Joshua Kawase
While the signs were always there—total lack of interest in straight relationships modeled around me, even though I had “27 girlfriends” as a six year old, the stereotypical gay kid involved in dance for a decade—I didn’t realize I was gay until I was 16. I was lying awake in bed one night, and the word “gay” descended upon my consciousness like an anvil on a mound of flour (did I mention I’ve been baking since I was six? Classic gay). It wasn’t pretty.
I grew up in one of the remaining megachurch bastions of conversion therapy, even though I didn’t realize it till recently (they were one of the centers that denounced Exodus for being too liberal). As you can imagine, that theology and conceptualization of sexuality trickled down to me. I personally didn’t think that being gay was “a thing” and was simply some mysterious aspect of my depression that I struggled with for years. So I decided that I wasn’t defined by what I feel and figured that everyone else who didn’t commit to sacrificing their sexuality to their faith wasn’t willing to commit. And the sad part was that my beliefs barely came even from pride. I simply did not know, had no access to LGBTQ+ stories, and assumed what I had been taught had been thought through and was right.
But considering that I was unwittingly making conclusions about myself, a lot of things changed over time. Probably my first milestone was realizing that I couldn’t hate my body anymore for feeling what was developmentally normal for it to feel. That started rolling me towards asking theological/social questions for myself—is being gay an actual, non-disordered experience? Can gay people have healthy relationships? Am I committing sin by coming out? And one by one, those questions all fell to a higher standard—the answer that I had received to those questions had not considered the experience of the LGBTQ+ person. I had been manipulated by a system that didn’t even know what it was doing, but had unwittingly taught me that I was a perverted, dangerous, ticking time bomb, and that the only one who could diffuse me was myself.
Music has slowly grown into the refuge and expression I’ve needed to find language to describe my experiences. Audrey Assad’s more recent albums, as well as her own articulate descriptions of her reconstructive process, mirrored the similar nihilism contrasted with the choice to believe that good can come in this world...they anchored me. So as I read books like The Velvet Rage, or began to understand my own deconstruction, I knew my heart, and that deep inside, it just wanted to do the right thing.
Life is complex, now. I came out to my family a few months ago, and it’s led to a series of chaotic events where I’m about to move for the 4th time in 13 months, drop out of grad school, get a job, and be willing to leave the depressive stability I know to pursue risky ventures. But all the risks I’m taking are worth it. I was talking with my boyfriend today, and we were looking back at pictures from a few months ago. I commented “you know, I never liked my smile. It always felt plastic to me.” And then when we looked at pictures from the present, I realized that I was finally smiling genuinely. I had simply been sad for so long that I forgot how I smiled.
Now, I’m stepping towards a music career. I sing, write, and produce my own music, and am hoping to release a single, two EPs, and an album next year as well as a mental health talk show podcast with a counselor friend of mine. Life is scarier now than it used to be, and I’m taking lots of risks. But I will never go back. I dream too much now to give up hope.