Christian Weissmann is a writer, actor and poet from Chicago, Illinois, whose first collection of poetry, He, Him & I, is out now through Simon & Schuster. He’s appeared on shows such as Saved By The Bell, Dear White People and Girl Meets World. Weissmann got his start publishing essays in the Los Angeles Times, Huffington Post and Byline on topics like queerness and toxic masculinity. He lives in Los Angeles with his extensive record collection.
The cross necklace around my neck feels tighter than usual this morning. As I look over the pages from my debut poetry book, Her, Him & I, all I can think about is my conservative family in Middle America are about to read about how I had gay sex in a church. Well, it was turned into a banquet hall, but the pews were still there, so it still earns the badge of blasphemy, in my opinion.
Spending much of my childhood sitting in the chestnut benches of St. Mary’s Church in Illinois, I often lost myself staring into the stained glass hues of blue and red. I needed something to focus on, after all. I was a sinner. And when I was consciously aware of that reality, I could not sit still.
I was riddled with impure thoughts. I knew they were wrong from the minute I stepped into church. Judgment was being pumped through the air vents. And I inhaled it like it was scripture. I hoped it would wash away every feeling of sin. After all, I had an abomination of them. (I learned that word from the priest!) These ideations that left my brain feeling more conflicted as I exited mass, compared to entering. Can Father John smell it on me when I take communion?
Growing up in a conservative household in the suburbs of Chicago, the teachings of the church were ingrained in me from an early age. These ideals shaped my understanding of the world and dictated how I should behave and believe. Yet, beneath the surface, there was a part of me that could not conform, a part that sang a different song.
Even at a young age, I was deeply cognizant of these contradicting emotions that clouded my mind. Each intrusive thought sounded like an alarm pounding on my bedside table, waking me at 7 a.m. to get up and put on my collared shirt for Catholic school. But even as I fidgeted with the buttons in the mirror, I couldn’t look myself in the face. I was far from sure about how to process these immoral feelings, let alone speak about them. So, I did what I was taught. Write off each emotion as the work of Satan, and ignore them. I had a leather-bound journal from a book fair that became my best friend. I’d write out every thought in riddles and then hide it as soon as I was finished. I packed it away in the back of my bedroom closet. Nobody went in there, so I’d be safe.
A decade later, my childhood home with the oversized closet was sold, I’d thrown out my leather-bound journal and I now lived in California. I was visibly proud of my heterosexuality and felt that moments of trauma and homosexual thoughts were long behind me. But as I began to explore dating, the emotions I left back in Illinois seemed to find their way across the country.
In retaliation, I started attending trendy Los Angeles churches, to wash away any immorality, and brought my new girlfriend with me! She wasn’t religious, but attended to support me … little did she know! I stuck my head in scripture and prayed away my sinful thoughts. It’s funny how I was partaking in premarital sex, but my brain computed that as fighting back against my homosexual ideation, a sin that God would be OK with. But it didn’t shut those thoughts away. I was seeing a therapist at the time to help manage my severe performance anxiety, which affected both my acting and my dating life. Every day, I carried a heavy burden of fear, and I found myself anxious in nearly any stressful situation. It wasn’t until my therapist encouraged me to journal about my panic attacks that I began to discover traces of my younger self within the pages.
I am more than my instincts. I am more than my urges. I am stronger than that voice that is inside.” “The way my stomach turns into knots when I see he looks at me is unholy.” “I wish I could wander through the wilds of my heart, exploring the innate urges that call from the depths, but the shadows whisper of wrongness, and I fear the truth that lies beyond.”
It wasn’t until the COVID pandemic locked me in with nothing but these impure thoughts to fill my wildest dreams that I truly came to terms with who I was. When that real version of me came out, I was terrified. (Doing the work to make myself known, but still petrified.) Some were shocked I was gay, some were not. (I can’t believe my parents were surprised – I’m sorry. you do remember I asked to see Britney Spears on tour in 2009, right?) Since my coming out in 2020, I’ve noticed the vulnerability in my writing has only grown stronger.
I processed every thought, every fear, every insecurity in my journal. With lots of time on my hands, I turned these thoughts into something more abstract: a book of poetry. This book inadvertently turned into a testament of covert and overt queerness. It was not intentional; the dance between the two simply permeated every life experience.
In my book, the first act, titled “Behaving in a Crowd,” symbolizes this closeted reality. It represents my struggle to maintain appearances, to blend in and avoid scrutiny. The second act, “Setting Myself on Fire,” marks a turning point. In it, I shed the constraints of my upbringing and fully embrace my identity. The title itself is a defiant act, a symbolic burning away of indoctrinated beliefs and societal expectations. (It also plays into the idea of gays burning in hell, but isn’t that obvious?!) This act truly represents liberation, the freedom to express my true self without fear or shame. The poems in this section are bolder, more assertive, reflecting the process of self-discovery and acceptance.
The poem “The Divine Sacrament,” which opens Act II, vividly captures this struggle. Through religious imagery, I recount my first intimate experiences with another man, juxtaposing these moments against the backdrop of the Catholic Church. The poem speaks to the guilt and confusion I felt, attempting to find solace and redemption through religious rituals that ultimately could not reconcile my true self with the doctrines I was taught.
Writing these poems was an act of defiance. Laying down each verse felt like I was bleeding out decades of homophobia and religious guilt I didn’t even know existed within me. Every poem about queerness was a step toward reclaiming my identity, toward setting myself free from the chains of conservative dogma. By addressing these taboo topics in such an explicit manner, I finally felt like I was confronting the very forces that sought to suppress me. In doing so, I found a new sense of strength and self-worth.
I never meant for this book to attack and tear down the establishment that built me (my peers, my family, my hometown, the church, the media etc.). I simply want these poems to be a guidepost for those exploring their own feelings of “immorality,” especially those indoctrinated by conservative and traditionally religious beliefs. A sign of hope for the conflicted.
At a ripe 24 years old, years past the first time I slept with a boy (it was not actually in a church), I’m leaning deep into my reliance on the Universe. I wear a cross around my neck because it looks cute and I can reclaim whatever I want! These days, I give my thoughts of uncertainty to my journal still. I meditate. I believe in a Higher Power. Whether that’s God, Jesus or something magical up in the sky … I’m not sure yet. And that’s OK. All I’ve learned is that the type of God I believe in would not shame me for my pain and the innate feelings of love I’ve had since I was a gap-toothed elementary schooler. Even if I talk about stained glass window reflections on the body of a boy I love. It’s poetry, after all.
Featured image of Christian Weissmann by Ryan Clemens; all images courtesy Christian Weissmann.
