Why I Wrote 'Worthy'
Embracing My Truth
When I sat down to write Worthy: The Memoir of an Ex-Mormon Lesbian, I wasn’t just telling my story, I was shining a light into the dark corners of the fear and intimidation which shaped so much of my life. Assigning words to my memories and the complex feelings associated with them was helpful in my personal healing, and it turned out to be helpful for others with similarly painful histories.
This post, which I wrote in 2023, is part confession and part declaration of empowerment. It’s about what happens when you stop shrinking in fear, stop apologizing for existing, and start writing for your life.
If you’ve ever wondered how you find the courage to tell the truth, even when it costs something, this is for you.
I received a message from a childhood friend last week. His intention was to make a joke about why we don’t need a whole month for Pride. He began his “rant” with a lesbian slur that I had never heard aimed at me before and it went downhill from there. I believe he meant to be funny, but his lack of understanding was evident in his insensitivity. I took it upon myself to educate him with a response that was at once vulnerable and fierce. It was a stark reminder that there is still so much work to do and that representation and visibility matter for the LGBTQIA+ community.
Recently, a reviewer told me she enjoyed the book and learned a lot from reading it, but she didn’t understand what my overall message was. The purpose of this blog is to declare loud and clear that my reasons for writing this book were to shine a light on the abuses and injustices that occur in high-demand organized religion, especially as it relates to women and queer people, and to invite us to do better at inclusion and outreach as a society of humans.
My memoir Worthy: The Memoir of an Ex-Mormon Lesbian recounts events in my life that demonstrate the oppression I experienced as a female and closeted gay person in the church and in my community. My life was planned out for me from a young age. Marriage and motherhood were supposed to be my crowning achievements and the fulfillment of my eternal destiny. I exercised obedience, to my own detriment. It was a good life, but it was not my life. Because I felt powerless in my own decision making and because I was not permitted to live authentically, I developed self-loathing that led me to believe the world would be better off without me. I devised a plan to raise my young children to adulthood before giving in to my hopelessness. It saddens me to recall how I thought that violence against myself was the only reasonable option. Everything changed when my youngest came out as non-binary at age fifteen. I had to make a choice between religion and family. I chose love.
In the spirit of love and with the advent of Pride month, I recently purchased a Mama Dragons logo magnet for my car. It is a multifaceted dragon decorated in rainbow colors. I bought it to show solidarity with other moms of queer children and to identify myself as someone who can understand and empathize with their plight. I am appalled by the level of aggression I’ve experienced in traffic for displaying this 4” symbol, which doesn’t even mean that I’m queer, but is simply showing my support for my queer child and other mothers who are struggling with similar issues.
For example, on the first day of Pride month, just a couple of weeks ago, I was stopped at a traffic light in Auburn, Maine, when the driver behind me held a paper plate out his car window with the handwritten message “YOU F-SLUR.” I froze. I panicked. I evaluated my chances of being hurt. When the light turned green, the driver pulled around and passed me on the left. I looked straight ahead and didn’t acknowledge them. All I could think was to make myself as small as possible, invisible even, to avoid inciting any retaliation. Explain to me how I am asking for this.
In 2021 I attended an entertainment event in the Old Port of Portland, Maine. My girlfriend and I left the venue at 9:30 p.m. to walk to our parking spot which was 0.8 miles away on a busy street in the city. It was dark outside when a group of men greeted us with, “Good evening, ladies.” Being streetwise women of a mature age, we exercised caution and chose not to engage with the strangers, and continued past them, hoping our lack of attention would end the encounter. We were not holding hands. We were not walking close. We were not displaying any public affection. We were not doing anything to invite criticism. These men chased us for that 19-minute trek to our car, hollering things like, “I HATE D-SLURS!” Not one bystander came to our rescue or offered any concern or assistance. The whole terrifying time I rehearsed self-defense techniques in my head, planning how to fight someone so much bigger than me. Even though I hold 2 black belts, I understood that this was not a fair fight. These men were not in their right minds, whether from mental illness or chemical influence, and I did not feel safe engaging in hand-to-hand combat with them. We sprinted to our car and raced away just in time to see them searching for us near our parking spot. I was safe, but I would never be the same. My innocence was replaced by the blatant reality that dangerous people want to hurt me, just because I exist.
I spent the weekend at a Pride event in my hometown of Bangor, Maine. This is where I grew up, went to school, attended church, learned how to roller skate, earned my driver’s license, played in the marching band, and got my first job. These are my roots. This is also the town where 13-year-old Chris became aware of the hatred that some individuals in my community held for queer people. Charlie Howard’s murder is a tarnish on Bangor’s legacy. His memorial in Downtown Bangor reads, “May we, the citizens of Bangor, continue to change the world around us until hatred becomes peacemaking and ignorance becomes understanding.” Read more about the murder of Charlie Howard
I was nervous, frankly, to return to Bangor as an out lesbian. I had never been out in Bangor and the thought of watching a parade on Main Street, celebrating my Pride, brought up old feelings of fear, terror, honestly. As I stood on the curb and watched all the rainbows march by, flags held high, banners testifying that it was finally safe to be myself, I sobbed in silence. Tears streamed down my cheeks as a trickle of healing worked its way into my heart. This was a message of inclusion to which I was not accustomed. I am happy to report that all my associations and interactions with the good people of Bangor last weekend were positive and affirming. Thank you, Bangor, for welcoming the true Chris Davis back into the community. Your warm embrace of acceptance has restored my hope and my confidence in the town I love, and which I am proud to call my childhood home.
Let’s not lose sight of the timeline here. I have only been out for 3 years. These events are not from another time when we were used to excusing ignorance. These things are still happening today. I still fear for my mortal safety. I resist the impulse to hold my partner’s hand in public because I fear being brutalized by a stranger who feels justified in teaching me a lesson about what society considers acceptable.
We need allies, friends and families who advocate for equality and justice. It recently came to my attention that some well-meaning people assume their silence in the face of homophobia is an acceptable means of combating it. It is not. A delayed whispered apology for the behavior of their ignorant relatives brings no comfort. Your advocacy is crucial, and your compassion needs to have a voice. In addition, being an ally does not give you permission to say rude or crude things about queer people with impunity, explaining that you can say it because you have a gay friend or family member. We need allies who will speak up in a crowd against hate, ridicule, or off-color jokes, to say this is not okay.
I write to dispel ignorance. I write to bring awareness. I write to participate in the conversation that we so desperately need to have, as a nation, as people of faith, as friends, coworkers, and family members. I don’t have the solution, but I have lived experience as a member of the LGBTQIA+ community, and as a parent of a transgender child.
We can do better.
Let us create a world where love wins.
All the love,
Chris
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I feel all of this (too) on a molecular level❣️