Surprise

We returned to the fair this year. A lot of the same people, supportive and not, have visited our booth. It’s clear that we’re something of a lifeboat for LGBTQ+ youth who don’t normally experience a supportive environment.

Most people move through the fair in clumps. Groups of at least three, usually more, drawing rainbows, writing messages on our rainbow paper, requesting pride flag stickers and beads. Sometimes a teenager will lurk back a bit as their group leaves to confide something, then run off to catch up with their people. Almost always, when someone approaches us alone, it is because they want to express gratitude or solidarity. An older person stopped by yesterday and hugged my friend, whispering that her daughter was gay and thanking us. Another person stopped by to tell us about their transgender cousin.

One man quietly entered our space alone, which because of the crowd at that moment involved a bit of maneuvering. I turned and found him staring at me expectantly, as though our conversation had already started and then been interrupted. He motioned toward our question box. “So, do you get a lot of questions?”

Because he was so all the way in to our space, I assumed he was one of the choir. I let down my protective filter and let out a painful laugh, thinking of the question that I pulled out a few hours earlier, something along the lines of why you f*ck f*ggots. “No. Actually, I think we’ve only ever received one sincere question. It’s more container for hate, where people put the stuff that they’d use to vandalize our signs if I didn’t provide them an appropriate outlet.”

His face fell, and his eyes teared up. “I’m so sorry.”

I slowed down, taking in the surprise on his face. I shook my head and smiled. “It’s okay. I think it’s just a few people, the same people each year, and when I leave out the question box, I don’t have to clean up the signs that kids have worked really hard to make. It’s really pretty ideal.”

He repeated his apology. Then he held out his hand and took mine with a grip just south of too hard. “My name is Jim, I’m a white male, and I’m a Christian.” The people around us continued to buzz with rainbows, beads and stickers but our part of the circle felt quiet. “And I have different beliefs.” He stared over my shoulder at a poster with statistics on LGBTQ+ youth with unsupportive families. “But I want you to know how sorry I am. I’m so sorry for the hate.”

I nodded, mute. He wanted to be heard, so I kept listening.

He struggled. “It’s big for me, that I’m standing here.” Again, he stopped and re-read the sign. LGBTQ+ youth who feel rejected by their families are eight times more likely to attempt suicide. “Church shouldn’t hate. I wouldn’t have come here before. This is hard for me, it’s a big deal, for me to be here, in your space. I just need to say I’m sorry.”

Forgiveness isn’t mine to offer. I held his hand, and thanked him for visiting our booth. “I can see this is hard,” I said, “and I hear you. Thank-you for reaching out. I appreciate you stopping by our booth”

He nodded solemnly, and turned to go. He cut through a crowd of teenagers talking about their GSA and walked down the corridor, walking alone in a sea of yardsticks, balloons and groups of people.

There’s more to process. Our time at the fair is a journey. For the volunteers, it is one of learning to be present, open, loving, and brave. For passers-by, some are just learning new words, some gaining courage and acceptance, and others are considering entirely new ways of being. Relational-Cultural practices, working on finding our common humanity more than persuasion, underlies all of it. I’m eager to travel more.

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