God's Army

Chapter 1

I remember a time when I wasn’t ashamed to be who I am. When words like Dyke, and Fag weren’t used in public because they were deemed offensive. A time where we were protected by law, and given the same rights as any other person. When I could walk down the street, holding hands with a girl, and not get shot at. I remember believing we were all the same. We were protecting by a thing called science, that taught all people that homosexuality was not a choice, that we were born different, and that it wasn’t wrong. We were not criminals to live our lives this way. We even got the right to be married, adopt children and have the same benefits as our straight peers.

None of that really matters anymore does it. What matters is that’s real. What matters is how we became the worst kind of criminals. How the world changed, and how we got hit by the brunt of it. Everyone needs a scapegoat right?

It started in politics. We all laughed at the concept of the separation of church and state. What a joke. We all knew the church controlled the state, and while we thought at one point we had the upper hand, it came back to slap us back down again. You see, religion has its ways of making people feel guilty about not following them. They have leeway you see. Not everyone can resist the fear of going to hell. So, they follow what the church says, in order to stay away from hell. I say, if hell is the opposite of where those people end up, count me in.

When she first ran for president, we all laughed. She was a skinny, rednecked white woman, with big southern hair, and an even bigger southern accent. She always carried a bible and I’m sure she had a gun stashed away somewhere in that gigantic purse of hers. It started as a joke, people watching to laugh at the woman. However, it became a sort of wave, people began to notice her, and not just for how she looked. She had strong views. Make abortion illegal. Make illegal immigrants leave the country. And especially, taking away gay rights.

We didn’t get too scared until we saw the polls. She led a small Christian political group called God’s Army. When we saw their support, we began to wonder. They didn’t win the first time, or the second time. But the third time, we began to see our fate in the twinkle of her devilish eyes. The party gained momentum, led by the churches, and followed by the people afraid of hell. Then came the day that changed it all. An earthquake struck, and half a million people died. She ate it up, like all politicians did. She told everyone that the end of the world was coming, and it sure seemed like it. The earthquake was followed by flooding, hurricanes and several tornadoes. The death toll rose, and so did people’s fear of the end of the world. As fear rose, so did people’s support for God’s Army, who were the only politicians who could given an explanation for the unexplained phenomenon.

The day she won, I could feel dread seep into my veins. I watched her speech, and the cheers of the people, and I felt real fear for the first time in a long time. We had an enemy, and now she was the president. She started small, taking away little rights that most of us took for granted. Then, she moved to bigger scale things, like having all convicted lesbians and gays wear a pin on our shirts. It was illegal for us to take it off, and some stores did not allow us entrance with the pins on. We began to be called names; names that we all thought were buried. Dyke, fag, fairy, lesbo. The first couple of times, I got mad and hurt. Then, it grew more and more common, and I almost accepted it as a part of life.

The day she took all my rights away, I broke down and cried. My partner of 5 years went back to her ex boyfriend to escape from the madness that surrounded us now. She was lucky. I wasn’t. The people called for a purging of the country. She told them if we were gone, the punishment from the Lord would end. So they voted, and homosexuality was made illegal. We were packed up and shipped off to places where we would be kept away from the general population. Where we couldn’t spread our “disease” to others.

So when I said before that it doesn’t matter what I remember, I mean it. What’s real is that I have been arrested, charged with homosexuality, and loaded into a truck, bound for “Sin City” Nevada. It used to be a city of gambling, sex and fun, but God’s Army called it perverse, and shut it down, kind of like they did to us. I’ve seen it on TV. I know what’s waiting for me. But honestly, how much of what they show is really the truth? God’s Army is shown to be tolerant, fair and gentle to its people. I have been beaten, kicked, spat on and branded all in the name of God’s Love. If God loves me this way, than I want nothing to do with him.

I am crowded into the truck with groups of men and women. Some are screaming, some are crying, but all are doomed. We know where we are going, and what fate is waiting there. We will join the thousands of our brothers and sisters. Some of us crouch in the corners, and weep for their loss. One man takes his future into his own hands and hangs himself, right in front of his partner. No one seems to notice the man’s anguished cries as he rocks his dead lover in his arms. The guards ignore it, he’s just another undersirable after all. The dead man’s partner does not let go of his body until they pry it out of his hands. His tears touch his partner’s face as they drag him away, and I know he is doomed.

As I think about them, I find myself happy that at least I do not have to worry about my partner’s brutal end. My ex is safe and happy with her boyfriend, living a safe, protected lifestyle. I wonder if she thinks about me, and how we used to be. But wondering just hurts, so I wonder no more.

The unload us one by one, and I see they are sorting us. Old and young, male and female. Couples are pried apart, and cries tear my heart. I see an old gay couple fight to hold on to each other, only to be beaten to death, their hands mere inches away from each other. I look away, and try not to cry. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I know they are watching us, and I hate them for it. Nothing I do ever again will be private. My life is not my own anymore. It is in the hands of these people. I am sorted into the “dyke” line, with the other young lesbians, and I see a separate group forming of “fags”. I know that there will also be transgendered people, and people who do not conform to God’s Army, and its ideas of gender. They will have it the worst I know, and I clench my fists in anger.

As I stand in line, I look at all my brave sisters. I can barely stand the sight of these once proud women reduced to this. I know that some of them are feeling ashamed, wishing they could go back in time and hide out. Pretend to be straight, so they can’t end up in this place. I know thoughts like that are circulating in my own head and I hate it.

We stand in that line for what seems like hours. The sun beats down on us, and I feel weak and dizzy. I wails have not died down, and many of us have fainted from the heat. The echoes of their pain ring in my ears, reminding me that this is not a dream. It is all too real. My teardrops evaporate as they hit the ground, the heat making sure that they do not remain. When they finally call us to march, I find it so hot that I cannot even breath. We are led through the remains of sin City, and we follow the guards to a run down building. Once inside, we are told this is where the dykes will be kept. The guard smirks as he mentions that this used to be a whorehouse. “You all belong here. You dykes should feel right at home.”

I bite back a remark as he glances at us, watching our reactions. If there was guards training their guns on me, I would have lost it. I calmed myself; this was no time to lose it. Don’t let them see how much it hurts. He continues his tirade, hate spilling out of his mouth in an endless stream. Several of my sisters cry. I cannot let that happen to me. I bite my lip, the pain keeping my tears in check as his hate seeps into my heart.

Finally, we are led to our bunks, and we all lay down, feeling worn out after such a tiring day. I wish I could fall asleep, and never wake up. Or that in sleeping, I would be transported to a time and place away from all of this, where I am free and proud again. If only. Even amongst all my sisters, I have never felt so alone. So hopeless and afraid. It is one thing to know what is coming, but it is entirely different to smell death, see it’s cold grip and nestle up with it, waiting for it to turn it’s sights on you. Death lives here, that I know for sure, and sooner or later, it was going to get us all.

Chapter 2
Somehow or other, I drifted to sleep last night. My dreams were haunted with the images that I saw yesterday. The hell that I saw around me was all too real when I opened my eyes, and I finally let myself really cry. The tears fell, and I gasped back screams of anguish. How could I ever think love could win when hate was so strong? I start when someone wraps their arms around me, and turn to see a young woman sitting beside me, her own eyes bloodshot and red rimmed from crying. We sit in silence, allowing understanding to flow between us and consume us. Then, we curl up in the bed, touching just slightly, to remember the touch of another and to not feel so alone.

The next day, they wake us early. We are violently ripped from our beds, spat on and undressed. We stand, naked and vulnerable as guards look us over and take any belongings we have on us. They then march us to a crude shower where they dump cold water over us and throw ill fitting clothes that are brittle, and stained at us. We are no longer individuals, they make us all the same. Next, we line up to get our heads shaved. Hair falls in clumps, brown,black, blonde, red, white, mixing together in an odd shag carpet on the floor. The guards are not careful, and they nick our heads, our blood adding to the kladeiscope of colors on the floor. Some women cry as they lose their hair. Not me.

Then, they take us to a room where they begin to tattoo us. We get a tattoo on our left arms, marking us as dykes, undesirables, less than human. Under the word dyke, the put a small series of numbers. The ink seems to penetrate more than my skin. It seeps to my heart and settles there. I have been tattooed before, and I do not care about the pain of the needle. But the pain of the word settles into my skin and becomes a part of me.

Finally, they take us to a room, where we are fed, given a blanket and a change of clothes. As we troop back into the dark, dimly lit room with the bunks, I realize I do not know how much time has passed since I arrived. There is no day or night here it seems, just an endless blur of humiliation and hate.