American Savage: Insights, Slights, and Fights on Faith, Sex, Love, and Politics: Summary & Key Insights

I grew up Catholic, which means I know firsthand how faith can wound even as it offers belonging. In these essays, I explore the fraught relationship between organized religion and LGBTQ+ rights. My experiences with the Church taught me early on that love and guilt are often intertwined, and that religion, in its purest form, can offer community. But institutional religion, shaped by centuries of dogma, often chooses exclusion over compassion. I’ve been told repeatedly that being gay makes me a sinner, that my marriage isn’t valid, that raising a child with my husband is somehow a threat to traditional family values. Yet I learned from that antagonism how deeply hypocrisy runs when belief is used as a weapon.

Writing about religion means wrestling with something personal and societal at once. Many Americans were raised inside frameworks that linked faith to moral superiority. So when religious leaders denounce queer lives while ignoring the complexity of their own communities, I call them out—not because I hate religion but because I want it to do better. The essays in this section dissect those contradictions. I argue that the notion of divine love shouldn’t depend on who you love. When churches claim to speak for families but reject mine, the problem isn’t faith—it’s fear. Faith should lift people; hypocrisy crushes them.

I remind readers that faith and doubt coexist. My own spiritual history still shapes me, even though I’ve moved away from organized religion. It helps me understand why people crave meaning in ritual and why letting go of dogma doesn’t mean abandoning spirituality. My critique of religion has never been about ridicule—it’s about reclaiming authenticity. In a culture where religion often dictates policy and prejudice, we have to separate God from the human institutions that pretend to speak for Him. That’s where liberation begins.

When I began advocating for marriage equality, the idea seemed radical—even to some within the gay community. We were told marriage was a heteronormative structure, that we should aim for something else, something freer. Yet my argument was simple: equality means choice. The right to marry doesn’t compel anyone to do so; it just affirms that love deserves legal recognition, regardless of gender. In these essays, I trace the evolution of that fight, from being dismissed as impossible to watching history unfold in courtrooms and statehouses.

My activism comes from personal experience—being married to Terry, raising a child, realizing how much that stability matters. When people argued that same-sex marriage would destroy society, I invited them to look at my family. What they found wasn’t subversion; it was love, responsibility, and commitment. Over the years, I’ve debated conservatives, theologians, and politicians who built careers opposing equality. But the truth always wins when it’s lived. Living openly, loving wholly—that was our revolution.

Marriage equality also forced America to confront what marriage really is. It exposed that many heterosexual marriages are flawed, that fidelity and permanence don’t always align with happiness, and that the institution itself has evolved countless times. The push for equality wasn’t about imitation; it was about transformation. Seeing that transformation happen, seeing young couples marry without shame, brought me a joy I can hardly describe. It’s proof that visibility works—and that change, however slow, is unstoppable once love refuses to hide.