Taking a little break from the apocalyptic revelry today, I wanted to say a quick note about the “Don’t Say Gay” bill that just passed  the Tennessee state legislature. This is a significant step in the wrong direction for the state of Tennessee, a state that has a very rich cultural history. A state with a music scene that rivals New York and Los Angeles.

The “Don’t Say Gay” Bill, as it moniker alludes, makes it illegal - yes illegal - for teachers and educators to recognize the existence of homosexuals. For whatever reason, the strategy here is, if you don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist (a very ineffective Voldemort strategy, by the way.) But the subtext is far more sadistic: this directly harms children.

To come a time of record-high gay teen suicide, due to the bullying of peers (and family members) this bill is basically aimed at ensuring these problems continue. For the kid of single sex parents, this bill means that their family is not valid. For a kid who is gay, and  afraid to come out, or is being bullied, this means he cannot reach out to his teacher.  This bill is aimed at hurting, scaring, and bullying children, gay and straight.

And as a musician, I wish I would see more outspoken activity from Nashville’s thriving music community. You are in the entertainment industry, trust me, you know gay people.

I would like to preface this story with an apology to anyone offended by the following true tale.  Names have been changed to protect the innocent and to my parents: I smoked pot in college. One time.* 

I was living in an NYU dorm tucked away in Chinatown in a large suite with seven guys, some of whom smoked pot in college, once*. A major exception was my roommate, Rajan, who had strong moral fortitude, a sense of responsibility and work ethic. He was double majoring in History and Economics while attending the gym religiously to pass the Navy’s physical fitness test. In contrast, my sophomore year can be aptly described as an ode to college lore and legend from another era, spending most of my time debating the pros and cons of anarcho-syndicalism, or the pending consumer revolution in organic food products.

There were three of us. We were an ensemble of invalid intellectuals you may have heard walked into a bar together: an Iranian, a Jamaican, and a Third Generation stereotype, all of whom held the opinion that there were “Some good things” about Marxism. The centerpiece of our nights was a particular piece of drug paraphernalia we named “Jesus.” Much like the religious figure, the origin of its name is unknown and up for debate: “Because religion is the opiate of the masses so it’s referential and ironic,” or because “it makes you feel like you are walking on water…and, fuck…it even HAS water INSIDE” and finally and most probable “its from the Big Lebowski…you know ‘The Jesus’…”

Point is, we had a bong named Jesus. Any blasphemy accrued, ultimately, was reappropriated as our own rebellion against the right-wing Christian hysteria sweeping the country and recent election results. My track to atheism had been steadfast in recent years, and my past as a  Catholic had almost faded completely in the rear-view mirror. That is, it had, until one fateful day.

It was Good Friday, and it meant nothing to me. I was baptized as a newborn, received my first communion at age 8 with enthusiasm (but disappointed by the lack of flavor in  Christ’s flesh, compared to to the triscuits I would eat in anticipation) and eventually I was confirmed — as a non-believer. A year before my confirmation, I thought I was a strong Catholic, full of faith and “God’s eternal love”. The cracks began to show when I met my first girlfriend, who was raised by fundamentalists. A majority of our time, between experimental kissing exercises, had been spent arguing over her assessment that every gay kid we knew in theater was undoubtedly heading “straight to hell.” (I didn’t even bring up the fact that I had recently discovered I was pro-choice.) These conversations intensified until we found ourselves, still lingering at first base, in a spiritual war. But what side was I on? Because she was right: everything she said was in the Bible that I was raised to believe in, if that’s the case the Bible was wrong. My family’s beliefs were wrong. If tormented  gay kids were hell-bound and their bullies blessed, it was not a God I wanted to support for reelection. So I switched parties (she broke up with me over this,which was OK, I was pretty sure french kissing involved less teeth-licking.) It was “Good Friday,” 2003, I was eating pepperoni pizza, and reading a book on Middle East modernity. And it meant nothing to me.

My roommate Rajan in his preternaturally responsible fashion, had just finished a thirty page paper due the following Monday. Taking a break from all of that responsibility, he celebrated with a few classmates by getting uncharacteristically drunk, unusually early. It was this unusual decision that prompted him to swing open our door, throw his arms in the air and yell “I finished! I am done! I am drunk! Let’s go out!” And with a stumble from enthusiasm or insobriety, he fell into the bureau where “Jesus” had been placed for safekeeping, sending the beautiful glass sculpture on a free-fall to its untimely demise as it exploded into hundreds of shards, leaving a puddle of bong water.

I couldn’t help but start laughing.

“You killed Jesus!” I said, cracking up, “You Killed Jesus On Good Friday!”

“I’m Pontius Pilate..”

“You’re Pontius Pilate!”

“I’m sorry…I just had a few drinks and..”

“Alcohol is like, the Pharisees!” 

It was Good Friday, and Jesus had died, and was buried, down the shoot of our building’s trash compactor.

“Ok, seriously, if the bong resurrects on Sunday, you have to become a Catholic again,” Rajan said.

“Dude…If it comes back, I’m worshiping the bong.”

Jesus did not return on Sunday. A strange, irrational part of me that was still tempted by faith was relieved. If there were ever a time when God would send me a message to come back to the fold, this was clearly it. For the first time in years, I decided to celebrate Easter by making dinner for my roommates. I did not have a change of heart, but for the first time since I denounced religion, I realized a part of me still enjoyed the tradition of it all. And maybe, that is all people need sometimes, a community based on some arbitrary tradition. Jesus was once the centerpiece of that community, then “Jesus” was.  So we celebrated Easter, and we enjoyed it, despite the absence of a “higher power.” 

*(Sophomore year.)