When I Was a Cartoon Masc
I used to perform masculinity like it was a church skit with a laugh track.
This poem is for the version of me who lived for approval, who knew how to be safe, but not how to be seen. For every queer kid who thought performance was holiness. It’s the first in a collection reclaiming joy, sparkle, and truth through glittergrit words.
Vineyard church era. I ran the puppet ministry and wrote the scripts. This was peak “cartoon mascot” mode—high energy, safe jokes, big smiles.
When I Was a Cartoon Masc
for the version of me who wore cargo shorts and a purity ring like a costume
I was the living embodiment
of a Saturday‑morning sidekick—
goofy as hell,
harmless on purpose,
a walking church‑safe mascot
with a Bible verse in my back pocket
and three pairs of Old Navy khaki cargos on rotation.
I didn’t wear masc like a man—
I wore it like an outfit.
Costume design: avoid lust at all costs,
even from girls I didn’t want.
God forbid anyone clock the swish
in my walk—
I had no good handwriting then,
no careless wrist bend
to hide the tremor.
Dodgeball after the young adult service. I wore swim trunks so I wouldn’t get swamp crotch. Still trying to fit what church masc looked like: loud, sporty, not too soft
I was dressed to be desirable
to exactly no one.
Asexual giggle machine.
Straight‑passing youth leader.
Masc‑for‑God cartoon with
too much gel and a guitar
that only played worship and Weird Al.
My heart?
So femme.
My dreams?
Color‑blocked in Lisa Frank and RuPaul.
My shame?
Neatly folded behind
the chorus of every worship song I led.
I didn’t just play pretend.
I starred in the long‑running show called
“Look, God, I’m healing!”
(laugh track provided by inner homophobia.)
And the crowd went wild:
the pastors nodded.
the girls giggled.
the youth group slapped my back
and said “nice job, bro”—
not the term back then,
but that was the energy.
But I was just
a boy in costume,
longing for someone to say,
“Babe, you don’t have to wear this mask anymore.
You can sparkle for real.”
I was hiding in plain sight.
And still,
somehow,
Shining.
College years. Vineyard church community. I didn’t know how to name closeness or softness without fear, but this was one of the few places I felt safe being me—even if I couldn’t say it yet.
