Excerpt from Unloveable: What Makes Me Unloveable?

I awaken to darkness, and I write. I don’t write because I want to or have been given some instruction to do so. I am simply writing because I can see. In fact, I feel I am one of the few left who actually see with their true eyes—the eyes of love. Many of us see through some lens of hatred, whether for self or others, because there is something about us that is different. Far too often, difference is seen as deficiency. Our unique divinity is divided with demarcations, boxes and bubbles, forcing us to split ourselves to “fit in” when we are an original design. Whatever stays inside the neat lines we create “fits in,” and it is warmly received with our love. However, the original parts of us that won’t be suppressed and dare to cross our self-constructed lines are seen as unloveable.

So, I cry each night, longing for a world that won’t hate so much what it doesn’t understand. It’s as pointless as hating another planet, because we don’t know what’s on it. It’s like hating heat, because we can’t examine the sun’s core. I cry, knowing that my brothers and sisters—of all colors, creeds and compositions—and I lose control of fragments of our humanity when we are infected by the viral surge of hate. Often, we are infected unaware, driven by its procreator, fear—and offspring—judgment and unforgiveness.

-Excerpt from Unloveable by Byron Jamal

Excerpt from Unloveable: A Stripper Goes to Church

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We pull up to this stadium called a church.  I swear there are more parking spaces here than the basketball arena downtown.  It is so big they have police officers and parking attendants directing traffic.  There are even letters on the scattered light poles so you can remember where you parked.  I look at Nahlia, “Are you sure we are going to a church?”

“Mom, stop being silly.”  The attendant directs us down row five of section ‘L.’  As we drive around, I notice all kinds of cars: Range Rovers, Maseratis, Hondas and hoopties.  Most of the expensive cars are parked in reserved spaces.  “Mom, you’ve driven most of these cars.”  There is so much I could say that nothing comes out.  I just join her in laughter.  We park in the last spot at the end of the row.

As I slam the rusty door shut, Nahlia says, “See, mom, we are dressed just fine for church.”  She is right.  The woman pushing the stroller is about Nahlia’s height and looks like she might be just a few years older.  Her miniskirt has so much thigh showing that I could have worn it on stage any night.  I just moan to myself, as I take Nahlia’s hand and grip it tightly.