Heroin For Jesus

My hometown Lyft from discord to alignment. We don't have to hate each other.

The instant my rideshare app indicates my driver will be a man, I utilize the next six minutes on the airport sidewalk to prepare for every possibility from insult to death. As his car approaches, I double check the license plate number to confirm this is the correct car.

I’m playing tourist in my hometown to help welcome a friend’s new baby. My arrival demonstrates how much I cherish this friendship.

I grew up in Bangor. The ghosts from my old life recognize me when I return. They have their favorite haunting techniques for needling back under my skin. I was hurt here by many men in many ways for many years, so I’ve come prepared for my visit to the Queen City with antacids in one pocket and pepper spray in the other.

I open the car door and observe the muddy floor mats and a blanket on the backseat that could cover any number of sanitation sins. I make pleasant noises to check the temperature of his mood and disposition as we pull away from the curb. “Where are you from?”

The driver meets my energy with a casual, friendly response, “Jersey.”

People “from away” are usually reluctant to admit they’re not from Maine because it identifies them as outsiders. I preemptively calm his embarrassment by asking for more details. “What brought you all the way to Maine from New Jersey?”

His answer alerts me that he doesn’t intend for this conversation to be casual after all. “Heroin.”

I feign curiosity. Everyone likes to be met with curiosity. As a woman and a domestic violence survivor, I understand I need to make him feel comfortable because as long as I don’t present a threat, he will feel safe. And if he feels safe, I will be safe. Sometimes I imagine I could be awarded some kind of trophy for my keen powers of observation and fawning techniques. Thank you, Childhood Trauma, for helping me develop communication skills that disarm any potential opponent.

He rolls through a stop sign, which makes me wonder if he’s a safe driver. This contributes to my wariness of the man, sending up another fiery flare of possible danger. I tamp down my anxiety about his driving abilities, noting there are worse things to fear than a fender-bender. I encourage him to share his journey with me to connect with this man’s humanity. “Now that sounds like a story I need to hear!”

The driver begins his tale, which I’m confident he’s told thousands of times before. “I found a rehab facility in Maine. My life was a wreck, I didn’t have anything left to lose, so I gave it a try. That’s where I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. I’ve been sober for over twenty years.”

He peers proudly at me through his rearview mirror. I know what this is. We are both signaling. He’s watching my reaction to assess my faith in God and I’m keeping my expression neutral even as I don spiky blue hair and butch attire in his backseat. His pronouncement is a challenge, an invitation to fight or agree. The prescribed dogma of his religion includes piety, moral superiority, and biases against sinners and non-believers. I recognize his zealous energy because I was a comrade, not so long ago. I know the signaling, even though I don’t abide by the code anymore. He isn’t aware of my double agent status.

This is not the first time I’ve felt the need to neutralize a threat during a rideshare. Once, I asked to be let out of a car because I was uncomfortable with the Praise music coming from the stereo speakers. My panic is an involuntary trauma response, which I’m trying to subdue during the next fourteen minutes of travel through these familiar streets. I switch into Mormon missionary mode because I can see the need to connect on common ground. Thank you, LDS Church, for teaching me the jargon I would need to help churchgoers feel comfortable and understood.

“It sounds like that was really meaningful for you.” I prompt him to tell me more, give him space to continue without taking his bait, as I surreptitiously engage in deep breathing exercises and grounding techniques to soothe my nervous system and stay present. As a recently radicalized queer feminist, I know we are on opposite sides of at least a couple of issues and I still need to get to my destination safely. I am stuck, but I’m not trapped.

I clock Bangor landmarks out the window, smiling at the memories they inspire, wincing at the memories that don’t inspire smiles. Sandy snowbanks line the gutters. According to the groundhog, spring is right around the corner. I catch myself looking around every corner, hoping for the change in seasons. I resist the urge to grip the dusty armrest and instead pat the hair down on the back of my neck.

He concludes his story and pauses for my reaction. I give him a little perceived power by admitting my lack of knowledge about illicit drugs. This is a technique I use to endear myself to people who like to explain how the world works to us bumpkins. “I grew up Mormon so I never experienced heroin,” I reveal with a sheepish laugh.

He leaps into proselytizing action with a fervent “Mormonism is a cult and they’re not real Christians.”

I pause only a moment to appreciate the underhand serve he has lobbed my way. This is something we can agree on! He learned his competitive techniques from his pastor and I know not to take them personally. I’m already aware of the canned response Latter-day Saints are taught to counter this argument when it comes up in heated debate with evangelicals. I shift my weight and adjust my stance for my next maneuver. I return his volley and unite against our common opponent: I agree and list the reasons his assertion is true.

“It wasn’t until after I left the Mormon church that I came to understand the concept of grace. This is a fundamental principle of Christianity, and since Mormons don’t practice grace in their worship, I agree that they don’t honor the sacrifice of Jesus.” He listens, so I continue. “They focus more on works, and preach that obedience is the mechanism for measuring faithfulness. This allows church leadership to demand compliance and submission from its members and to characterize critical thinkers as apostates.”

He catalogs my answer into his arsenal for future bible bashing with the boys in white dress shirts and black name tags. I have earned his respect. The hook is set; all I have to do is reel him in to make a friend out of this Believer. He has replaced his obsession with heroin for an obsession with Jesus and I can work with these raw materials. Religion truly is “the opium of the people,” as Karl Marx famously posited. Thank you, Faith Deconstruction, for teaching me that we all just want to be seen for who we are and appreciated for our differences, rather than being judged for them.

I continue to feed quarters into this machine to secure my prize. I need to get to the end of this ride without triggering his anger or making him feel like he needs to fight with me to defend his convictions. I can see that he respects intellect, so I feel safe enough to show that I understand him but I have a different perspective because of my lived experience. I share that I wrote a memoir about living a closeted life in the Mormon church. I need him to see that faithful queer people can be hurt by religion and that it wasn’t my ignorance that chased me away from belief. My personal and professional advocacy includes mentoring the queer community after leaving high-demand religion, but it’s risky to reveal that it contradicts his position because I don’t want to be yelled at in a tiny moving vehicle. My invisible trauma response is rooted in the residue of patriarchal control and intimidation.

“I admire people who identify strongly with their faith,” I say, “and who take comfort in their faith communities. Honestly, I miss that. I wish my faith hadn’t been used to hurt me because I can see how much value it brings to your life. I often consider how it will feel to stand outside the church building during my own mother’s funeral, because I can’t cross the threshold without becoming physically ill.”

His brow creases. He relates to me with compassion and empathy, rather than bristling with righteousness. “We don’t have to hate each other just because we believe different things.” My thoughts come out of his mouth.

I share a bible story that illustrates Jesus’ love and acceptance for those who were different from Him. I amplify the message with another quote from his Jesus, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” I point out how he has extended this kindness to me during our ride. I appeal to this random Lyft driver’s need to feel understood by employing his own Christian dialect.

We pull up to the curb on the other end of our ride together. I grab my bags out of his hatchback trunk and make eye contact with him again through his rearview. “Thank you for showing me what a real Christian looks like.” I say it, not because I agree with his position, but because I want to reinforce his behavior of suspending judgement and seeing people the way I would like to think his God sees them.

He beams with pride. I’ve won him over and convinced him I’m not a menace. I’m grateful he has delivered me safely to my destination. Bangor’s threat has been neutralized for today. My hope is that he will take this encounter back to his congregation and tell them about the Good Lesbian who admired and respected him. We chose love, instead of fanning the flames of divisive hate.

Thank you for meeting me halfway, my Christian acquaintance. I send you love. And a large tip.