Her powerful and provocative artistry fails to capture the hearts of those who don't quite understand her message. Often overlooked in the art world, Beyoncé has struggled for years to gain the respect of her peers. That all changes when she meets A...
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now playing: "Orange Moon" by Erykah Badu
My mind was still a landscape riddled with question marks, each one casting a longer shadow as I walked past. I could parrot the 'correct' answers, the ones I'd been taught, but they would echo hollow in my own ears.
The discrepancy between what I professed and what I felt was growing, a chasm lined with doubt and discomfort. The concept of God, once a cornerstone of my existence, had become blurred.
The teachings of my youth, once clear and absolute, were then refracted through the prism of my general education philosophy class and the earnest debates with Robyn during our shared meals in the dining hall. She had me questioning everything, from my taste in men to my unnatural affinity for Raisin Bran cereal.
But what could be more unnatural than two individuals of the same sex falling in love? It was a paradox that had kept me up many nights, wrestling with conflicting thought processes.
Perhaps if I'd prayed harder and continued my religious studies, I would have found answers and slept comfortably like a baby. But the more I gained knowledge outside of church, the more it became hard to tell if there were any truths at all. It was a disconcerting place to be.
The church had been my comfort zone as a small child, my place of belonging, but as I got older, I began to see it more and more like a fish sees water.
My skin felt dry and itchy as I swam through the liturgy.
The familiar hymns sounded shrill, and I struggled to find harmony.
My dad and his family, his friends, and his colleagues all sang along, their faces relaxed and their voices strong. The words were easy, and they flowed out without hesitation. They knew them by heart.
I could feel the difference in my face. I was certain the others could, too. Especially my father. My lips were stiff, and my jaw was tight, as though my mouth were being wrenched open to receive the lyrics.
My gaze was downcast, my eyes fixed on the order of service. I read the words, but the meaning didn't make it past the first layer of my skin.
I still wanted to believe. I still wanted to join in. I just couldn't. My dad would give the opening remarks and the morning scripture reading.
He was an orator, rivaling Martin Luther King, Jr., for charisma and conviction. When he stepped up to the pulpit, the entire congregation held its breath. Even the pastor and babies grew still.
No one outside of our family was privy to who my father truly was, but they sensed that the man behind the Bible was a man of power and substance.
A man of good faith.
A man who embodied the values he espoused.
As a deacon of our church, he had many other duties, but speaking from the pulpit was his favorite. His deep voice rumbled like thunder as he shared impersonal stories and not-so-insightful commentary.
