I participate in this broken system because not doing so could create serious consequences – especially for marginalized communities. If it all burns, the privileged won’t be the ones dangling above the flames. Our most vulnerable neighbors are the ones who will get burned.
I lost seven friends. And my aunt. And my father. Not lost. They aren’t missing. They’re dead. Every one.
The shithole that is Anno Domini 2020 began last year on Christmas night. We had a new moon that evening, providing velvet darkness that brought out every star for our holidays. This moon was particularly special – it was a powerful new moon eclipse, a final gift for the yuletide.
She was my best friend. During that tumultuous middle school time, when every year seemed like seven, Jeri Lynne and I were thick as thieves. Puberty wracked our brains and overwhelmed our bodies, so we stood side by side and attacked the absurdity of the world with our only weapon – laughter.
To the man who yelled, “The president still loves you!” at me today upon seeing my “Love Trumps Hate” bumper sticker: Because you hollered at me from your car as you were driving away, I gather that you did not want to engage in a dialogue about the president, his feelings for me, or my feelings for him. I guess it was safer that way. One-line zingers have become the currency by which we pay for participation in our society. Still — I would like to reply, and what I have to say takes more than one line.
In Richmond, snow is white magic, enchanting us to act in strange and beautiful ways. Democrats and Republicans, stand shoulder to shoulder, smiling as they peer out of 10th floor windows watching white petals turn dirty streets into Currier and Ives lithographs. Strangers strike up conversations as they wait in grocery lines, eight carts deep, creating an instant community of snow-intoxication. Curmudgeons and children alike, stand at doorways, surveying backyards transformed from tired brown grass and dead flower stalks into white linen canvases, touched with pastel blues and pinks, glittering with icy diamonds from a cold sun. And nearly everyone breathes the clean, crisp air of Snow Sabbath.
Last night, at the stroke of twelve, we let go of 2014. For some this “letting go” held regret, for others celebration. I’m not sure where I was on the spectrum between the wistful romanticism of another year gone and the joy of charging full-bore around the bend into the unknown.
If you aren’t familiar with the billboard, a local group called the Parents and Friends of Ex-gays and Gays (PFOX) purchased ad space from Lamar Advertising for a billboard in the city of Richmond along the very well-traveled I-95 corridor.
As a freshman at James Madison University in the Shenandoah Valley, I discovered freedom. I went out when I wanted, came home when I wanted, slept when I wanted, ate when I wanted, ate what I wanted. Growing up in a fairly strict and rather regimented home, my new life at JMU was exhilarating. Of course with more freedom, there were more responsibilities. Thanks to my fairly strict and rather regimented upbringing, I handled most of the responsibilities with ease. Still, I’d been liberated and I felt that I could finally paint this world in great big, broad strokes, with the image of the woman I was becoming.
Somewhere along the journey for the purpose of my life, I took a detour with a squirrel. I am an actor. I am a minister. The acting community keeps telling me that I need to stay in the arts. The church community keeps telling me that I need to stay in ministry. As of late, God has been mum on the subject.