Standing Up

This past weekend, my son Kelan and I participated with our UU church in a protest for social justice.  We gathered on Friday night and made signs, and then early (really early) Saturday morning came back to take a bus to a church in Auburn, NH that was hosting a conference for Exodus International.  If you are not aware, Exodus is a group of conservative religious people who believe that being homosexual is a sin, and further believe that you can be 'deprogrammed' if you think you are gay.  This may sound familiar- Presidential candidate Michelle Bachmann has endorsed them. The conference we were protesting was a gathering to which people, adults and youth, were being taken to be "deprogrammed".   Our church had been contacted by a gay rights group in Boston who were looking to build their presence, and we arrived with more than 60 people to add to their numbers, about 20 adults and more than 40 teens from our church and surrounding areas.

I cannot say enough about what an amazing experience this was.  As a parent, sharing the power of speaking out with my 11 year old son was so fulfilling.  As a person, remembering what it feels like to affect change was rejuvenating.  I hadn't realized how helpless I had begun to feel as I've grown from a teenager myself- who was quick to pick up a sign and speak out for what is right- to an adult who is distracted by work and kids and day to day life.  In high school and college, marches and rallies, and campaigns for change were frequent.  I don't know exactly when that faded, but it did, and what I am realizing, is that without those moments where we can vent our frustration and look into the eyes of others who are also shouting for change-- without those moments, change feels impossible.  Shaking my head as I read from the newspaper does nothing to alter the message I'm reading.  Neither does listening to the hatred that our politicians spew, or the propaganda they spread. Standing on that road with signs aimed at the victims in the backseats of the cars driving past made a difference.  Our messages told them that they are whole, that they are loved, that there is nothing that needs to be fixed in them.  Our presence mattered.

When the conference attendees had all passed, we gathered and listened as some of the organizers shared experiences from their own lives growing up with hatred and bigotry.  The kids from our group hung on every word.  We returned to the church after the protest and gathered to reflect on our experience, and as the kids shared their reactions, and the pureness of their hearts, a whole new realization came to me.  I could hear myself in their words- my 16-year-old self.  Their surprise at the reactions they saw on faces in the passing cars.  Feeling grateful for a glimpse of a smile from a back seat as a driver scowled and sped by.  There confusion as to why, when an exodus representative came out to try to scare us off, he approached the young people rather than seeking out the adults.  "Why would he talk to us?  We're kids. Doesn't he see that?", they asked.  They learned so many lessons that morning, about power, about intimidation, and about how to stand up to it. They saw first hand that hate is cowardly, and that when people are confronted for their bigotry, they lash out, speed past, curse and yell and scowl, but ultimately, they look foolish.  And I remembered those lessons anew.  I realized that my original reasons for coming, to teach something to my child, to share an experience with him, were only a part of the gift from that day.  And I am grateful for all of it.