[This personal blog has covered a variety of subjects over the years...and I've been careful not to concentrate too much on any one subject. I do this for purely selfish reasons so that I don't become bored with writing about one subject, over and over. The blog has been a truly condensed version of my physical journals--at least for the past few years. I have no interest in a larger public audience so it should be no surprise to anyone that the refinement of my writing style hasn't improved much over time. I suppose that somewhere in the deep recesses of my undiagnosed narcissism it would please me to know that someone out there has derived pleasure from my writing. But, I digress. I've mainly stayed away from politics. But, this is 2020, and the past few years have been hell for me and many of my fellow countrywomen and men. Interestingly, it has been a joyride for an uncomfortably large percentage of an additional number of my fellow countrywomen and men. I've thought long and hard about this and I've heard more than enough pundits to know that there are multiple theories about why we've come to this consequential moment in our history. I offer the following to bring some clarity to myself for why "Trumpism" is a "thing." Perhaps it can help someone else wrap their brain around this craziness as well.]
I spent my formative years in the tiny town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. I've written about this place many times. In fact, there are several blog entries you will find right here dealing with my reckonings of being raised in this hamlet...hamlet, yes, my quaint way of referring to a place where my fears and longings regarding the world outside its limits would be formed, regurgitated, confirmed and oftentimes debunked. Interestingly, there would be many additional--mainly--fears about what fate would hold in store for me if I remained there. In fact, it played an enormous role in my decision to attempt to runaway from the place at the tender age of fifteen. Another story.
In 1977, my devoutly Roman Catholic mother became involved in a Charismatic Prayer Group at our home parish. She was a somewhat reluctant participant--urged on by one of her best female friends to explore this new aspect to spirituality. As she brought home various pieces of literature, I was intrigued. I consumed them with all the fire of an impassioned field preacher. It played well with my attraction to drama...and I needed it. At least I thought I did. I was well aware at this point that I wasn't like the "other" boys so this could be my ticket to change. At first, she was reluctant to take this already problematic thirteen year-old son to the weekly meetings with her but she eventually acquiesced. Perhaps, deep down, she actually thought it might do me some good. As for me...wow!! I couldn't have found a better outlet for my deep-seated self hatred than to find an entire group willing to lay their hands on me in fervent prayer (in tongues as well!) and surround me with a feeling of acceptance and love. I think it would be a mistake to say that this love wasn't genuine. I believe--to this day--that it was. There is so much power in communal prayer. To this day, it impresses me deeply.
There was, however, a much darker side to this involvement. As my weary mother participated partly out of a sense of duty to her friend, I shined! I began to "prophesy" and also "spoke in tongues" and I put both of those dramatic gifts in quotes because I truly possessed neither. It was an enormous act and I played it well. Sometimes, members of the group were so genuinely touched by my words they actually broke down in tears. The group dynamic was more important to me than anything. Once the fever of it all hit you, there was little you could do but be caught up in the "spirit." And, in this case, I do believe that a certain type of spirit was actually present. The whole concept of the Charismatic movement was that one could be "born again" even though the Catholic Church accepted "one baptism" for the "forgiveness of sins." Somehow, Charismatics found a way around this. I was gladly "born again" and soon felt that it was a stamp of honor...and also a stamp of ridicule. It became very easy to become the victim. After all, it was those others who hadn't been saved--made whole again--who were lost and confused. We must pray for them. As I entered high school, I found it easy to explain to myself that my lack of popularity and general awkwardness was the price I must pay for being different.
By 1980, my sophomore year at a private high school, I was so caught up in my religious fervor that I ran away from home. Although I came home later the same day, it took some reckoning to readjust to school and it certainly didn't make my life any easier. In April of that year, one of the Charismatic nuns that had taken me under her wing convinced my mom and I to attend a "Washington for Jesus" rally at the Nation's Capital. It was at this immense gathering of Evangelicals and Pentecostals that the true impact of large numbers of people expressing various degrees of the same fervor could really whip you into a frenzy. It was like the prayer meetings on a grand scale. I wasn't listening closely to one of the speakers--the Reverend Jerry Falwell--condemning women who had abortions as murderers. I particularly didn't pay attention to the condemnation of the "sin" of homosexuality. But when I got home from that rally, I did think about those things. I thought about them very deeply.
It may seem simplistic to compare the fervor at a Trump rally to these youth experiences of mine but I choose to see my experience as an early "wake-up" call. I was caught up in something that made me feel better about feeling bad about who I was. It wasn't long after that April day in Washington, D.C. that I came to some terms with my identity. It would take a few more years for me to come out but I think this early reckoning did me some serious good. I couldn't blame myself or others for who I was. I didn't have to blame anyone. What a relief that was. I can only hope that Trump supporters can someday come to a similar reckoning.
Washington for Jesus March, 1980. (UPI)
