Uprooted is a true story about a black gay music minister’s struggle to balance his orientation and Christian faith which ultimately ends with him leaving the church. The book, however, is not an indictment against the church. It is a journal of the author’s life from birth to the present, highlighting events that drove him to come to a decision he never thought he would have to make. He moves the reader beautifully through alternating moments of humor, despair, and finally, joy. His journey encourages us to allow no one or nothing to restrict us from living the full life we desire and deserve.
Uprooted is a true story about a black gay music minister’s struggle to balance his orientation and Christian faith which ultimately ends with him leaving the church. The book, however, is not an indictment against the church. It is a journal of the author’s life from birth to the present, highlighting events that drove him to come to a decision he never thought he would have to make. He moves the reader beautifully through alternating moments of humor, despair, and finally, joy. His journey encourages us to allow no one or nothing to restrict us from living the full life we desire and deserve.
“Mother, are you sure this is your baby?” the hospital nurse asked when she brought in this chunky, light-skinned little boy with Asian hair and almond eyes.
“Oh, yes,” my mother proudly replied, as the nurse gently lay the wrapped bundle in her waiting arms.
Mom could tell the nurse was not being sarcastic or unkind. She was simply incredulous that two African American, brown-skinned parents could create a light-skinned baby Buddha.
Apparently, the Irish on my mother’s side, the Native American on my father’s side, and who knows who else in their family trees converged to create this eight-pound thirteen-ounce package born by Caesarean.
Mom and Dad brought their only child home to a nicely appointed two-story home in Evansville, Indiana. The large covered front porch was ideal for watching the comings and goings of neighbors, cars, and the occasional city bus connected by overhead electrical wires. The driveway on the side led to a spacious tree-covered backyard and a separate single-car garage. The minimalist interior, typical in the 1950s, included a modern-style sofa, accompanying chairs, and a small Brazilian Satinwood dining room set centered in front of a cushioned window seat facing the backyard. Cream-colored low pile carpeting spread through the dining room and living room, where there was also a non-working fireplace decorated with an ornamental screen, brass shovel, and poker. Orange and brown retro linoleum flooring welcomed guests at the small foyer adjacent to the open living room. (When I was old enough to crawl, my mother said I once reached the floor, touched it, and then quickly pulled my hand back and said, “Too cold, Mommy!”).
My mother lost six children before I was born. They either died in the womb or hours after they were born. When I was 12 years old, she lost a son. I didn’t even know she was pregnant. One summer afternoon she cried out in pain while relaxing with me in the living room. My father immediately dashed in from their bedroom and prepared to drive her to the hospital. The next thing I knew, I was rushed off to my buddy Spencer’s house around the corner where I remained for a week during Mom’s hospital stay. Shortly after she was admitted, Dad called to
reassure me that she would be alright. I soon relaxed and enjoyed spending that time with Spencer’s family.
It wasn’t until years later that I learned Mom had had a miscarriage. She explained that she had Rh negative blood, which could be detrimental to a developing fetus. My next question, of course, was, Why didn’t I die? She explained that while carrying me, her maternal grandmother prophesied to her that she would have a healthy son that would bring her great joy. I must admit that hearing this made me feel special, knowing that the foretelling of my birth was much like what an angel prophesied to the Virgin Mary about Christ. It is important to note that I carried this feeling of being special—particularly to God (at least in my own mind)—well into adulthood. It will soon become clearer how this feeling shaped much of my life.
The youngest age I can remember was four years old. I had a Marble Race Game that entertained me for hours. I also had at least four stuffed animals that slept alongside me while a dimly lit train lamp kept the scary night creatures away. It was also at this age that we moved to our new home, a ranch style in a newly developing subdivision called Riverton, a middle-class area about an hour from Indianapolis. The demographic was almost entirely African American, while upper-class Whites lived in adjacent neighborhoods. We were the first family to move into our newly built house. It had three bedrooms, a bathroom with a double vanity (uncommon in our neighborhood at the time), a finished basement with a second bathroom and an unfinished area delegated to the washer, dryer, and storage. My parents eventually decided to cover the shiny wooden floors upstairs with green sculptured carpet, typical for some homes in the 1960s. Some years later, my parents opened the wall of the beautifully decorated third bedroom and then converted it into an elegant dining room. They were quite proud of our home and enjoyed any opportunity to share it with family and guests. Given their modest beginnings, and considering that a scam artist conned them out of eight thousand dollars (two-thirds of the price of the house), this house was a testament to their hard work and tenacity.
There were several kids my age and a bit older who lived on my street, Forest Tree Lane.
Lovely ranch-style and split-level houses, mostly with manicured yards, bordered the cul-de-sac, which is where my friends and I would often play kickball and dodgeball. The girls and boys played well together. One of our favorite games was “Red Hot Chili.” Someone was randomly chosen to leave the group to hide a belt somewhere out of site. Once we heard them yell “Red
hot chili!” we’d tear off running toward them. The goal when we reached them was to find where they had hidden the belt. As we swarmed the area, the one who had hidden the belt would say “cold” if we were far from the hidden belt and “warm” as we got closer.
“Warm…You’re getting warmer…YOU’RE BURNING UP!”
The person who found the belt would sometimes pretend they didn’t see it and then yank it from its hiding place and then start running after us, hoping to land a few hits in the process before we returned safely to home base. Sometimes we were yelling and laughing so hard we could barely run. And then there were those rare occasions when someone’s parents purchased a large appliance. We’d beg them for the large cardboard shipping box so we could separate it and then divvy up the pieces to use as sleds during the summer. We’d drag our enormous piece to
the top of the gradually sloping hill behind my friend Manny’s house and go skimming across the grass at top speed, purposely falling off at the bottom to justify endless belly laughs.
I bypassed preschool, and at age five started kindergarten at Greendale Elementary School, situated in the picturesque city with the same name. The large, impressive structure reflected Italianate architecture, with a large working bell suspended in a steeple centered atop a Spanish- tiled roof. Mature trees wrapping the perimeter created an idyllic setting. A crescent-shaped driveway was ideal for safely dropping off kids at the entrance. The large cement playground in the rear was nothing special, except for the large raspberry bush that annually fed us during the spring and sometimes stained our clothes (a small price to pay for the deliciously sweet fruit).
First grade was especially wonderful because of Sebastian, an Adonis in the sixth grade, who unknowingly awakened my same-sex attraction. He had a medium stature with a perfectly sculpted ivory countenance and lovely thick brunette hair. He personified male beauty. I tried unsuccessfully not to gaze at him passing in the hallway or roughhousing with his peers on the playground. I imagine he had no idea how I felt about him and the powerful hold he had on me. Never had I experienced rapture while simply looking at a boy. As the time drew near for him to leave Greendale for junior high school, the blossoms of my floral fantasy began to wilt and slowly drift away.
Most of the time, I was content being an only child. My parents made sure I had plenty of toys and games. My playroom was a small unfinished room in the basement where I could let my imagination run wild. I would spend hours there and never become bored. My army men
were more like Superman, extraordinarily strong and, of course, able to fly. The structures I made from Legos were painstakingly erected. And I didn’t simply build houses from Lincoln Logs. I envisioned people from pioneer days occupying them, working tirelessly during the day, and then sharing mesmerizing stories (which I said aloud) over a bountiful hot meal at night. I would create and hang mobiles from the exposed overhead pipes to add to the atmosphere of a genius at work.
I vividly remember a toy called The Strange Change Machine, a small circular oven-like contraption. I’d place these little colored plastic squares inside, and the heat would transform them into various prehistoric animals. I’d then use tongs to remove them and let them cool so I could engage them in battles. Once finished, I would carefully place them back into the oven to briefly heat them so they would become pliable. Once I removed them and placed them in the compression chamber, I’d then turn the crank until they squeezed back into the original little squares. This was one of the most entertaining toys I had. And then there was this marionette clown puppet my parents gave me. It was kind of creepy, so I didn’t play with it very often. I also had to be super careful putting it away or else I’d have a tangled mess of strings to sort through the next time, which happened all too often.
Of my few babysitters, Wendy, my next-door neighbor, was my favorite. She was tall and slender. Her smooth complexion showed no signs of ever having acne, and her perfectly straight teeth were crystal white. She loved to laugh as loud and as often as me. I credit her with my dancing ability. We spent a lot of time practicing our moves to songs like “Tighten Up” by, Archie Bell and the Drells and any song by James Brown. A master at typical girl’s games, she taught me how to hopscotch and play jacks; I eventually became almost as good as her at both. I didn’t even mind playing with her Barbie doll—because Ken was there.
One time while playing in her basement, we decided to rummage through an old chest full of vintage clothes. When I spotted a man’s black velvet fedora, I couldn’t help but put it on. As soon as I did, the hat pin slightly pierced the crown of my head. I immediately screamed then snatched off the hat, leaving the hat pin with a piece of cloth stuck to my scalp. It really hurt.
Wendy immediately burst into laughter. I couldn’t believe it! I begged her to take it out, but instead of helping me, she ran erratically around the basement away from me as I tried to catch her. She laughed her way upstairs to the den where her mother was watching TV. I followed
right behind her, screaming with tears streaming down my face. Her mom softly bit her lip, struggling to keep from laughing, as she gently removed the hat pin.
“Shame on you, Baby Sista,” her mom softly scolded her.
As a little boy, I often spent time across the street at Aunt Irene and Uncle Stanley’s house. They were as close to me as any relative. Their home was a safe haven for me, especially for those few times when I was alone, and thunderstorms moved into the area. Much like other kids, I was always afraid of them. The difference for me was how my maternal grandfather came to make me feel about the storms. He always insisted that everyone in his house sit down and remain quiet until they passed.
“Be quiet!” he said raising up his hand like he was getting ready to spank us. “God’s talking!”
This set in motion a fear of God that was hard for me to shake. Fortunately, Aunt Irene had sympathy for this fear. Whenever I was alone at the start of a thunderstorm, she would insist that either Brad or Marshall, her teenage sons, come to my rescue and bring me over to their house until the storm passed or until my parents returned.
When Aunt Irene and I were alone, I would rattle on about the events in my young life, barely taking a breath between sentences. To give her a break from my incessant talking, she would often sit me in front of her piano and let me plunk away. I was about five years old when she introduced me to playing. Years later she told me she heard me embellishing “Mary Had a
Little Lamb.” Impressed, she called my mother and told her about it. “Girl, Ronald has a gift.”
After my mother heard me play, she agreed. A short time later, she accepted a part-time job as a sales associate at Seabury’s, an upscale department store nearby, so she could earn enough money to buy me a new Wurlitzer upright piano. I soon began taking private lessons, first from Mrs. Lovey, a sweet eccentric Christian woman who wore way too much makeup. The curtains in her modest two-story house always seemed to be closed when I arrived, and it smelled somewhat musty with a faint scent of mothballs. She also had numerous pianos and organs throughout, making it a bit of a challenge to maneuver through the dimly lit spaces.
After instructing me for a few years from the John Thompson classical piano book series, she told my mother that I had learned all she was qualified to teach me. So, I moved on to study with a few more private teachers before enrolling for a couple of years at the University of Hillsborough College Conservatory of Music. My mother was passionate about me playing. She felt it added an element of class to my already classy upbringing. My father didn’t seem as impressed. I’m not sure why. Nonetheless, they dutifully attended each recital, pleased that I never seemed to make a mistake.
I came to have a take-it-or-leave-it attitude about playing. I didn’t consider it something I would continue throughout my life. So, I gave up taking lessons in my early teens. I’m sure my mother was disappointed. She enjoyed showcasing my talent when guests visited.
I had several cousins I’d see every Sunday at church and occasionally throughout the week. We had great fun together: they were more like brothers and sisters. When my mother and her sisters got together over Aunt Cora’s house, they would sometimes pool their money and buy us White Castle hamburgers. At only twenty cents apiece, we would eat ourselves into a food coma.
While at my maternal grandparents’ house, we would often play a game we called “Church,” perhaps subconsciously trying to get on our grandfather’s good side since he was also our pastor. My cousins and I would sit together on the bottom step of the large front porch, which had about ten steps leading up to it. The “preacher” would be the one standing in front of us with a rock in their hand and then switch it back and forth in their hands behind them. When they brought forth their hands, the person who correctly guessed which hand the rock was in would move up one step closer to “heaven.” The first one to reach the porch was graciously accepted to walk through the pearly gates. As for the rest of us, we’d end up in that awful place that Grandpa seemed to enjoy preaching about.
I was closer to Nana than I was to Grandpa. She would often chuckle at the banter of her children as they teased her and lovingly called her “Mother Dear.” She didn’t interact much with the grandkids, but when she did, it was nice. I don’t remember her cooking much, but she always seemed to give us kids a pinch of banana and a slice of her famous buttered wheat toast— no toast I’ve had since tastes as good. Perhaps it was because she made it.
As for Grandpa, he was mostly cantankerous. I don’t remember him ever laughing. When I was a teenager, Mom told me that he was very much an authoritarian, frequently utilizing corporal punishment on her, her four younger sisters and two younger brothers. She said he once slapped her so hard she fell underneath a coffee table. The entire family lived in an environment of fear, never knowing when he might strike out at them. Sadly, Nana had a nervous breakdown at some point in their marriage. I think she even received pharmaceutical treatment to regain some emotional stability afterward.
Though Grandpa seemed more bothered than happy around his grandchildren, there were a few times he’d bring out a large bag of orange marshmallow candy peanuts and offer each of us one—slowly, deliberately, almost grudgingly. My cousins would always say “Thank you,
Grandpa” with big smiles while I would sometimes hold my candy peanut outstretched in my hand, stare at it, look up at the large bag, and then look pitifully back at that one lonesome candy peanut in my hand.
“You don’t want it,” Grandpa would say, nearly shouting, reaching to take it back, clearly annoyed with my lack of gratitude.
“Oh no, Grandpa” I quickly perked up, “Thank you!”
I could never understand why he distributed those candy peanuts so sparingly. He should have never showed me the large bag.
One day, my cousin Daphne and I were in Nana and Grandpa’s living room, casually rocking in his rocking chair, which sat across from the tall beige radio console that seemed to always be playing depressing religious music or boring sermons. Daphne and I adored each other. We laughed and rocked, then we laughed louder and rocked more energetically until the rear of the rocking chair started bouncing up and down on the floor.
“Stop rocking in that rocking chair!” Grandpa bellowed from the kitchen. We couldn’t help but giggle (silently, of course), also thinking to ourselves, Stop rocking in that rocking chair? Hello! That’s what it’s for! So, what. We got a little carried away. We were just kids. Why was he so mean?
Grandpa was the first pastor I knew. He founded a church with only a few loyal members. It was a shotgun-style storefront called GOD’S HOUSE OF PEACE. Originally located downtown, it
eventually moved further away from the heart of the city. The building we moved into was a former funeral home. (I’m glad I didn’t make that connection when I was a kid.) The name was then changed to GOD’S HOUSE OF PEACE FOR ALL PEOPLE.
Originally a Baptist preacher, he later said that God instructed him to become a “holiness” preacher. So he did. The difference at the time was that a number of black Baptist churches approached the Bible more liberally than holiness churches, which meant they were typically tolerant of such things as drinking, smoking (even outside the church after morning service!), and occasionally cursing (only when necessary, of course). Nonetheless, Grandpa’s messages of the love of God somehow seem to always loop around to hell, fire, and brimstone. I didn’t understand that dichotomy then and I still don’t.
I blocked out many of his messages because he always seemed to be angry when he was preaching. In his defense, his style was not unlike that of many of his fellow African American preachers. Nonetheless, listening to him preach was not my favorite way to spend a Sunday morning, though he did manage somehow to lighten up for Christmas and Easter services.
One of the disturbing scenes in our church was when women would fall to the floor, presumably under the power of God. One of the nearby ladies always had a white sheet handy to cover them, ensuring that they were not accidentally exposing “anything.” As a little boy, I would always cry when my mother would fall out under the anointing, lying motionless beneath the sheet. I thought she was dying. It was all Nana could do to calm me and explain that she was alright, saying that God was simply giving her a great blessing. When Mom rose, silently praising God, I’d finally calm down, wondering why that seemed to be a necessary and enviable part of the service.
Participating in Communion was a part of the service children were prohibited from, probably because Grandpa felt it was much too sacred for us to fully appreciate. Even so, I was fascinated with this sacrament. Some would close their eyes and begin to gently sway as if mildly drunk, while speaking in a language I didn’t understand. Because of the smiles on their faces, it appeared to be something I might also enjoy, which is one reason I could hardly wait to be old enough to partake.
The other part of this service involved foot washing, directly related to Christ washing his apostles’ feet just before the Passover. (Ref: “If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed
your feet; ye also ought to wash one another's feet” St. John 13:14, King James Version.) To engage in this rite was indicative of not only submission to God but also humility toward one another.
The women continued in the main portion of the church (where the corpses were formerly on display during visitations) while the men went to the kitchen area off to the side. Grandpa never seemed as gentle and humble as when the men washed his feet. All I know was that I did not look forward to having my feet washed unless, of course, I was the first. The debris that came off those men’s feet looked like something out of a sewer.
Since there was no baptismal pool in our church, we had to drive a short distance to Elder Palmer’s church. I remember when I was about twelve years old standing around the recessed pool with my cousins, boys in pajamas and girls in white gowns and shower caps. I looked into the dark, steel pool where Grandpa and Elder Palmer stood. By this age, I wanted to do everything required to grow closer to God. But this pool looked like a grave, which was precisely the purpose of baptism: dying to oneself to become alive in Christ. When my foot touched the frigid water, I quickly pulled back and thought, Maybe I’m close enough to God.
Grandpa was not amused by my hesitancy. He angrily motioned for me to continue down the steps into the darkness. I had the sense that had I refused, he would have firmly pulled me in. Trembling as if I had advanced Parkinson’s disease, I slowly made my way down the steps and over to Grandpa. He said a few words, placed one hand on my back, quickly tilted me backward beneath the surface, and then stood me upright as the observing members shouted in praise. Had I known at the time what hypothermia was, I would have sworn I was succumbing to it.
I enjoyed my seven years at Greendale. My teachers (all women except for sixth grade) were all nice and seemed to enjoy teaching. While in fourth grade, Ms. Everett, our music teacher,
decided to have the students perform a version of “Hansel and Gretel.” I don’t remember if I auditioned or was simply chosen, but I soon found myself in rehearsals preparing for my acting debut as the Sandman. As I shimmied across the stage pretending to sprinkle fairy dust on Hansel and Gretel, I felt free, enjoying every minute. On the night of the performance, dressed in gray leggings and a perfectly wonderful costume Mom made for me, I tiptoed onto the stage, arms stretched out, totally in my element. Days after the performance, Ms. Everett contacted my
mother, saying that I showed great promise to be a professional dancer and that she could secure a scholarship for me to enroll into a prestigious dance school. For some reason, my mother kept this from me for years. When she finally got around to telling me, I wasn’t really angry, but I did feel a little disappointed that she took away what could have been a fulfilling career.
Perhaps, she thought if I had accepted this fantastic opportunity, it might have made me gay. (A gay ballet dancer. Can you imagine?)
The path to self-discovery is laden with challenges and surprises. Friends and loved ones may fall away or become closer with each step toward the truth. In a revealing and reflective memoir, Ron Smith shares his journey from serving in Christian ministry to coming out at church. Through “Uprooted: A Gay Music Minister’s Journey Away from Church,” Smith highlights the challenges faced by people in the LGBTQIA+ community within religious communities. The memoir underscores the importance of self-acceptance and finding one's own path to spirituality.
Smith candidly writes about how the church played a dual role in his life. On one hand, it was a source of community, purpose, and spiritual guidance. On the other hand, it was a place of judgment, condemnation, and emotional pain, particularly regarding his sexuality. He relays how his coming out was received differently at Brooks and Highlands churches, demonstrating how human biases are central to how parishioners interpret Biblical teaching.
As a cisgender straight woman, I have known of friends and colleagues who have been harmed by the exclusionary stance of many Christian congregations. Progressive ministries that are accepting of all sexual orientations and gender identities are few and far between. In his memoir, Smith courageously shares his firsthand experiences with hypocrisy and judgment in the church. Smith was lauded at church for his leadership skills and ability to inspire others as a choir director and worship leader. Yet, despite his dedication and contributions, he was often judged and marginalized because of his sexual orientation. This led to feelings of alienation and disillusionment with organized religion.
Anyone who has experienced alienation in the church may find solace in Smith’s example of resiliency, adaptability, and staying true to oneself. While “Uprooted” revolves around the author’s complex and often painful relationship with Christianity, it highlights high points in his life journey, such as finding love and realizing self-acceptance.