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I am trying to rebuild some of my first decks, as far as I can remeber. What did you play back in the days?
I think my first real deck was white wennie. This deck was budget friendly (no duals, just plains) and could win some games. It had, of course, Savannah Lions, White Knight, Order of Leitbur, Order of the White Shield, a Serra Angel for the top, perhaps Armageddon and the great Balance. For removal Disenchant, Swords to Plowshares. Crusade gave all White Creaturs +1/+1, Kjeldoran Outpost could create token creatures and Mishra's Factory was the one and only man land. I loved this deck and I will put this together again soon.
My first deck that wasn't mono color was the green red aggro deck Erhnam Burn'em. You had some mana dorks for ramp, some burn spells for removal and Erhnam Djinn for the win. The Deck played Taiga and City of Brass, Birds of Paradise and Llanowar Elves, Bolt, Fireball and/or Incinerate. Kird Ape was perfect in this deck, especially with the help ob Giant Growth. What a great deck, the first Ponza deck ever. :-) You could also play Sol Ring, Strip Mine, Sylvan Library and Maze of Ith if you had them. Glad I did.
I would love to hear about your first decks. Which cards did you love and play all the time?
Have a great throwback!
An Open Letter to My Parents
“It’s a boy!”
And thus, you began to plan. Long before I’d have the opportunity to pick up a pen, you both began to write my story.
“He’ll be a C.O.”
“He’ll be a Bethelite”.
You gave the baby a name. A biblical one, of course. He was your legacy, he’d need an appropriate name. 3 generations of witnesses on Mom’s side, witnesses who were the farthest from exemplary. La familia mala. 1st generation on Dad’s side, the “hood rats” from the block never accepted the truth, only him. This baby was hope. This baby would validate all of your trials you’ve gone through in the organization.
Months later, I was born. You wrapped me in a baby blue cotton blanket, slipped a baby blue hat onto my head, and took me home to a baby blue nursery. You put baseballs and basketball shaped pillows in the crib. You laid me down and sang kingdom melodies to me.
I started to walk. Dad handed me a set of HotWheels cars, and I was obsessed. I took those cars with me everywhere. You let me, it was a badge of pride, it screamed “My son is a boy!”. You needed that, because whenever we’d go to visit family, I’d gravitate towards the Barbie dolls. My uncle would look at me and laugh while hanging his limp wrists. My grandmother would call me “pájaro” (this translates to “bird”, but in my culture it’s used like the F-slur is in English). You would say “he’s just sensitive”.
When I told you my cousin and I played “special games”, you didn’t do anything. We were the same age, we were just curious boys. You found out I wasn’t the boy you planned on having, and instead of helping me find myself, you chose to do nothing about it.
Because the reality was that, none of that mattered. My sexuality didn’t matter. Who I was capable of loving didn’t matter. It didn’t make a difference what I was as long as I served Jehovah, right? Still, when I’d show you how I braided a dolls hair, you were quick to snatch them out of my hands.
I told you, before I got baptized at 9, that I was afraid of getting disfellowshipped. “What if I did something wrong?” I’d say. “You won’t” you told me. The Learn From the Great Teacher book had a vivid scene of Armageddon, the scene that would haunt my dreams. “I could die” I told myself. What was I thinking?
What were you thinking? “This would be a protection for him”. 9 years old, my feet couldn’t reach the bottom of the pool, and my brain couldn’t process the gravity of this decision. I closed my eyes, and was pulled into the water.
Then, puberty hit. My conscience couldn’t process the first time I experienced what my body was capable of. I cried so much that night.
I learned about sex the way most public school students do, from conversations at recess and pornography shared between curious teenage boys. With the internet gaining popularity, and an iPod Touch in my hands, a world of possibilities emerged. My young brain couldn’t handle it.
Of course, I couldn’t view pornography on my own. Technically, what was shown to me was shown to me, I didn’t search it myself. Technically, whatever I could find on YouTube, since it wasn’t a porn site, was fair game.
And I went down the rabbit hole, and my searches got more and more specific. Before long, my go to search became “gay guys kissing”. I had never felt anything towards another boy at this point. I’d go through middle school having “dated” 2 girls, and kissed a few more. I spent the summer before high school telling myself that I only loved women.
Then, the first day of school came. We met our advisors for that year, and we were assigned a small group of students that we would have a class with everyday from freshman year to senior year. I walked in late, as per usual, and I found my seat. My eyes immediately gravitated towards a Central American boy with spiky black hair, a big ass nose and a lazy eye.
I was in love.
And I pined for him. I practiced signing his last name and my first on all of my books. I couldn’t tell anyone, because I was super straight. Nobody believed that though.
I spent a lot of my time with a beautiful group of queer people that year. They taught me how to love my curly hair, my dark skin, my body and my culture. They were a mess, in reality, but they were ready to experience life and all aspects of their sexuality. So was I. I told them that I totally wasn’t gay or anything, but I had a crush on James. They included him in our circle, we became friends and we exchanged numbers.
He was the first person I’d come out to. And of course, his first reaction was “Wow, that’s cool. Am I hot to you?”
He kissed me one time. He was curious. It was amazing.
The next day, you found pictures of him on my phone. You screamed and cried “how could you do this to Jehovah?”. I wasn’t thinking about God, I was in love for the first time. I told you I was ready to give up everything for him. You pulled me out of school the next day, and I started homeschooling.
He moved on. I didn’t. Who was I, without him?
I asked myself that as I went door to door, I asked myself that as I went to pioneer school at 16, I asked myself that until he stopped texting me.
I threw myself into “the truth”. I became the perfect boy. You saw glimpses of the future you dreamed of, I was on the stage at the assemblies constantly. I told myself that I could convince myself that this was the truth, that my love for James was a one time thing. It had to be a fluke, I loved girls.
I did love girls. I dated a few sisters after that. I caught feelings. None of it ever worked out. Jehovah had my back though, right?
I turned 17, and started working retail. I passed a sex shop one day. I’d pass that sex shop many many times until I had the courage to walk in and go into a booth. A hand reached through a hole, and a finger gestured at me to come closer.
I found a guilty pleasure.
I was sane. I could go to meetings, comment, give talks, go out in service, do anything Jehovah needed for me. All I needed was some release, a way to blow off steam. I’d go out in service in the morning, visit a strange mans house for a few minutes, go home and study my Bible.
I convinced myself I’d be able to marry a sister, have kids and be the father who didn’t force their kids to get baptized or even indoctrinate them. I was content to lose myself if it meant I could give my children a future. I’d be the happiest closeted bisexual man.
Then, along came E.
He was a fucking handsome man. I was 21, he was 19. He sought me out, we’d always have a deep conversation about art and life. When were at the same parties, he’d stand a little too close to me.
It must be all in my head.
When he drank though, he’d stand so close to me that I could smell his cologne. He always kept eye contact, always had his hand on my arm. He’d pull me by my shirt close to him when he wanted to tell me something, so close that his lips would graze my ear.
It never got farther than that. His eyes told me another story though, it could’ve gone farther. When he moved, he invited me to his home for a week. I had to say no, he said “I don’t have a spare room so we can just share my bed”. Ha. I knew, if the opportunity arose, he could have me. He knew too, and my rejection of the invitation must’ve told him that he was reading the signals wrong. He was an MS, a pioneer, he was exemplary. There was so much risk. We never took that leap of faith. I tried to rekindle that fire a while ago, and the spark is still there, but he’s got a sister he’s “getting to know” now.
I guess I made a clean break from that situation, but my faith was now completely destroyed. Bisexual and a JW didn’t work. Who was I, then?
The closet was so warm and cozy. It was a cocoon that would shelter me from the reality of life. Cocoons aren’t permanent though, I’d have to bloom at some point.
I am not the person you wanted me to be.
I am bisexual, I am black and proud, I’m an artist and I’m human. The only thing you had right about me was that I was a boy.
I am not a Jehovah’s Witness. That 9 year old boy’s worst fear came to fruition. Your perfect son got Disfellowshipped.
I am me. And I’ve been released from the shackles that bound the person I am on the inside. I’m excited to meet him, I hope you are too.
Con Mucho Amor, Su Hijo
Thank you so much for all the loving comments 😭 I wish I had the time to personally reply to every single one! Just know that every comment has been taken to heart and I appreciate you all so much 💕