The room erupted. Just ten minutes earlier laughs had filled my grandparent’s dining room as our family ate a home cooked meal. We had just gotten back from church earlier that morning and were having Sabbath lunch. That’s when everything changed.
“Men aren’t supposed to wear makeup,” my aunt told me. I knew this wasn’t going to end well.
I had told my sister across the table from me that I felt I had gotten a pimple on my forehead due to the makeup I had worn earlier that week. I rarely wear makeup. It’s usually for photo shoots, but I do enjoy the artistic process behind it all. My aunt, who was sitting directly to my right, chimed in our conversation.
“Men aren’t supposed to wear makeup.” The sentence echoed in my head. Somehow being a man my skin reacted differently than women’s to make up.
This was about more than makeup. I have been out to my family for years but my sexuality was one of those things we didn’t talk about with the extended portion of the family. I loved them, they loved me. Why ruin it and talk about the details? But this time I slipped up, I got too comfortable.
“Well, yes we can,” I had finally found my voice. “Gender roles are societal construct. Men used to be able to wear heels a few hundred years ago. Now, it wouldn’t be seen as kosher. Women used to not be able to wear pants but now it’s ok in most societies. These things fluctuate.”
“No, men aren’t supposed to wear makeup. It’s for women,” she responded matter of factly.
The conversation went from zero to sixty. I responded, my sister chimed in, my aunt rebutted and before I knew it I was standing face to face with her as we screamed at each other. She continued to tell me men shouldn’t wear makeup. I continued to try to explain why we could and finally just begged her to stop. Please, just stop.
My hands were shaking uncontrollably and I asked my parents if we could leave. So, my parents, sister, and I quickly picked ourselves up and made a run for the exit. As we stood up from the table, leaving our half eaten plates, my aunt continued to shout even as I walked away.
I didn’t even realize I was crying until we got to the car. The steady stream of tears blurred my vision and I could taste the salt.
“Please pull over,” I said to my parents as the little food I had eaten made its way out again. My hands were still shaking and I was hyperventilating. I clumsily opened the car door and landed on all fours. As I heaved, I cursed and screamed out. After fourteen years of severe anxiety, my panic attacks have never gotten easier. It’s a fully body revolt.
This happened a little over a year ago. I didn’t speak to my aunt for an entire year. It wasn’t until my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer late last year that we all sucked it up and came together — for the sake of family. Now when we see each other, we speak as if nothing ever happened. As if my heart weren’t broken into a million pieces on the side of the highway that Sabbath afternoon.
I know my aunt loves me. And despite our falling out, I fiercely love her, too. I just have wounds that make me scared to trust her fully again. It’s a sad truth that sometimes the people we love the most, hurt us the most.
70 x 7. That’s how many times we’re supposed to forgive each other according to the Bible. That number is just a stand in. Jesus really mean we should always forgive. I get that, I do. It’s just easier said than done.
How am I supposed to forgive those who don’t even recognize they’ve hurt me? I feel the same about the church. I’ve had pastors look at my outstretched hand as I greet them walk away from me without a single word. Church members have whispered about me and others have excommunicated me and my entire family. It hurts and I’m supposed to forgive them. I can put things aside and let the past be the past. I can even have relationships with those who have hurt me. But forgiveness? I’m still working on that.
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