Back to School

It was a late summer day at the local mall when, at around age 14, my then-closeted queer daughter pointed to a pair of sneakers featuring rainbows on them and looked at me with questions in her eyes.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “You wouldn’t want people to make assumptions about you (read your sexual orientation) and treat you differently (read badly).”

I was a high school teacher; I knew exactly how terribly LGBTQ+ kids were treated by their peers (and, yes, many of their teachers, too). I thought I was protecting her. Instead I was cutting her deeply, wounding her heart and soul, denying her perfection in her identity. I wouldn’t know how much I had hurt her for years.

When I think back to that moment, now ten years later, I still get knots in my stomach and my throat. I thought I was an ally; my husband Chris and I had had gay friends who were around our children since they were born. But what I would come to realize was that my truest desire was for my children to be “normal” (read straight, cisgender) both for my own selfish reasons and for their safety. Our society is unkind to those who don’t fit within its narrow parameters. And for many years, I contributed to the unkindness without truly understanding how. 

My journey toward understanding really began when my second child revealed she is transgender. With the help of dear friends, including one incredibly compassionate and patient librarian, I set to learning all I could about my children and their community. My understanding of sexuality, gender expression and the evolution of social attitudes towards these identities shifted, and suddenly MY wardrobe (and car, front door, yard, classroom, social media pages, etc.) was flooded with rainbows. I learned that to be a true ally, I had to let people assume the wrong thing about me, hate me outright, criticize and judge me, because, as Stan Mitchell has written, “If you claim to be someone’s ally, but are not getting hit by the stones thrown at them, you aren’t standing close enough.”

I regretted my failures – the things I’d said and done that damaged my girls (and my students) over the years – but instead of being paralyzed by that regret, I sought to do better through action. One service opportunity came when, while serving as a volunteer with the Episcopal Diocese of East Tennessee, I met a young person at a Knox Pride event. They were pleasantly surprised to see a church there welcoming their community, and I took it upon myself to invite them to visit my own church. 

The following Sunday it occurred to me: if this young person came to our church looking like they did when I met them – shaved head, rainbow tutu, tattoos, knee socks, and scuffed sneakers – would they feel welcomed? Would the greeter on duty that day fail to hide the surprise on their face? Or worse, would someone be rude to them? Would the lack of pride-friendly signage be offputting? Would they find a nongendered restroom should they need it? 

With these questions in mind, for the next several weeks I resolved to change from my regular pew to a seat nearer the door. I watched for the young person to appear, hoping to be the first one to greet them – warmly – if they showed up. And this is where the idea for this ministry began. 

I fault no one for the confusion or concern they might feel when their own socialized assumptions about gender identity and human sexuality are challenged; I’ve walked that path, and (thanks be to God) I had a squad of loving, forgiving, and patient queer friends and straight allies to help guide me along the way.

But I also have painful and vivid memories of my speech and behavior before. And though my intentions had never been to hurt a single soul, my ignorance ensured that I did just that. 

Now, though, I know better. And I believe that knowing better, understanding more, is the Way of Love. I also believe (hope) that most people want to understand in order to do better themselves.

I am no longer teaching in a public school classroom, but twenty years of experience designing and facilitating instruction have equipped me with tools to share what I’ve learned along the way with those who seek to know. My learning journey will never be complete, as my experience will never be the same as my children’s experiences, as the experiences of any marginalized individual. Nevertheless, I invite you to join me as I continue going forward, recognizing each of God’s creatures is perfectly beloved and made In the Image of God.