It's strange, what unifies us

This photo is from the Des Moines Pride Parade in 2011
We are marching again on Sunday, June 9, 2013.
Let me know if you'd like to join us. 

If it were not for the “God hates fags” signs or the “Fags burn in hell” signs, my kids and I would probably have very different reasons for marching in the annual Des Moines Pride Parade with our church.  But strangely, those hateful signs have been unifying.

The original reason why I marched is because I thought was fun and cool. There weren't many churches marching in pride parade, and we were one of them. 

The original reason why my teenage kids marched is because I bribed them with burgers and fries. 

My church, St. John’s Lutheran Church in Des Moines Iowa, will be marching in the annual Pride Parade in downtown Des Moines on Sunday, June 9, 2013. It will be the Xth time my church (sorry, I don’t know the number) has marched, the third time my kids and I have joined them.

I’m not trying to pass myself off as some kind of a supermom. I’m about as flawed as they get.

I’m also not trying to pass myself off as a badass mom. I’m about as middle class white collar boring as they get.

I am a pastor’s wife, but even that doesn’t make me so distinctive because I know many pastors spouses who believe like I do. In fact I know many pastors who believe like I do. And I know many parishioners who believe like I do. I’m not that unique, in terms of church-lady-marching-in-pride-parade.  

But it was something that happened in the last pride parade that unified my kids and me. No longer was it about being a cool church-goer, appeasing mother, or scoring a burger plate. It was something more.

It was a hot sunny day last year when at the Des Moines Pride Parade. Hot and sunny like 100 degrees hot with high humidity. We were all dripping wet with sweat. As far as parade positioning goes, the beer people were in front of us and the bar people were behind us. They had vehicles and Clydesdale horses, but we were just plain old ragtag people on foot. Everyone was sweating wet as we walked through the East Village of Des Moines, streets lined with people partying and cheering. This is Iowa but our Pride Parades can do g-strings and fish net tights as good as anywhere. There were about 20 people in my church who marched but we mostly wore T-shirts and shorts (darn bland Lutherans we are). My pastor boldly wore her white clergy collar. (The other pastor, the one I’m married to, was out with a pending knee replacement. No parades for him.) We marched with a long banner that bore the name of our church: St. John’s Lutheran Church in rainbow colors.

It was fun and festive and I felt like somehow I was doing something right as a mother, even if my kids were only there for the burgers that would follow. We passed candy out to the children who lined the streets. I happily accepted jello shots that were being offered (not by my church). It was all the hoopla of the parade.

But last year it was different. The crowds cheered for our church group as we processed through. As if walking down a street was something special. A big deal. To be honest, it kind of put a lump in my throat. They saw our banner and they cheered. I heard a couple people from the crowd pointedly yell out, “Thank you.” I thought of a dear friend who wrote a story about the time her mother told her she was going to hell because she was gay. Her mother told her this when she was a child. HER MOTHER.  I wished somehow that my marching would make that better.

When we saw the little group of haters (definitely the minority in that joyful crowd) with the placards that read “God Hates Fags” and “Fags burn in hell.” It felt like a jolt. It was the Westborough Baptist faction of the Pride Parade. My first instinct was to shelter my kids. I hoped they wouldn’t notice the vile words printed on the poster boards. I wanted to shield them from this kind of hate, or at least from that awful language.

You see, we are your average all-American family. Mom, dad, daughter, son, white, suburban, Christian, three cars, two cats, etc, etc. My children haven’t been exposed to overt bigotry (that I know of). My kids are cute, sociable, funny, and have friends. I’d like for them to skate through life unscathed by the smallness of others. I thought the pride parade would be a fun church function, a way to spent a sunny afternoon together. I didn’t envision us walking through signs declaring who’s going to hell, and by implication, who isn’t. 

But those signs provided a clarifying moment. I realized how important it was for my children to see them and to know that such hatred is real. The signs were a reminder of the reason we were marching  and why I was bribing them to participate. Ever the mother who wants to teach a lesson, in a split second I decided they absolutely needed to see those placards. I made sure they noticed them. “That’s why we’re here,” I said, as we passed by the people with the hateful slogans.

That was last year.

When the parade came up this year, I reminded both my kids of the event and the burgers that would come after it. My son is 13-years-old now. He’s a skater boy and I suggested he bring his wheeled board to the parade, trying to keep the tone light and fun. I told my son that the people with the hateful signs would be there and that’s why we needed to go.

“Let’s punch them out,” replied my 13-year-old son, now confident in his third year of marching. I explained that we wouldn’t be punching anyone out, but that marching in the parade is stronger than punching them out. Especially marching as a church group. It’s such a huge opportunity to proclaim love. But I felt gratified that my son had some sense of how horrible those messages were.

If I had a grave stone it would read, “She had many regrets.” I’m not saying that I’ve always known how to stand up for other people, or that I’ve always been on the right side of morality, or that I’ve always know n how to express my faith. I’m not, I haven’t been, I don’t. Maybe I’m trying to make up for previous bad behavior. Maybe I’m trying to be a good person. Most people I know who are G or B or L or T or Q will likely not be marching, for many reasons all unique to each. I don’t blame them. But my daughter and I will be. And we’ll have burgers and fries afterwards. (Have since realized that boy and husband are headed to camp that afternoon.)

And I’ll be glad for this one little opportunity that is more powerful than a hundred confession booths. More fun than a thousand parties. More important than a million anti-bullying lessons.

You are more than welcome to join us.

Thanks so much for coming over to my blog.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart