A couple of years ago, The Big Daddy and I had gone down to KC’s shopping/entertainment district to meet my brother and his family who were in town for the Easter weekend. At a crosswalk waiting for the light to change, two guys were in front of us. As we stood there, a car drove by and somebody hung out the window and yelled, “FUCKING FAGGOTS!”
Oh. My. God.
The light changed, we crossed the street and one of the guys said to the other, “See. This is why I couldn’t live here anymore.”
In the many thoughts racing through my mind, all I could think to do was to catch up to them and say, “I’m sorry about what just happened because Kansas City is better than that.” They thanked me and told me “it was okay.”
Nothing about that was okay.
I don’t think of myself as some kind of do-gooder out to rid the world of homophobics who are so brave they toss slurs from a speeding car under darkness, but I cannot witness that kind of thing and do nothing.
While The BD got side-lined when he ran into a coworker, I learned their names, what they did for a living, the crushing lonely life of discovering you’re gay in small town Kansas twenty years ago and why New York City was a better fit for them. It was a ten minute conversation that we were all the better for, and before we parted ways they told me my kids were lucky to have me for a mom and hugged me goodbye.
Grace was resurrected that night.