“Our goal is to be spiritually pure. We cannot allow homosexuals to continue to seep into the pores of society and the Church.”

The teacher’s droning voice seems devoid of emotion, as if he doesn’t realize what he is saying.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

So do others, but for a different reason. I see a few noses wrinkle and eyes roll at the “H-word.” Homosexual. The teacher says it like it’s some kind of disease, and the students shake their heads like there’s a bad smell wafting through the room.

I consider walking out, something that would be classified as a startling act of rebellion, or standing up and telling them that their thinking is hateful and arrogant.

But I don’t. I listen to the abhorrent statements, my face flushing, not from the hot June sun but from the hate swirling around the room. We are steeped in it from birth, like used tea bags brewed again and again.

The back of my knees, damp with perspiration, stick to the plastic chair.

I remember my history class, the period before. We are learning about the Holocaust, reading about the atrocities committed during that horrible time, all due to prejudice against “outsiders.”

I put my head down on my desk and wait for the bell. I try to imagine a place where I can walk down the hallways without heads turning, giggles erupting, and the whispered word “lesbian” following me. Apparently because I have the shortest hair of all the girls in the school, I qualify as gay.

“Aren’t you going to tell them you’re not a lesbian?” my friend asks.

“No. I don’t need to defend myself against something that’s not offensive,” I retort.

Gasps, averted eyes, and an uncomfortable silence settles in like a storm cloud before rain. In my tiny, conservative, classical Christian school, what I’ve just said is blasphemy. I am a heretic.

Lunchtime. I sit with my friends in the field behind the school, our legs tucked modestly beneath the folds of our knee-length plaid skirts, hands folded in our laps. A group of upperclassmen boys tussle over a soccer ball and occasionally steal glances our way to ensure we are watching them.

“You know, Mark’s got his eye on you,” the girls all insist. Giggles ripple through the cluster.

The sweaty boys eventually wander over and sit down. Josh flips his hair over his eyes, and Mark shoves him, exclaiming, “You’re so gay!” Mark stares at me with an expectant look, like he just won the Comedian of the Year Award. His smile falters when I don’t laugh, but the other girls giggle like geese.

I feel like a black sheep in a herd of pure white lambs, or maybe I’m the wolf.

Finally, school is over, and I rush home, ripping off my thick wool sweater and black stockings before I’m even inside. My uniform isn’t the only reason I feel suffocated.

I pore over my history notes on the Holocaust and look up sources online. I read about a world free of opposition, no uncleanness or sin to be found, bountiful purity among the chosen people. I shiver.

Nazi ideals started out as ideas, then snowballed into something immensely more destructive. I am fairly confident that modern day America would never devolve to the horror of the Holocaust. Nevertheless, a valuable lesson can be learned from history. Hate is toxic, and like a disease, it spreads fast, and the results can be deadly.

I’m proud to say that this black sheep finally broke away from the herd. Less than a year later, I am co-president of the Gay Straight Alliance at my new school, a member of Queer Youth Space, and I attend regular workshops and training on how to develop Gay Straight Alliance Clubs in high schools.

I’ve found my spot, where I belong. Maybe being a black sheep isn’t so bad after all.