I don’t know how many times I vomited late at night when I was young. I remember in my drowsy stupor lurching down the hall to the bathroom. Too many times, I didn’t make it to the toilet; many times, the carpet in the hallway was the ill-fated receptacle.
I never cleaned that up. My mom would somehow be at my side, soothing me, at 3 am. Helping me find new pajamas, and making the vomit disappear. She was a healing angel those nights.
But now people call her ignorant, hater, monster, worse than Hitler.
I was scared. Now an adult I sat in a dark parking lot with a friend. I cried. This is how we met, our own homes could not hear our secret. Struggling to figure out how to be human, when people say you’re an abnormality—when you might believe them.
He told me I was good. He poured caring salve into the deep wounds in my soul. He walked me back from the abyss, and helped me feel ok. For a few moments, he was the mute button of my brain, silencing the anxious reverb.
But people say he is evil, unnatural, ungodly.
Both these people are angels to me. Their lives seek to make others better.
But, two old politicians decided they wanted power.
One angel chose one, the other chose the other.
And now a chorus of voices proclaims one or the other despicable, devilish, deviant.
They are not without flaws—these Samaritans—but they are none of those derisive things.
The chorus can pound sand. I will not hate or forsake these good people.
