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Once, in 1987, my husband and I stood on Highway 40 east of Albuquerque and held hands across the state of New Mexico in a show of unity much the same as this.
But here I was now, an old white lady, not used to hanging out in what has been painted as a troubled neighborhood at eight o’clock at night when it would start getting dark. So I took precautions, stuck my driver’s license in a pocket and left my purse at home.
By the time I got to 26th and Bryant Avenue North, people were already gathered, some holding hands in a long line. “We need you!” someone yelled as I walked toward them after parking my car in the Nellie Stone Johnson School parking lot across the street.
My neighbor to the right told me her name. It turned out she was a Visitation nun who lived with some other nuns nearby. From what she told me they were seeded there as witnesses to what the love of God might look like on a day to day basis. She told me there were other nuns of different orders doing the same in the same neighborhood.
After we had talked a while, Sister told me she and her sisters went to the Cathedral on Pentecost Sunday to stand with the Rainbow people as a show of support for their cause. “When I got to Communion,” she said, “I just asked for a blessing and wasn¹t given a Host.”
That was her way of showing the world she thinks gay people are people and should have all the rights that other citizens do in this country; rights which neither the Church nor the government is willing to confer on them just now. Her unexpected story as well as this night’s unfolding event reminded me of the oft quoted Margaret Mead: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”
Recently my husband and I talked with a friend, an ex-priest, who told us in today’s world he often thinks about a line in Shakespeare’s Merchant Of Venice, where the Jew, Shylock, says to Antonio’s (his enemy) friends, “If you prick us (Jews) do we not bleed?” Do gay persons not bleed like the rest of us? And what of the people of the neighborhood I was now joining?
A person who looked to be in charge told us a runner would soon come by carrying a peace torch. At that time church bells from around the area would peal their message, Peace. We were to follow him and gather several blocks up the street. An air of camaraderie pervaded the group with laughing and hand waving as cars went by and honked.
It brought back memories of a march I went on in Milwaukee in the seventies and Vietnam. There was real danger there, though. We were told to stick together and pay strict attention to the monitors, or guards, mostly young, black men who took their jobs seriously because they knew full well the risks. My husband and I, along with another couple, stayed at a stranger’s house who turned it over to us, the only instruction he gave us: not to use a metal scraper on his Teflon skillet. Trust, in others, and the Cause, ran high in those days.
My fear was shed on this Friday night by the time we began walking toward the rallying point in the shadow of St. Philip's Catholic Church, standing like a safe haven for any and all. I found, when asked, that just mentioning that I was from St. Joan of Arc was my passport to acceptance.
“Oh, St. Joans. Uh huh. St. Joans.” Suddenly I was my church’s ambassador to this place, these people, and I felt a surge of pride for having that identity.
My nun friend stopped to talk to a man she knew. He said he had a story to tell us. His father and mother lived all their lives in this neighborhood, and had moved there after his father came home from World War I. When he was a kid, Ascension Church on Bryant, not far from where we were standing, had just been built with a gym and a swimming pool. The thing was, you had to be Catholic to use the facilities. So this guy and his brother persuaded his parents to convert to Catholicism, which they did willingly for their kids. “I wouldn’t be here, a Catholic, tonight if it weren’t for that swimming pool,” he laughed.
There was one of those big trailers, lit up and wired for sound, set at an angle in the street when we got to where the crowd had gathered. In front of it was the marching band with huge drums whose sound went immediately to your insides. Flanked on either side of them were dancers mimicking the drums’ every beat as they stomped and twirled in clean definition to the rhythm. Clapping and yells showed the audience appreciation.
From the trailer came the Foundation leaders’ speeches thanking us for being there. Don Samuels, the City Council member from the Third District, their District, gave his presence and his blessings to all. A young man and later several young girls performed their impassioned raps, whose words I didn¹t understand, but whose meaning was clear, even to someone like me. They were cries for normalcy, for goodness, for hope in the midst of danger and despair.
I looked around me at the many black young faces and no longer felt like an old white lady from another world. The music, the dancing, the good cause, the hand holding, had erased color and age lines like no cosmetic ever could.
I walked up the hill to leave and was struck by the fact that I had no fear as I passed a group of black guys standing on a corner. One of them turned to me. “A great night, huh?” he said. I agreed. “Where you from?” he asked. “Ascension?” “Joan of Arc,” I said. “Oh, Joan of Arc. Uh huh, nice,” he said.
I walked into the parking lot and heard a yell coming from a yellow bus parked there. “Joan of Arc!” someone called . I walked toward the bus to find my Sister friend. We got separated in the crowd. She stuck her hand out the bus. “I didn¹t remember your name, only your church,” she said. We laughed and waved goodbye.
I walked to my car and headed home thinking of how Marcus Borg, one of the Jesus Seminar people, in his book, The Heart of Christianity defines the Kingdom of God. He says, “The Bible combines sharp political criticism and passionate political advocacy . . .its central voices proclaim God’s dream of justice, a dream for the earth. Criticism and advocacy are grounded in their understanding of the character and passion of God: a God of love and justice whose passion for our life together is the Kingdom of God.”
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