The first time I stepped in front of the mirror to find the Devil, I couldn’t believe my own eyes. He dresses like me— walks like me—talks like me. I mean, he is the spitting image of the white skinned and red-brown haired Jesus. The one with the white robe and the blue sash that little kids learn to associate with Jesus at vacation bible school and Sunday services.

And even if I can quote from both testaments and know that the Devil is a fun way of saying, “the adversary”, I still see the Devil in the mirror. Not because I feel wrong about who I am. I don’t see the Devil because I know that someone who looked like me gave the native Americans diseased blankets, or even because someone with my look burned women accused of witchcraft at the stake after seeing that their bodies followed the law of physics. I see the devil because when I didn’t see him I was sure that I knew he either looked like an angel or the image from the tome written by the doomed monk. And every morning, he becomes more normal to see in my pictures, car mirrors, and home videos.

Summoning the Devil doesn’t get on my nerves as much as it did when I first saw him. He’s usually just there with a comb running through his hair or a toothbrush in his mouth. In fact, I’m almost sure that the devil just wants me to remember he’s there. And that’s how I get up every morning.