I have met the enemy and she is me.

I have met the enemy and she is me. 

I’ve known this for a long time.  I can’t remember the first time I realized that I perpetrate injustice in the world regularly, if perhaps unknowingly and/or ignorantly.  But I been knowing it long enough to know better.  And of course because I have this awareness, I’m also gratefully and painfully aware of the horror that I experience when I figure out how I am participating in and creating injustice and oppression, reifying hatred and bigotedness.  I know this. 

But GOD it sucks to find it out again.  And because I’m lucky . . . .

I have met the enemy and she is me. 

I was taking Norah to daycare last week.  It was the first day of summer and the first day of daycare.  Certainly a bitter sweet day. During the school year, Norah ordinarily rides a bus from school to daycare on Thursdays and Fridays and I ordinarily pick her up on these days, as close to the pickup time as possible because I’m me and I can’t get my shit together.  Or rather, I have shitty boundaries at work. And at home.  Whatever—not the point.  
Because Norah only attends daycare two days a week, because she rides the bus to daycare, because I am usually the last parent there to pick up the last child, I have really no working knowledge of who goes to her daycare.  Or who their parents are.  In fact, Melissa and I were recently remarking that we only know a few of the daycare teachers because I have a unique and tiny subset of self-diagnosed social anxiety where I don’t like to meet Norah’s teachers or daycare providers or parents of her friends.  I think I’m afraid of homophobia, but again—not my point today. 

Norah is prepared for this day, which she is mostly dreading.  I have done my best to give her as much control over it as possible since she's not getting to sleep late and watch TV and do all the things she thinks kids who don't have to go to daycare are doing.  SO she's wearing whatever she wants (dirty clothes she slept in last night) and she's going full on "natural" because she surely doesn't want me combing her hair this morning.  She has a small Rubbermaid container full of LOL dolls and their accompanying junkie things.    Perks of being a kid and having a semi-lazy, semi-empathetic mom who understands sometimes you just want to be dirty and nappy and surrounded by LOL dolls.  

When we arrive at the daycare, she bolts out of the car and runs to the door, where we have to wait to get buzzed in.  As we approach, she much faster than I, we encounter another adult and child combo waiting to be let in.  I don’t recognize them and in my extreme ignorance, I assume it’s because they’re new to daycare.  The child is in her tweens/early teens (this daycare takes kids through 8th grade).  She’s got brown skin, darker than Norah’s.  She’s holding a basketball under one arm and has the stance of someone who knows how to play basketball.  (I look like a dork when I’m holding a ball of any kind so I recognize the Other.) She’s wearing athletic shorts and an old worn-in clearly favorite T-shirt  Her hair is in a kind of messy bun/pony tail combo.  She looks sleepy.  The adult is older than I am, but not by much—maybe he’s in his early 50’s.  He’s got peach skin and he’s balding and wearing glasses.  He’s wearing typical white dude business casual clothing, a yellow polo-type shirt tucked in to his khakis with a brown belt and some 50 year old man loafers.  He’s got on a name badge for work.  He looks impatient and they both look like they don’t know how to get in the door.  I push the intercom button and tell the disembodied voice that it’s Norah, Lisa and “some others.”  What an odd way to say that.  I don’t know why it came out that way. 

We all step inside and I stop at the unattended desk to sign Norah in.  Norah has bolted off behind me, without saying goodbye or anything, which is typical for her and me these days.  I tell myself she’s lucky that I am laid back and don’t insist on huge goodbyes and displays of public affection, which she has lukewarm feelings about.  As I’m turning to leave, without speaking to anyone at the daycare to confirm they know she’s here, I see that the “others” who arrived when I did are giving one another a hug, like a sweet and tender hug. 

And I’m surprised.  


As I’m walking out to my car, in the 145 seconds it takes me to get to my car, here are my thoughts:

How weird that they are hugging.

Why are they hugging?

Why do I think it’s weird?

I guess it’s because he’s obviously some child care/foster care/social worker type of dude dropping her off for the first time at this daycare.  He didn’t know how to get in.  She wasn’t helping.

I guess I assumed she wasn’t happy to be here.  She looked kinda grouchy.  She hadn’t combed her hair.  Her clothes didn’t look fresh.  I mean they didn’t look dirty, but she looked like she rolled through the dirty clothes on her way out the door. 

No judgement here.  If I was going to daycare when I was 14, I’d be going in my dirty clothes too.  Especially if I was a foster kid and new here at this kinda lame white churchy daycare. 

He seems maybe out of touch about what that experience might be like for her. 

But MORE IMPORTANTLY why is that professional dude giving his client a hug?  Fiftyish professional social worker types know not to give young adolescent girls hugs.  It’s questionable all the way around.  People get confused.  It feels like risky behavior. 

Not that I don’t do risky.  Of course I do.  And how cool that they have the relationship where he can provide her with that support when she’s getting ready to do something shitty. 

Wait a minute. 

Why do I think he’s a social worker/probation officer/family home worker? Why do I think she’s a foster kid?

Oh my God. 

Because he’s White? Because she’s Black? Because he’s dressed professionally? Because she’s dressed ratty? Because he’s got a name tag on? Because she hasn’t combed her hair?

I am the shittiest human being on the earth.  There could be lots of back stories that explain “the others” and there tender hug here on the first day of summer and the first day of daycare.  What a giant loser I am for telling myself that age old racist bullshit story about who people are.  Kids look like kids.  Parents look like parents.  They all come in different shapes and sizes.  He was probably her dad.  That was the kind of hug a dad gives his daughter.  Maybe after his weekend.  Don’t go there.  They probably have a very happy and connected intact family.  I’m such a bitch. 

I mean, look at us.  Probably somebody could think the same thing about us. 

And then I get in the car.  And I look at myself.  With my professional clothes and my dorky old lady glasses. And my stupid white lady bob.  And my name tag. 

And then I picture my sassy pants daughter this day.  In her ragtag dirty clothes that she slept in last night. With her VERY nappy hair that I haven’t brushed in days.  And her toys all packed in a Rubbermaid bin.  Appearing to be all her worldly possessions.  And her running off without a single moment’s thought of “I love you Mommy,” or “Bye, see ya later!”  And me without a single moment’s thought of “I love you baby,” or “Have a good day! I’ll try not to be the last parent today!”

And me turning and walking out the door consumed by my petty and stupid story telling. 

And it occurs to me that Norah and I are the mirror image of that man and his daughter.  Only we fit my dumb ass story so much better than they did. 

Here’s the point. 

This is what white privilege looks like.  It’s telling yourself stories about who people are in the 145 seconds it takes you to get to your car.  Or to pull your gun out.  Or to grab your purse closer.  It’s the stories we tell before we think we’re telling stories. 

It’s the assumptions we make.  Based on the nothings we see. 

And it’s the absolute self-absorption that is required to miss our own culpability and participation in these stories. 

I don’t know who that man is and who that child is.  And I don’t know what their relationship is.

I do know that the story I told myself was the same asshole story that leads police officers to hold a person at gunpoint for trespassing while he is picking up trash on his own property; or that leads police officers to tackle a teenage girl at a swimming party because they think she is fleeing the scene of a crime; or that leads a teacher to assume that the clowning kid in the back is threatening bodily harm, which leads to a felony charge by the school resource officer. 

These stories are deeply embedded.  We have to pay attention to what we are thinking, even when we aren’t really thinking anything. 

I’m sorry, so sorry, for my prejudice and bias and shittiness.  I will keep trying every day to do it better.  But I will also have the balls to acknowledge when I am part of the problem.  And I am a part of the problem.  Fuck me. 

Because I'm lucky? Or just dumb. . . .

So today’s news from the United Methodist Church has left me feeling shitty. 

I first realized the significance of the General Assembly, or whatever it is, a couple of weeks ago when my dad saved the Star Telegram article for me to read about the pending LGBTQ drama. I dismissed it.  I was honestly a little irritated.  Why is my dad trying to harsh my mellow? 

We’ve been feeling slowly but surely more and more confident that Open, the community where we have started to worship, is as place where we can settle in and settle down, a place that we feel safe in, a place where we can begin to share with our daughter what a spiritual community is all about.  So when my dad gave me the article, I thought—that’s irritating.  And it’s not my community.  Because my community is very clearly and OPENly committed to creating a welcoming space.  And not just a welcoming space, but a space that is not preoccupied with sexuality.  It’s a space that is preoccupied with radical love and acceptance and social justice and making the world a better place.  It’s a cool place.  So no thanks, Dad, I’m not gonna read that article. 

But it stayed in my car.  I didn’t get around to throwing it away. 

And then in worship I heard that there was a delegate from Open going to the convention.  Or whatever it is.  The lingo wasn’t important to me and neither was the fact that we were sending someone.  I came up in a different denomination, and gratefully, I came up in a household where I mostly didn’t have to fight internalized homophobia.  And since my dad was my preacher, I haven’t ever been worried about how God was doing with me either. 

And since my dad was a preacher, I also have always been keenly aware that The Church is a fucked up place.  Just like the people who make up that human institution.  I don’t mean fucked up like unforgiveable.  I mean fucked up like we are all human.  We are fallible.  Churches are fallible.  And denominations are most certainly fallible.  And in my book, denominations are relatively unimportant (thanks to the Disciples of Christ for indoctrinating into me the unimportance of denominations, right?). 

And then two nights ago, a couple of Facebook friends shared a video of a young guy at the conference or whatever it is, giving an impassioned plea to the people in the massive room that he was a valid and righteous human being and important to the church. 

Melissa, my wife, overheard it.  It was clearly a powerful video. But the power was lost on us.  We aren’t into denominational politics.  We are barely into church.  We are VERY into social justice and being living examples of what it is to embrace humanity with compassion and kindness and that’s pretty much what we think the story of Jesus is about.  We each have some deep feelings (and thoughts) about spirituality and our unique experiences don’t always reflect the other’s experience.  But we get that God, the Goodness in this world, is out there and we know that God, the Goodness in this world, finds us to be good and our love for one another and our relationship with one another to be a sacred love.  We know this.  We’re not worried about it. 

We also know that we live in a stupid and fucked up world that thinks other things about our love and our relationship.  We know that Norah’s second grade teacher encouraged her to lie to her friends about having two moms, that she had a mom and a step mom (which she doesn’t), because it’s just easier for them to understand that.  We know that we got rejected from several daycares because when we were looking I insisted on scheduling the appointment at a time that my wife could come.  We know that our well-intentioned neighbor felt compelled to tell us when we moved in that she checked with the whole neighborhood and everyone seems to be “cool with the situation” at our house.  So this whole thing with the United Methodist Church seemed kind of boring.  And really, we’re over it.  Yes the whole world is full of people who are homophobic assholes.  Just like it’s full of racist assholes.  And many more idiots as well.  But we keep on keeping on, doing our kind and compassionate thing, staying true to the Goodness in this world, being who we are.  And we didn’t spend much time thinking about that video of that gay guy who is mad at his denomination because they’re just like all of the other assholes out there. 

And then more and more things started showing up in my feed on FB about this UMC thing.  And so I thought I would inform myself.  And I started reading articles.  I am still unsatisfied with the information I have been able to glean, because I generally don’t concern myself with denominational politics.  What does it matter anyway?  I’m going to a cool church . . .

What does this mean?  The Traditional Plan . . . sounds like it means that the denomination of the United Methodist Church is taking a very loud stance on gay people.  People in same sex relationships can’t be preachers in their churches because god isn’t cool with that.  And people can’t get married in their church if it’s a same sex marriage because god isn’t cool with that either. Who cares.  I didn’t need the United Methodist Church to get married or to know that God is cool with me.  There are plenty PLENTY PLENTY of churches that are wrong.  So the United Methodist Church is another wrong church.  Why do I care? 

Well here’s the thing.  And the reason why I needed to write this. 

I do care.  I care because I have a daughter.  She has brown skin and curly hair; she is multiracial; she is adopted; she is highly sensitive; she is smart; she is an only child; she lives in a house with two moms and has a relationship with her birth mom, giving her three moms.  She’s got a lot of stuff in her life that make her unusual.  And in this world, being unusual presents challenges, at best; but often times it presents barriers.  Being unusual can be a reason to be attacked.  Or killed. 

So I have this challenge in my life and that is to give her all the tools I can possibly give her to BE in this world.  I want her to be a kind and compassionate person who is preoccupied with social justice.  And I think my wife and I, with the help of our amazing families and cool neighbors and good teachers, are on the right track. 

And I was so excited to finally find a place of worship, a spiritual community, that could join us in this endeavor-- our family endeavor to make the world be a better place by being “Three Girls (who) Can” by being proud and strong and fearless, by knowing that in our differences we are beautiful and we are better for being different.

And now I am being challenged.  I cannot bring my child into a worshipful place that is supposed to be about focusing on the Goodness in this world, that is supposed to be about focusing on God, when that place doesn’t feel safe.  I know The Church is not a place.  But the place we go to is a place.  And it is located in the First United Methodist Church in Denton.  And I now know that the First United Methodist Church in Denton shares the name with  a movement that says that god is not cool with me or my wife or our family.  And yes I know that’s a lie.  And I know you still love me.  But we can’t do this like this.  We need to be in a place that has absolutely no affiliation with that kind of hatred.  Because that’s not focusing on the Goodness in this world.  It’s distracting from the Goodness in this world. 

And then I realize that I do care about this issue.  In fact, I am angry.  I feel betrayed.  Suckerpunched.  Like I’m so stupid for sticking my neck out again.  For thinking that I could worship again.  That I could be a part of something again.  Because this world is so chock full of idiots and assholes that I can’t even find the Goodness in this world because I’m busy trying to see over the heads and shoulders of all those people.  It doesn’t feel safe anymore.  It feels shitty. 

My family and I are cool with us and we are cool with God.  We know there is Goodness in this world.  I am not sure we are going to keep looking for it at church.  

i'm sad

Because I'm lucky, I'm sad.  God, am I sad.  I am so sad.

Norah is wishing she had a daddy. 

But she doesn't just wish she had a daddy.  She wishes she would have a daddy INSTEAD OF having two mommies.  

Dang.  

So here's the thing.  I'm working on this one so hard.

I have a very smart and intuitive and empathetic child.  She is a truly gifted communicator and she is so amazingly compassionate.  (She's also a brat sometimes, a smart ass, super sassy and rushes through her homework with the attentiveness of a flea, but that's a blog post for another day.)

Let's hang out with some of those ghosts from Scrooge's life and take a peak into my life moments so I can illustrate how this is unfolding. . . .

So a couple of weeks ago, we were on our way to the pumpkin patch to meet our niece and Norah's cousin, Olivia and her beau.  Norah likes said beau and likes to pretend that he is her "prince charming." (Don't get me started on how Cinderella Ate My Daughter.  Also a blog post for another day.)

We felt compelled to do some of our infamous social-worky-over-communicative-pre-teaching with Norah about spending time with Olivia's beau. 

"Norah, don't spend the whole time at the pumpkin patch trying to hold B's hand. He is Olivia's boyfriend, not yours."

"Why can't I have a boyfriend?"

"You are not old enough to have a boyfriend. When will you be old enough to have a boyfriend?"

"I don't know.  I'm tired of talking about this.  Can we listen to some music?"

"Norah, while we are at the pumpkin patch, let Olivia show Brandon around.  Don't try to always be up under his feet."

"I'M NOT GOING TO. I WANT TO LISTEN TO MUSIC."

Cue Taylor Swift or Katy Perry or Carly Rae Jepsen, singing some prince charming song about somebody else's boyfriend. (thanks to the universe gods for keeping it real with me.)

The next day we are getting ready to go to Norah's soccer game and she and I are cleaning out the car.  She looks at me with all the compassion and warmth in her precious and tender heart and says, 

"Mommy, I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything.  But I really wish you were gone and I could have a Daddy instead."

Stabbed right through the heart . . . I wasn't prepared. . . .In the fashion of a good crisis counselor, I denied my own personal (secondary?) trauma and came right back with, "What do you think would be cool about having a Daddy?"

"He would be handsome and beautiful and he would be my Prince Charming."

"Oh I see.  You would like to have a Prince Charming . . ."

"No I want a Daddy.  Moms should be married to Dads.  I don't want to have two Mommies."

"But if you didn't have two Mommies, we wouldn't be here.  We wouldn't be three girls can.  Your Mama and I would have never met Mama Ashley and she never would have picked us to be your moms and you wouldn't be here right now.  That would be so sad!"

"I like three girls can.  Maybe if Mama was gone you could find a boy who would like you and he could be my Daddy."

"Norah, I have had boys like me before.  I was even married to a boy once."

"What happened?"

"He and I decided we were better friends than we were husband and wife.  So we got a divorce.  And then I met your Mama and I had True Love with her.  And then we got you.  And then we all got married.  Remember that?"

"What was his name?"

"His name was Don."

And then Melissa walks out the door . . .

"Mama! Did you know Mommy was married to a boy named Don?"

And because Melissa is my queen and a social worker and also good in a crisis, she came right back with, "I sure did."

And we hopped in the car and went to soccer practice. 

And I cried the whole way.  

The next day, Melissa and Norah were walking to school and Norah told Melissa that she wished she was dead so that we could have a funeral.  We would all be sad, but then I would find a Daddy for her.  Mel, ever so much stronger than me, did not cry all the way to work.  She's such a good mom. 

Later that week, we are reading a book and Norah notices there is no mention of a father in the book, while they talk about the kid and his mom all throughout the book.  

"You are still really thinking about having a dad."

"Yes, I want a Daddy."

"You know, Norah, there are all kinds of families.  Some kids have one mom and one dad.  Some kids have a step-mom.  Some kids live with their grandparents."
(Thanks Todd Parr)

"Yes I know and some kids have two dads.  But I want a daddy and a mommy."

"I know you do.  How would things be different?"

"He would be handsome and he would kiss me."

"But not True Love's first kiss."

"Right just like how you and mama kiss me."

Mel chimes in, "Norah sometimes kids who don't have dads have relationships with other grown-ups who are boys.  Like their uncles or their granddads."

"But Granddaddy is too OLD and Papa is gone!"

Too OLD for what I don't know.  Too Old to be Prince Charming I suppose.  

"You know Mama Ashley had a man who helped make you right?  But he isn't around.  You know your big sister Jada had a daddy and his name was Randy.  But he got sick and died.  And now Jada doesn't have a daddy either. So she understands what it's like . . ."

"When is dinner going to be ready?"

So Norah wants a daddy.  And she really wants a handsome young Daddy.  Maybe she wants a Prince Charming but she doesn't want to have another conversation with her moms about True Love.  So she's hammering away at having a daddy. 

Here's the thing - - - And of course I told her this too - - -she's never going to have a daddy, even if one of us dies or we both die.  The man who helped make her is not interested in knowing about her and doesn't want to be her daddy.  

And this is something I cannot change.  My first thought was that we should start going to LGBT family support groups so she could hang out with kids who have similar situations to her.  I also wondered if I could encourage her establishing closer more Dad-like relationships with her uncles or other men that we care about. And while these might be valuable, therapeutic pursuits,  the end result is not going to be that Norah gets what she wants.
 I thought about all the things that having a Dad is and isn't.  I talked with my friends about what it feels like when their kids want other families.  Mel and I talked about how we remember wanting our parents to be different.  

And that's it right? This is something that is part of growing up.  Wanting your family to be different.  Maybe you want your family to have more money.  Maybe you want your family to have a dog.  Maybe you want your dad to be the kind of guy who wrestles with you on the floor and tickles you until you can't breathe.  Maybe you want your dad to be the kind of guy who listens to the song you wrote and tells you how amazing it is.  Maybe you just want your dad to be alive and healthy.  

But at any rate, we all go through that, that wanting.  

And certainly it may be coupled with the wish that what we do have simply wasn't what we had.  Like maybe you wish sometimes that your family didn't sing barbershop quartet at the Boy Scout camp that weekend.  Or maybe you wish your dad hadn't hopped out of the car your senior year and waved goodbye so loudly.  Just saying . . .

And certainly we've raised our daughter to talk with us about what's on her mind.  So it's not unusual that we would be hearing about it.  

But it hits me in the softest spot.  I guess it's a little bit of internalized homophobia.  I feel guilty because we aren't a family with a mom and a dad.  I feel like I've cheated her from something she deserves.  

And that is not the case.  I haven't cheated her.  I haven't done anything wrong and there's nothing wrong with our family.  

She wants a daddy instead of two mommies. 

Intellectually, I understand I cannot give it to her.  Intellectually, I understand that this is part of parenting.  This is the part of parenting where you have to face the fact that you WILL be part of the pain and sorrow of your child's life, that it is absolutely unavoidable that the things that you do or have done will hurt your child.  

And so intellectually, I'm trying to make peace with that.  

But emotionally, I'm sad. I wish Norah could have what she wanted.  I wish I could give it to her.  And I wish I was wise enough and smart enough to not wish these things.  

Even still, I'm pretty fucking lucky.

Norah and Martin Luther King, Jr

It has been an interesting week with my daughter.  Most weeks are pretty damn good.  But I wasn't ready for this week. I thought she said some pretty cool things and stuff I really wasn't expecting to come out of her distracted and wandering mouth.  

Because I'm lucky, I am very grateful for her teachers and the attention they have given to Martin Luther King, Jr. this last week. Here are the treasures this has yielded for my wife and me at home:

STORY #1 and #2
Talking about her school day is always a chore for Norah.  She would much prefer to make up fantastical stories of her own (like the time her teacher pushed her down during story time and hurt her knee, or the time that I turned into a small creature).  So I was pleasantly surprised when Norah told me that they had been talking about "Martin Luther King, Jr.."  I like getting the whole name in, specifically.  I asked her what she learned about Martin Luther King, Jr.  and she said, "He was somebody who made speeches and got shot."  I asked why he got shot.  And she said, "Because he was trying to do something good and the guy who shot him didn't like it."  I asked what was he trying to do and she said, "Just make sure that we're all nice to eachother." 

YES. Well Done Mr. Brack and Sra. Ariza.  That IS what he was trying to do.

End of Story #1

And then I said, "You know Norah, Martin Luther King, Jr. helped us understand a lot of important things.  When he was giving his speeches, people thought that kids with brown skin, beautiful brown skin just like yours, shouldn't go to school with other people."

NORAH: What?!

Because she's lucky, a feeling of hurt is creeping over her beautiful brown face . . .

ME:  I know isn't that weird?  Martin Luther King Jr gave speeches to say that he believed that everyone should be able to go to school together, to eat together, to ride the bus together, no matter what color your skin is.

Feeling of comfort sneaking back over her beautiful brown face . . .

NORAH: Yeah . . .

ME:  Right.  He thought that people with brown skin should be able to eat with people with yellow skin and red skin and black skin and white sk . . .

NORAH: (Interrupting me--) WHITE SKIN?  I've never seen anyone with WHITE skin!!!! Mommy that's silly.  

YES. 

Because Black and White do not reflect who we are.  They reflect what we teach ourselves and our children about who They are and who Us is and if we teach them They are Black or Us is White, then we've gotten it wrong.  

End of Story #2

STORY #3

A few days later, I came home from work and relieved our awesome and sensitive and smart babysitter, Sarah, from her important work of nurturing this beautiful child of mine.  And she said, "Norah said the coolest thing today.  We were looking through the Box of Questions and we came across this question--

If you could be famous for anything, what would you want to be famous for? 

And Norah said, I would want to be famous for giving speeches like Martin Luther King, Jr. 

and I (Sarah) said, what would you give speeches about? And Norah said, the same things as him.  Telling people to be nice to eachother, like no hitting, no biting, no pinching, no name calling . . ."

End of Story #3

If you know me at all, you know that I have always known that as a parent, I am called to help my child, regardless of what shade her skin is, understand that we are not Black or White or Brown or Cinnamon or Cafe Con Leche or Peach or Gray (that's what color s

he says my skin is, by the way--the lovely shade of Gray).  That's what our skin may look like, but that is not who we are.  WE are people who eat together, learn together, ride the bus together, sing together, play together, read together . . . and WE should be nice to each other.  All the time.  

I know the day grows ever closer when she will understand that she is Black and I am White.  I am absolutely not raising a color blind child, please don't get it twisted.  But Norah will also understand that she is NORAH and her skin color is cinnamon in the summer and caramel in the winter and that her gray old mother believes that regardless of whose path your crossing the number one thing you should remember is that you should be nice to people, no hitting, no pinching, no name calling.  

It's a hard life to live, being a brown-skinned baby in a gray and peach family.  Because we're lucky, we get to be a part of her journey.  

I wish that we lived in a world where she was as lucky as me.  

i'm afraid

I’m afraid and I don’t know what to do about it.  I’ve thought maybe I should be more intentional about my interactions with the world—change my facebook habits, specifically.  I’ve also thought I should just go ahead and earnestly implement the two to five year plan to leave Texas and try to go to a friendlier community.  But those responses have many drawbacks, including leaving me feeling like a chickenshit deserter of things and people that are important to me.  I know facebook is not a diary.  And I know that you are not all “friends” with me on facebook because you want to be party to my inner monologue.  For those of you who aren’t interested, please feel free to move on through your newsfeed at this point.  For those of you who continue to read, I would guess that you are most likely the people to whom I am writing anyway.  If some of this sprinkles on someone else, I’m okay with that too. 

I told my brother Brian this weekend that I have some fear.  I told my Dad months ago that I was having fear.  Fear of the cultural war that comes about as a result of the backlash to the Supreme Court ruling on Friday.  I told Melissa on Friday that we should celebrate with abandon because I was sure that things would get ugly soon enough.  Shortly after I said that, Melissa told me that we drove past a church billboard that said, “The Supreme Court is not God.  Pray for the United States of America.” I didn’t see the billboard because apparently I was celebrating with abandon by averting my eyes from all things offensive or scary.  And the cool thing is, I have managed to continue to do it for the most part.  I have been very effective in weeding out contacts from my facebook newsfeed who say mean and hateful things (thanks to Chik-fil-a and getting married in Minnesota in 2013 and Ferguson, Missouri) so I haven’t witnessed the hate and violence that is coming from people who are upset about the Supreme Court ruling on Friday or from people who have inexplicably been upset about the removal of the Confederate flag from various places around the South.  And I strictly refuse to get news from anywhere other than NPR so I don’t ever hear anything ridiculous from other “news” outlets. 

And yet, despite my very intentional cocoon of (irresponsible?) blindness, I am still afraid.  I am afraid that mean-spirited picketers will picket my church, a sacred space for me, in Fort Worth.  I am afraid that some wicked group will decide to start taking a stand against ministers and justices of the peace and county clerks who are conducting same sex weddings and they will start picketing their homes or bombing those churches, or county offices.  I feel simulatenously silly even writing it.  But then my imagination runs wild and I think of how perhaps people who were at Stonewall that evening didn’t anticipate that they were going to be in a riot by the end of the night.  This stuff bubbles up sometimes when no one expects it. 

My brother says he’s sad that I live with that kind of fear.  He doesn’t have that fear for me or my father or my church.  He says the people who are upset about gay marriage aren’t the type of people who are going to show up on Sunday morning with picket signs, much less the type to make bombs.  But I don’t know.  I worked at Planned Parenthood for several years and I’ve seen lots of committed people show up everyday of the year to picket against abortions.  And they surely bombed those clinics.  Is it a lot different?  I don’t know. 

Yesterday I called to make a dentist appointment for Norah.  And the lady said, “Is she on your husband’s insurance?” And I ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS say, “No, I don’t have a husband, I have a wife.” But yesterday, I said, “No she’s on mine.”

What a chickenshit thing to say. 

Because yesterday I knew that a lot of people in the world were struggling with women having wives and men having husbands and I didn’t want to shove it in her face.  But did I pull a Peter in the garden kind of thing?  And deny the woman who I am committed to, who cares for me when I am sick and lonely, who’s raising my daughter to be an amazing funny and creative person?  Maybe not specifically.  But it was a denial for me.  And I am ashamed. 

And typing something on facebook isn’t going to change that denial.  Just like even though Peter started a giant church that is still here 2015 years later, we’re still telling that story of how he denied Jesus three times before the cock crowed.  Can’t a brother catch a break? 

No. I am afraid.  Afraid that the dentist will be mean to Norah if he or she learns that Norah’s moms are married.  Afraid that my church isn’t safe from hate.  Afraid that my dad and all of my lovely friends who are ready to do weddings with same sex couples will be harassed or harmed in some way.

I had friends yesterday who came to me and said they had rough weekends.  Because they were fighting all weekend with family members and friends and church members about their support of the marriage of same sex couples, their support of their friends, their support of my family.  And I felt bad for them because I was busy basking in the rainbow glow of my facebook and my loving and accepting family. 

I don’t think that changing my facebook habits is going to change the hatred that is out there, that may visit my church or my family.  I don’t think that moving to a friendlier locale will change that either.  Harvey Milk said you gotta give ‘em hope, but he did say that from San Francisco.  And then he died because he was working with someone who was harboring that hate. 

I’m scared.  I’m so grateful for all of you who are brave enough to stand up for me and my family and all of the others of us who are living our truth in this world.  And I apologize for being a chicken shit.  Hopefully I’ll be stronger today.