July 1996 her daughter, Kali, was born, followed in August 1999 by a son, Nicholas. Grandma Clara's initial concerns about society's accepting her grandchildren now revolve around little things--like whether to put two mommies in the dollhouse she's buying for them.
As for Linda, she's still opening doors. "In my neighborhood everybody knows who we are, they know our house, they let their kids come to our house," she says. "There are no secrets. We've worked on just putting out love for our neighbors and acting like we want to be accepted. And we are."
THE STORIES YOU COULDN'T FORGET
Over the past 30 years, you've let us know when an ESSENCE
article challenged you, enlightened you, angered you or touched
your very soul. We revisit...
From Essence, May 01 2000 by Joy Duckett Cain
"COMING OUT" LINDA AND CLARA VILLAROSA,
MAY 1991
From FindArticles.com
Homosexuality has found little compassion in our community; when broached at all, the topic is usually dismissed with a smirk or a sneer. Linda and Clara Villarosa, however, put a very human face on the experience of coming out of the closet, sharing how one person's coming out affects the entire family. The eldest child in a middle-class family, Linda had been the "good" girl who got the good grades, did the right things and tried not to make waves. In college, however, Linda accepted what she'd long suspected: She was gay. In describing her parents' reaction to her revelation, Linda wrote, "My mother, Clara, looked sick, and my father's eyes filled with tears. This news really broke him, destroying the perfect image that he had of me. He was afraid that I didn't like men and that I didn't love him. My mother, an adolescent therapist at the time, took a more practical tack: She thought I could be fixed."
Clara confessed anger. "The more Linda began to try to explore herself and identify as a lesbian, the angrier I got," she wrote. "How could my daughter do this to me?... I was devastated and blamed myself." In time, the story went on, Clara--who'd never stopped loving her daughter--came to accept Linda for the person she was and Linda became stronger and more comfortable in her own skin. "I've stopped being so afraid of being rejected by people who find out I'm gay," Linda stated. "The closet is dark and lonely and not somewhere I plan to hide away."
After the article appeared, Linda couldn't have hidden if she'd tried. Suddenly she and Clara were deluged with requests to speak to various groups, to counsel and to simply listen. Certainly Linda took her share of abuse for coming out, including hate mail and angry phone calls, but the good seems to have outweighed the bad. And to this day, Clara says, people stop by her Hue-Man Bookstore in Denver to share how the article affected them.
Meanwhile, Linda's outspokenness hasn't affected her professional career at all; an ESSENCE senior editor at the time the story appeared, Linda later became this magazine's executive editor before moving on in 1998 to The New York Times as a health editor. Now 41, Linda, who edited the book Body & Soul (HarperPerennial, $20), among others, is a freelance writer currently working out of her Brooklyn home.
One more thing: Linda's also a mom--twice over. In 1995 she and her partner decided to have a child. They chose a mutual friend, who is also gay, to be the father, and following a technique they'd read about, Linda used artificial insemination to conceive. In July 1996 her daughter, Kali, was born, followed in August 1999 by a son, Nicholas. Grandma Clara's initial concerns about society's accepting her grandchildren now revolve around little things--like whether to put two mommies in the dollhouse she's buying for them.
As for Linda, she's still
opening doors. "In my neighborhood everybody knows who we are,
they know our house, they let their kids come to our house," she
says. "There are no secrets. We've worked on just putting out
love for our neighbors and acting like we want to be accepted.
And we are."
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Revelations -- (an African American lesbian speaks out against condemnation by the Religious Right) -- Essence 1995
After writing about her life as
an African-American lesbian, the author found herself under
attack--and squarely in the sights of a scripture-quoting
Religious Right. In this essay, she reaches within to strengthen
her own spiritual center and challenges us to discover the
Bible's timeless message of tolerance and love
Before I came out in print, I had never had someone tell me that
I was going to hell. Now people say it to me regularly. I
remember the first time it happened. My mother and I had just
addressed a conference of Black social workers about how
families could confront their homophobia and accept lesbian and
gay children. After our talk, a sad-eyed man, round-shouldered
in a baggy suit, approached me. "I enjoyed hearing what you had
to say," he offered, his hand extended. As I placed my hand in
his, he continued, barely missing a beat, "But you re a sinner.
You're going to hell." He said this calmly, through a
half-smile, as though ready to add "Have a nice day."
I felt such shock at his words that I forgot to remove my hand
from his. We stood there awkwardly until finally he withdrew his
hand and turned away. As I watched his stoop-shouldered retreat,
I felt a deep empathy for every gay or lesbian who has ever been
accosted in a similar fashion, condemned simply by virtue of
whom they love. I felt again the pain of rejection, the
frustration of being misjudged and, beneath it all, a rising
anger at the gall of this man and others like him who could so
blithely call up feelings I thought I'd long ago put to rest.
The worst verbal attack came at Oregon State University, where I
was to address a large group of students about being Black,
lesbian and out. The trouble started before I arrived. I had
requested that the organizers contact African-American student
groups about attending my lecture, because I believe it's
important for Blacks--Gay and straight--to know that Black
lesbians exist and can be happy and out and secure in their
identities. A member of the school's Black Women's Alliance, who
was also friendly with the gay group on campus, agreed to make
an announcement at the alliance's next meeting.
At the end of the meeting she told the other sisters that an
editor from ESSENCE would be speaking the following evening.
Several women clapped and nodded. "She'll be talking about what
it is like to be a Black lesbian," the young woman continued.
The room fell silent. Then one woman stood up and said,
"Lesbianism is nastiness, and they should get a vaccine to make
them normal." Spurred on, another declared, "Gays are against
God, and because of my religion, I can't hear this woman speak."
Finally, an exasperated sister said, "Can we please stop talking
about this? I'm getting physically ill."
Thankfully, I didn't know about this exchange or I would've been
too unsettled to do the lecture. Expressions of homophobia hurt
deeply, but coming from other Black women the pain of rejection
is particularly acute, akin to betrayal by a family member.
Knowing that I would be facing such resistance from Black women
in what was already a largely White audience on a conservative
college campus may well have paralyzed me.
As it turned out, the lecture went fine. The question-and-answer
period was particularly long. The students--gay, straight and of
many races and ethnicities--seemed hungry for information.
Eventually I became tired and announced that I'd answer one
final question. A young White man wearing a baseball cap waved
his hand frantically from the balcony. And there it was: "You
and all gays are going to hell. I'm telling you this because God
taught me to love you."
Then he cited a Bible passage: "Read Leviticus 20:13." Bedlam
broke out in the room. In the midst of the commotion, I stood at
the podium, speechless and numb. After several minutes, I
managed to get things quieted down and looked out at the
expectant faces before me. The challenge had been made, and all
of the young gay people in that audience expected me to defend
them with authority. My voice shook with outrage and a little
bit of fear that I wouldn't be able to meet this challenge.
"Listen, you don't love me, you don't know me, you don't
understand me," I said, barely able to keep from crying. "You're
using religion to cloak your horrible message in the language of
love. People like you have used religion to suppress everything
you find offensive. In the past the Bible was used to justify
slavery, and now you're using it to justify your fear and hatred
of those of us who are living our lives as gays and lesbians."
The tension broke, and the crowd began to applaud. But I felt
empty, drained by the need to remain always on guard, exhausted
by the uncertainty of never knowing where the next attack would
come from. Even the reporters covering the event saw through my
strong front and brave smile. The next day's paper reported that
as I stepped from the podium, I had seemed stunned. It was true:
I was stunned. And saddened. My words had sounded hollow to me,
as though I had been reading from a textbook. I hadn't felt
them. Deep within, I knew I wasn't so sure of myself Where did I
really stand spiritually? That heckler knew exactly how he felt
and where he stood. Why didn't I?
My family had attended an integrated, "progressive" Episcopal
church in Denver. There were a handful of families of color like
us and lots of groovy White people, interracial couples with
their adopted children of color in tow. Our choir didn't sing
gospel music, but folksy spiritual ballads accompanied by the
organ, guitar, and African and Native American drumming.
I don't remember learning many specific biblical lessons from
our minister. With his long hair flowing over his Roman Collar,
Father Hammond preached through sleepy eyes, as though he'd been
out late drinking the night before. His words were inspirational
and easy to understand, filled with references to pop culture: A
quote from Playboy magazine could seamlessly segue into the
Scriptures.
My mother taught my fourth-grade Sunday-school class, stressing
discipline and open-mindedness. One Saturday morning the group
of us gathered for a field trip to a nearby synagogue. We looked
like a bunch of "We Are the World" poster children. "It's
important to learn about the way other people worship," my
mother explained, looking over our group to make sure that our
two lines were straight and orderly and no noses were running.
When I was 11, I attended weeks of Thursday-night confirmation
classes to further my religious studies. On confirmation day I
walked down the church aisle, clutching a white prayer book in
white-gloved hands. I was wearing a white dress, white lace
socks and white patent-leather shoes, and had a white
handkerchief pinned to my head. I don't remember one spiritual
lesson from that time, but I do remember bow hard it was to stay
clean in all those bleached-white clothes.
We also visited my grandmother's Baptist church on trips back to
Chicago, where I was born. Getting dressed for service was a
major event. My grandmother had to decide which of her many wigs
and hats to wear and whether or not to put on her fur, a
decision that had little to do with the temperature outside.
After the frenzied preparations, we'd all pile into my
grandfather's Electra 225 and float to church in the boat-size
car. Once inside I'd scrunch into my grandmother's side and
maneuver a way to sit by her. I knew she was important from the
way heads would turn as she led the family down the aisle to our
pew, and I wanted a little of that limelight.
The service really want as much fun as the preparations, mainly
because of its three-hour length. Until someone got the Spirit.
I'd hold my breath as the organ pounded out the same repetitive
note and the singing rang louder, rising to more and more
tremorous shouts. Inevitably some well-dressed woman would take
to the aisle, chanting and skipping. Then two strong,
well-practiced sisters, dressed in white gloves and nurses'
uniforms, would walk briskly over and efficiently bring the
saved soul back to this world before dispatching her into the
care of family members. I would tug at Grandmother's sleeve
asking questions, but she would slap my Vaselined knees together
and hiss into my ear, "Stop-staring
-close-your-lips-don't-bite-your-cuticles-put-your-glovesback-on."
The only thing I knew for certain was that no one in our family
would ever get the Spirit, because my grandmother would die of
embarrassment.
From my parents' church I learned respect for difference and
community, and through my grandmother's church I connected with
my Southern Baptist roots. But nothing from my religious past
had prepared me to deal with the continued abuse I was receiving
from so-called religious people. As the attacks intensified, so
did my sense of isolation, and I found myself tempted to
withdraw from heterosexuals altogether. instead I decided it was
time for we to begin studying the Bible.
I dug out the dusty copy of the Revised Standard Version of the
Bible left over from my days in confirmation classes, and I
looked up the passages that had been thrown in my face. I
started with I Corinthians 6:9 and 10, which read: "Do not be
deceived; neither the immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers,
nor homosexuals, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor
revilers, nor robbers will inherit the kingdom of God."
I was skeptical. I knew Corinthians had been written by the
apostle Paul, a Christian missionary whose writings express the
prejudices of his time. Even so, had Paul really used the word
"homosexual" 2,000 years ago? Of course not. The New Testament
had originally been written in Greek. In 1382 the Bible was
translated into English. The King James (or authorized) Version
came in 1611. The Bible I was reading had been revised 341 years
later, in 1952.
I purchased a paperback copy of the King James Version and
turned to I Corinthians 6:9 and 10. This earlier version never
used the word "homosexual" but listed "the effeminate" in its
inventory of the unrighteous, and that had been translated to
mean "homosexual" in the revised version. I traced the usage of
the word "effeminate." In the original Greek text, the word used
was "malakos," which means "soft," as in the texture of fine
clothing. Perhaps the passage meant to convey something about
the pitfalls of vanity. But the King James Version interpreted "malakos"
as soft like a woman, and used the term "effeminate." Derived
from Latin, this word means "to take on feminine qualities,"
whether by performing woman's work, by behaving in a "womanly"
fashion or by taking on a woman's role. Paul's disrespect for
women aside, clearly something had been lost--or gained--in
translation.
I decided not to spend much more time trying to sort out what
the authors of the Bible were attempting to say about
homosexuality--if that's even what they were talking about--in
the context of social systems from 20 centuries past. Even after
reading Genesis 19 times, I still didn't see how the story of
Sodom had anything to do with gay, sex. In that story, Lot, a
holy man and resident of the evil city of Sodom, is visited by
two angels. Genesis 19:4-8 reads: "The men of the city, the men
of Sodom, both voting and old, all the people to the last man,
surrounded the house; and they called to Lot, Where are the men
[that is, the angels] who came to you tonight? Bring them out to
us, that we may know them.' Lot went out of the door to the men,
shut the door after him, and said, I beg you, my brothers, do
not act so wickedly. Behold, I have two daughters who have not
known man; let me bring them out to you, and do to them as you
please; only do nothing to these men.'"
Eventually the angels strike the men blind, and God rains fire
and brimstone on the city and burns it down. From this story
comes the word "sodomy"--a pejorative term for gay sex. Even
assuming the word "know" in this passage refers to sex, it seems
a stretch to use it to condemn gays and lesbians. Why isn't
anybody questioning Lot for offering to turn over his virginal
daughters to the mob of men? That is certainly the most
troubling aspect of the incident relayed here.
Next I looked up Matthew 19:4 and 5, which say, "He who made
them from the beginning made them male and female.... For this
reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to
his wife, and the two shall become one."
Upon further reading, it was easy to see that my hecklers had
taken these verses completely out of context. The passage had
nothing to do with lesbians and gay men but was clearly a
condemnation of divorce, an answer to the question "Is it lawful
to divorce one's wife for any cause?" (Matthew 19:3). Verse 9
says that "whoever divorces his wife, except for unchastity, and
marries another, commits adultery." In case there's any question
about the seriousness of adultery, Leviticus 20:10 spells it
out: "If a man commits adultery with the wife of his neighbor,
both the adulterer and the adulteress shall be put to death."
But what did all this have to do with lesbians and gay men?
I read on. Leviticus 20:13 says, "If a man lies with a male as
with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they
shall be put to death, their blood is upon them." I guess they
could be murdered along with the divorced remarried couple from
earlier Leviticus verses.
At this point, the hurt and uncertainty I had felt were being
replaced by anger. It didn't take a biblical scholar to figure
out that people who shout me down in lecture balls and write me
letters are not sending hate mail to people who are divorced.
The man who lashed out at me in Oregon is not condemning people
who eat pork "And the swine . . . is unclean to you. Of their
flesh you shall not eat": Leviticus 11:7-8) or shellfish
("anything in the seas or the rivers that has not fins and
scales . . . is an abomination to you": Leviticus 11:10).
Neither is he carrying on about cattle breeders, farmers who
grow two different crops or anyone who wears a poly-cotton blend
of clothing despite Leviticus 19:19: "You shall not let your
cattle breed with a different kind; you shall not sow your field
with two different kinds of seed; nor shall there come upon you
a garment of cloth made of two kinds of stuff "
These so-called righteous people take the Bible literally when
it suits them, ignoring anything that doesn't easily support
their narrow condemnations. And many Black people are using the
Bible against their lesbian and gay sisters and brothers just as
Whites used the Scriptures against our ancestors when they
interpreted passages such as Ephesians 6:5--"Slaves, be obedient
to those who are your earthly masters, with fear and trembling "
in singleness of heart, as to "Christ"--to mean that our people
should remain enslaved.
Now that I was more familiar with the intricacies of the Bible,
I felt fortified intellectually but still on shaky ground
spiritually. But I knew exactly what I needed to do. I had heard
about Unity Fellowship Church and its lively congregation of
mostly Black lesbians and gay men who worshiped on Sundays in
New York City. Although I had always found reasons to avoid
going, now it was time.
When I arrived that first Sunday, the room was packed with
people, and close to 100 latecomers had to be turned away. The
service began with testimonials. Person after person stood up to
share what had happened that week: breakups, gay bashings,
rejections by parents, evictions from apartments, illness,
sadness, loneliness, addiction, sorrow. Pain filled the room,
Black pain, gay, pain. These were people who longed to be part
of the larger African-American community but had felt the sting
of rejection; many had been exiled from the Black congregations
they were raised in.
But when the pastor, Elder Zachary Jones, marched into the room
to the tune of "We've Come This Far by Faith," the mood in the
room was transformed into one of joy. "It doesn't have anything
to do with who you sleep with, but with what's in your heart,"
Reverend Zach shouted over the low hum of the choir. "Who says
God doesn't love gay people? There's love in this room!" And
there was.
A measure of healing had begun. His simple words struck a chord
in me, and I felt relieved and cleansed of the bad feelings I
had harbored about the people who had attacked me.
Fortified in mind and spirit by my connection with this
community, I felt ready to take on the world. And an opportunity
soon presented itself. I was giving a talk at a Black cultural
center, and after recounting how it felt to be Black and
lesbian, I began fielding questions. An African-American woman
tentatively raised her hand. She was in her mid-thirties, turned
out in an expensive, corporate-looking suit and bright gold
jewelry, her hair freshly done in braided extensions. "You seem
like a really nice woman, and I enjoyed hearing your story," she
began slowly. "But as a Christian woman I need to share this
with you. I went through a period in my life when I thought I
was attracted to women. But then I discovered Jesus Christ. By
reading the Bible, I realized that homosexuality is unnatural
and that I was a sinner. If I continued in the life, I would be
condemned."
"Where does the Bible say that?" I asked her.
Opening her purse, she pulled out a small, worn copy of the New
Testament and began to read from a marked passage: " For this
reason God gave them up to dishonorable passions. Their women
exchanged natural relations for unnatural, and the men likewise
gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with
passion for one another, men committing shameless acts with men
and receiving in their own persons the due penalty for their
error.' Romans 1, verses 26 and 27."
I listened as she read. When she had finished, I reached into my
backpack and pulled out my own copy of the Bible. " The women
should adorn themselves modestly and sensibly in seemly apparel,
not with braided hair or gold or pearls or costly attire.' I
Timothy, chapter 2, verse 9," I read. "And 1 Timothy 2:11 and 12
say, Let a woman learn in silence with all submissiveness. I
permit no woman to teach or to have authority over men; she is
to keep silent by speaking out today, I guess we're both
sinning."
"Wait, that's not fair," she said, her expression at once
confused and angry. "It's not right to take the Bible out of
context like that."
"Why?" I countered. "That's what you're doing."
Even as I hit her close to home, my heart reached out to this
woman. "Listen," I said softly "I don't want to do this. All of
us need to stop taking the Bible literally and begin to read it
critically and intelligently. You know, there are some important
messages that we an can understand and agree on." I opened my
Bible to Leviticus 19:17 and 18, "You shall not hate your
brother in your It heart, but you shall reason with your
neighbor, lest you bear sin because of him. You shall not take
vengeance or bear any grudge against your own people, but you
shall love your neighbor as yourself." And this time my words
sounded strong and co dent, and were definitely my own.
Adapted from Afrekete: An Anthology of Black Lesbian Writing
(Anchor Books/Doubleday, 1995), edited by Catherine E. McKinley
and Joyce DeLaney.
COPYRIGHT 1995 Essence Communications Inc.
COPYRIGHT 1995 Information Access Company
