“I like that guy … what was his name?”
“He’s a REPUBLICAN.”
“Ohhhh. Crap. Probably a racist, too.”
“That lady seemed nice.”
“She has a daughter named Rain. They went to DRAG QUEEN BINGO.”
“Oh, my. I will pray for them.”
“They seemed nice.”
“MOMS FOR LIBERTY members.”
“Ugh. The low IQ crew.”
Boxes.
We put people in boxes.
We can choose to live in boxes, and we often have at some point in our lives. Some are brightly colored with splatters of paint, flecks of gold. Some are heavily armored, military-style. Impenetrable. Some are covered in Calvin-peeing-on-a-Ford-sign decals. Some lids are open, and we are peering out of the top, wondering what everyone is else is doing, and, hey — where can we meet?
I am slowly embracing the latter. It took a massive collective trauma to open that lid on my Anderson Cooper-emblazoned, rainbow-splattered masterpiece. For a long time, particularly over the last few years, I was placing people in categories, regarding politics.
“Oh, that person voted for Trump … RACIST.” Clickety-clack. Delete.
I felt confident that I was on the right side of history, as the liberal party is typically outspoken for LGBTQIA+ rights. Don Lemon and his handsome smirk ended my nights, as I drifted off into “Doin’ the right thing”-land. I would raise an eyebrow at the curious visual of a Hillary Clinton-costumed conservative dancing in front of the Brighton Meijer.
“They’re ignorant!”, I would exclaim, as I stocked up on more Colace, thanks to my budding digestive issues, courtesy of divisiveness.
Like many people, I would look down at my smartphone, which has become akin to a cigarette; I would take a drag, then take another. My digital smoke breaks. I would see the division and partake. I never felt better, but it fed into my very human desire to try to control this life that is sometimes terrifyingly uncertain.
Then COVID hit.
And I must ask, how are you?
I hope, in this moment, that you are okay. The you that voted for Trump. The you that does not understand why people have different pronouns. The you that wants the freedom to not wear masks. The you that has placed your hand to your child’s forehead, too many times, “just to be sure.” The you that instructs students, with your hands damp from anxiety, due to prolonged stress. The you that wonders if you will be rejected by your friends for asking questions about what is happening in our world. The you that lost someone dear.
As we climb out of our own boxes, it might be a calling to help others. To knock on those varied, sometimes daunting enclosures and say, “Hey, you, are you alright in there?”
Admittedly, it’s not always easy to be gentle, especially when the content affects your life. Your rights. Your safety, and the safety of your children. When you know you might be met with silence, or worse, met with cruel eyes and a, “Oh. You. What do you want?”
You need to be prepared to be rebuffed when you are trying to work from your heart. Some people want to hold their hatred close to themselves, so that others who hate the same way do not reject them, perhaps in the only safe space that they have known. You will call to them, “Hey, we’re over here. Come on over.” They will look at you and throw a grenade. They might say, “You’re all crazy. I like my guns. I like my angry, unique form of Jesus-that-is-not-remotely-like-Jesus. Or, I like my rules, I like my safety, I like people who do things exactly as I do.”
That is when you take a breath. And you try again.
“Hey. Some of us like Jesus, too. Some of us do not. Some of us are okay with the right to bear arms. Some of us are not. Some of us want medical freedom. Some of us do not.”
That person may look at their allegedly safe enclosure, then at you. “You’re all SICK. I’m the boss over here.” They may specify who they hate. Then their box lid may close, at least for now.
That is when you look around and you see how their words affect others. Some lids will have deadbolts, out of fear. Some folks will be sitting on top of their lids, and they will say, “I’m still living my life.” And they will laugh.
Some will be weeping.
Let Mike Detmer and John Conely know: “We want our kids to know that they are not ‘sick,’ just because they happen to be transgender. We want parents and educators to feel respected. So, we will wait for you. But we are not going to let you lead, right now; your anger and your fear is hurting people.”
And, slowly, the weeping ceases. Lids open. The people inside, with their guns, the Moms for Liberty, the parents who want masks, the vaccinators and the non-vaccinators, Wiccans, Muslims, Jewish people, Christians, and LGBTQIA+ folks, and everyone who very much matters, sit, as respectfully as possible, together.
I believe that it can be done. Maybe not without snark, a scoff, or frustration, but it can be done.
Every so often, we look over at the folks who cannot seem to climb out of their mind cages. Who are holding onto their fear for dear life. And we hope, and, maybe, we pray, that they find their way out, to light.
In the meantime: the kids? They are watching us closely, beaming as we try.
