Passover

According to my calendar, Passover begins at sundown tonight. And there is a full moon tomorrow.

I like to think I am spiritual, though I am not necessarily religious in the truest sense(s) of the word. Still, I was born on Easter, so this time of the year always seems to affect me, somehow.

For this occasion, I dusted off my little red Bible to look up the story of Peter’s denial of Jesus. This story struck me when I was a kid and even more so when I was (almost) an adult, during my sophomore year of college.

First the story, from Mark 14:20-72 (there are other accounts, of course, in the New Testament) in the Revised Standard Version of the Holy Bible:

And when they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives. And Jesus said to them, “You will all fall away; for it is written, ‘I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.’ But after I am raised up, I will go before you to Galilee.” Peter said to him, “Even though they all fall away, I will not.” And Jesus said to him, “Truly, I say to you, this very night, before the cock crows twice, you will deny me three times.” But he said vehemently, “If I must die with you, I will not deny you.” And they all said the same. ...

And as Peter was below in the courtyard, one of the maids of the high priest came; and seeing Peter warming himself, she looked at him, and said, “You also were with the Nazarene, Jesus.” But he denied it, saying, “I neither know nor understand what you mean.” And he went out into the gateway. And the maid saw him, and began again to say to the bystanders, “This man is one of them.” But again he denied it. And after a little while again the bystanders said to Peter, “Certainly you are one of them; for you are a Galilean.” But he began to invoke a curse on himself and to swear, “I do not know this man of whom you speak.” And immediately the cock crowed a second time. And Peter remembered how Jesus had said to him, “Before the cock crows twice, you will deny me three times.” And he broke down and wept.

OK, so what does this story have to do with me?

Without going into the sordid details of my sexuality, suffice it to say that, during college, I was a bit of a mess. Yes, I had known for most of my life that I was different, in many ways, from most of my friends. And not strictly in terms of sexuality; in fact, to be quite honest, there were times during my growing-up days when I was as straight as any other straight girl out there (well, except for the fact that I could throw a perfect strike, hit the ball a mile and field almost anything hit my direction).

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I didn’t mind the overall differentness, per se, except that I really, truly did not want to be gay. Who does, really? I mean, yeah, once you get past all of your hang-ups about it, the whole thing really, truly is NOT that big of a deal ... but when you’re in the midst of it all, trying to figure out everything: Well, it can be rather huge. And I have never, ever wanted to be defined by my sexuality. (Again: Who does, really?)

Anyhoo, in the midst of getting to know people and drinking too much beer and, occasionally, going to class, I started to realize that, unlike some of the girls I knew, I didn’t have much interest in the guys I met. Yeah, I liked ’em well enough — was even known to have random drunken makeout sessions (sometimes in public!) with some of ’em. However, as far as wanting to have a relationship with any of them ... uhm, nah.

Meanwhile, as is my nature, I had developed a massive crush — or, as my friend Jack would say, crunch — on the girl who was only The Most Well-Known Lesbian on Campus: Jennifer Soule, the editor of the school’s gay newsletter. (Oh, boy!)

She was cute and smart and a damn good writer. A poet. And, by virtue of stepping up and putting together the newsletter, she was also something of a pioneer. A definite hero for people who were gay — or bisexual or straight or transgendered or whatever, really — who were searching for some kind of community.

And, uh, she was cute.

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Jennifer was a senior English major and I, a lowly underclass journalism student; I was minoring in English, though, so our paths occasionally crossed. Still, we weren’t exactly running in the same social circles ... except I did convince my friends to venture into the town’s only “gay bar,” which actually was mostly a place filled with an intriguing collection of artists, performers, professors, eccentrics and townies, of varying degrees and kinds of sexuality.

[The bar ended up being our favorite hangout, mostly because the music selection was most excellent (plus it was played at a volume that made it possible to carry on actual conversations with your friends), the place was rarely crowded and, eventually, they added a pool room complete with a dartboard AND a Super Mario Brothers game!]

I got to know several gay people at the Uptowner, and I occasionally saw some of my other gay friends there. Still, this whole concept was somewhat new to me, and I was unwilling to go “on the record,” so to speak, as being gay myself.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with it!”

So, anyway, we’d been hanging out at the Uptowner for a few weeks when, all of a sudden, this John guy I knew from Student Publications came up to me and said, “Hey, didn’t I see you at Jennifer Soule’s party the other night?”

“No,” I said. (This was true, actually; how on earth would I ever have been invited to Jennifer Soule’s party?!)

“Huh. That’s funny, I could have sworn I saw you there.”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” I said, somewhat defiantly, then I added: “I don’t even know Jennifer Soule.”

Which, too, was true. I didn’t know Jennifer Soule ... yet I had an undeniable crush on her and would have given my eye teeth (and a couple of molars!) to have been at her party!

And there I was, denying having any knowledge of her existence.

Denying myself, really.

Certainly, she wasn’t Jesus and I wasn’t Peter. There were no cocks crowing as I made my denials, and, ultimately, the only person to whom this entire incident meant anything was I. As is the case in most moments of truth, clarity and discovery.

[For the record: I looked up Jennifer on the Internet a few years back. Sent her an e-mail, told her the whole story of my big crush — about which she had never known, of course; matter of fact, even though we had actually met a couple of times, she really had no memory of me, either. She told me, though, that she found my story “charming” — and that she was flattered! Naturally, my crush had long since subsided; still, it was a beautiful chapter in my rather ordinary little life.]

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