224 Pages Jerry Falwell Doesn't Want You To Read--This Lambda Literary Award finalist love story is Adams’ autobiography of growing up gay the son of a fundamentalist Baptist minister. It chronicles his childhood and young adult life as he attended and worked for Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University. It culminates with his coming out of fundamentalism and coming out to his family. Also a recipient of a Silver Pen Award.
I turned the blade at an angle and continued to scratch my right wrist until the
skin turned white. This wrist, the one I had marked to bear the pain of my
homosexuality, in and of itself, was enough for which to die. The cut I would
make would deliver to me my freedom. There would be no more lies, no more ruined
friendships, and no more shame.
The tears came again, and with
them, a torrent of pain and anger. Those were the same emotions that shrouded my
soul my entire life like a thick fog, muffling my happiness and ability to
sustain peace.
No matter how much I wanted to, or how many times I ran the blade across my
wrist, I could not bring myself to apply enough pressure to make me bleed. My
desperation left me exhausted.
Defeated by my instinct to live, I laid in the field for another hour or so, letting my emotions heal and freeing my mind of the surge of negative thoughts that had brought me there. I believed then that God was there. Something always washed over my aching soul and healed me.
I first heard about AIDS when I was fourteen, during a church service at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Plymouth, Pennsylvania. We were there for a special service featuring missionaries from some foreign country. Somewhere along the way, the minister became sidetracked.
"I was reading in the newspaper the other day about these homosexuals that are moving into our community to take away our children. These faggots will stop at nothing to see that their agenda is fulfilled," the preacher ranted. "Homosexuals are nothing more than child molesters and sexual deviants. Hold on tight to your children, especially your little boys. If one of these fags gets a hold of your son, they will recruit him into the homosexual lifestyle so that they can consume all of their filthy desires.
"God says in the book of Leviticus that these perverts are an abomination unto him. You’d better believe He’s gonna throw’em all in Hell after the judgment. It seems as if we may have some relief from these wicked men. God is moving his hand in judgment right now against them. There is a new disease which will strike every homosexual. This is God’s way of getting rid of these vermin. "We need to thank God that one day, because of this disease, we will not have to worry about our sons becoming entrapped in a destructive lifestyle. We just need to be careful as God’s people. This disease can be contracted through handshakes, public toilet seats or even just breathing the same air as a homosexual. So the best thing is to just stay away from them."
I had never felt an inclination
to molest children, and I wasn’t sure of the definition of a sexual deviant. But
I felt a deep ache inside my chest. I knew I must be a homosexual because of my
attraction to men. Debbie and several other kids at school had often called me a
faggot. I didn’t know what it meant until that Sunday. I wanted to tell the
preacher to shut up because I knew he must be talking about me. I bowed my head
so no one could see my eyes.I didn’t want to grow up to be a bad person. I
certainly didn’t want to die or cause other people to die. But after what I had
heard, it seemed inevitable.
When I got home to my room, I fell on my bed and cried myself to sleep. There
was no place to go and no one to talk to about it. For the first time in my
life, I felt alienated from God. He had always seemed so close, but that night
he was far, far away.
I hit the floor hard. I used my hands to help me skid to a stop just before ramming my head into the kitchen door. My head was spinning. I could taste blood. I quickly ran my tongue along my teeth to make sure they were all intact. The inside of my cheek was bleeding profusely from a tear caused from my father slamming his hand into the side of my face. I had not even seen his arm move.
I could feel my sisters’ eyes
staring at my back. Clenching my jaw, I attempted to sit up in the chair.
"He’s bleeding Daddy! You knocked his teeth out. What did you do?" Debbie
screamed.
My father spun around quickly, raising a spatula over his head. "He’s not bleeding," he snarled. "He got what he deserved and you’ll get yours if you don’t be quiet and finish eating," he threatened. "Marc, get back up on your chair!"
What Debbie thought were teeth was just the food I had in my mouth flying out at the impact of my father’s hand. I could barely sit. Standing and going to my chair at the table seemed an impossibility.
I felt like crying but I didn’t dare do it. My throat began to burn as I tried valiantly to hold back the flood of emotion inside.
I did make it back to my chair. I ate enough of the charred food on my plate to be excused from the table. I always found a way to keep it together until I was alone in my room.
My father was sitting alone on the front pew. I was very uncomfortable. Yet, I knew that this could be a turning point in our relationship. I wondered if he was going to give me money for school.
"Mom said you wanted to talk to me," I said, as I sat on the pew behind him.
He turned around. I looked up at him, longing to see something other than the anger and coldness I had seen every day of my life.
"In two days you’ll be off to college," he began. "You’ll be out of this house and out of our control. We will no longer have anything to do with how you live your life."
He paused and stuck his finger in my face. "Someday you’re going to fail. You’ll think to yourself, ‘Mom and Dad were right.’ Then you’ll come back."
He got up and walked out of the church. My heart beat wildly as I blinked back tears. I could still see his finger pointing at me even though he was gone. I looked at the Bible on the communion table in front of me.
The words on its pages had often been a source of comfort. There was nothing in there that could comfort me that day.
A month later, the yearbook came back from the publisher and the entire staff had a party in the administrative building with Dr. Falwell and the college president, Pierre Guillermin. We had met with both of them several times throughout the year, but this time, they were congratulating us for a job well-done. It was the first time in the history of the school that the yearbook was distributed prior to graduation.
I wished Todd was there. He had contributed a great deal to the book and
deserved some of the attention. I was looking at the photo of the yearbook staff
when Dr. Falwell came over to me and patted my back.
"Marc, you’ve done a great job."
"Thanks," I said, as I shook his hand. "We all put a lot of hard work into this."
"Your interview in the book with Dr. Guillermin is perfect. I think we’re going to use some excerpts in an upcoming promotional piece about our faculty and staff."
"That’s great. I’m glad you like it. He was an easy interview and didn’t dodge too many of my questions."
Dr. Falwell laughed.
"Well, keep up the good work. I want to see you on this staff again next year."
I looked again at the photo of the dying man and his lover. As much as I tried to fight it, I felt their overwhelming loss. They had wanted with each other exactly what I wanted with Todd. Soon, there would be nothing more for them to share.
Detached from my surroundings, I closed my eyes and prayed. I prayed that the dying man wouldn’t suffer too much and that his lover would be able to continue with his life. I wasn’t sure God would hear my prayer.
I should have prayed for their salvation from Hell.
"Student recruiting, this is Marc."
"Hi. My name is Barry Martin. I’m a priest in Cleveland. I’m sitting here in this city watching all of my friends die. Why won’t Jerry Falwell spend some of his money to help those of us who are dying?"
"I can’t speak for Dr. Falwell. He does do a lot for people. He has a home for alcoholics, a home for unwed mothers and a ton of other projects."
"Before too long, there won’t be anyone in the world who doesn’t know someone who has died from AIDS," the priest continued.
"I hear Jerry Falwell on television talking about how AIDS is God’s punishment for homosexuals."
"He’s referring to the fact that homosexuality is an abomination to God. It’s a perversion of something beautiful that he created. He intended sex to be shared between a man and a woman. Every day when you wake up, you decide what you’re going to do that day. If you make the wrong choice then you’re guilty. It’s very simple."
"How can you think that being gay is a choice? I never decided to be attracted to men."
My head was spinning. I couldn’t believe the words that were spewing out of my mouth.
"God loves you even if you commit the sin of homosexuality. It’s the sin in all of our lives that he hates. And he does punish us for sins we commit."
I waited for the priest to respond.
"A couple years ago, I met a man and fell in love with him. He was the only person in my life who accepted me as I was. He was the kindest, most gentle human being on this planet. He died last week."
There was a long silence. I couldn’t say anything. It took everything I had not to tell him I was sorry for the arrogant, judgmental words I had spoken.
"I’m sitting here today, almost dead myself," he continued. "I used to weigh 165 pounds. I only weigh 110 pounds today. I have cancer all over my body and I can barely see. You’re telling me that this is God’s punishment for me falling in love with the only person who ever made me smile?"
"I want to come and visit still, but I need you to do something for me first."
"What?"
"I need you to take AIDS tests and show me the results before I get there."
I almost dropped the telephone.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Watch your mouth. It’s a known fact that the AIDS virus can live outside the human body for up to ten days."
I shook my head to stay conscious.
"Joy, I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but you can’t get AIDS because you touch someone who has it."
"I knew you would answer that way," she shot back. "How many gays, lesbians and druggies will have to die before you accept the fact that it’s God’s punishment for living a life of sin?"
"Has anyone else in the family said anything to you about me?"
There was more silence.
"Only Debbie. I asked her last week if it would bother her if you were gay. She said she didn’t care if you and Todd were gay as long as you guys don’t do anything to her kids."
That was the final straw. My heart broke in half and I had to fight hard to keep from crying. I couldn’t believe that after all we had done, Debbie would stoop to believe the same lies.
"Come to Jesus, Marc," Joy pleaded. "He can take you from your sin and give you what you really need. Ask for his deliverance and Debbie won’t have to worry about her kids anymore."
More about Marc Adams & The Preacher's Son
My father was the preacher at a fundamentalist Baptist church in rural Pennsylvania. I spent my childhood and adolescence enveloped in fundamentalism and in an emotionally, physically and spiritually abusive home. Still I believed--so much that I would have died for it. But at the same time, I was fighting to keep my homosexual feelings at bay. My personal battle left me tired, lonely and at the edge of my life. I attended and was employed by Jerry Falwell's Liberty University for four years. It was while I was a student recruiter for that university that I was forced to come to terms with my fundamentalist beliefs and my homosexuality.
This book is the story of my journey to freedom. As I read the dozens of letters from those who have read my books, I realize that I was never alone in my battle to overcome. Still, many continue to struggle with haunting pasts, loss, the pain of spiritual and physical abuse and the rejection of society. My desire is that everyone who reads what I have shared will find guidance and hope, compassion and understanding.
The previous excerpts are provided for promotional purposes only. Final edits to the book may result in slightly altered copy. Before reproducing any portion of these excerpts please obtain written permission from Window Books at bookstore@meetmarcadams.com. Copyright Marc Adams