NPR has a series titled “This I Believe“, which is a series of essays by people from all walks of life discussing the core values that guide their daily lives. They’ve now compiled many of these essays into two books. I’ve been very impressed and moved by several of these essays, and so I thought in the same spirit, I’d like to present some of my core beliefs.
When I was 16, I was a big fan of hard rock music. I was an angry and rebellious teenager, and the music I listened to spoke to those feelings. I didn’t feel that I had ever been truly accepted for who I was. In fact, most of my childhood I had been rejected by just about everyone around me. Part of this rejection was being called names and made fun of. One of the most common torments I endured was being called a fag, a homo, gay, or any number of other homosexual innuendos and slurs. As a result, I had a pretty strong reaction to anything that could even be possibly construed as being gay or gay-friendly.
One day on MTV I saw Sebastian Bach, the lead singer for one of my favorite groups, Skid Row, wearing a black t-shirt with the Raid bug-spray logo on it. However, instead of “Raid – kills bugs dead”, it said “AIDS – Kills fags dead” I thought it was funny, and I wanted one. It didn’t matter to me that this was incredibly hurtful and offensive to people (gay and straight alike). In fact, I didn’t even pause to consider that. All that mattered to me was that if I had that shirt, I could alleviate some of my own pain and torment by proving that I was not only not gay, but that I didn’t even sympathize with gays and wanted them dead.
And why would I care? I didn’t even know anyone who was gay.
Then I met my uncle DeLos for the first time that I remember.
Mom tells me that I had met him a few times when I was much younger, but I have no recollection of those meetings. My first and only memory of my Uncle DeLos is of a very thin and sickly man sitting in my front room with another man. They didn’t hold hands or really even touch each other in any way. They were there when I walked in, and Mom introduced them as my Uncle DeLos and his friend. I didn’t speak to him much, other than the uncomfortable small-talk of two people who are related by blood but have never met. DeLos was friendly and asked about school and things, and I gave only short responses. I would have carried on the conversation, but what does a 16 year old ask a person he’s just met? I don’t remember talking with him for very long.
Not long after that, DeLos died from complications related to AIDS.
There wasn’t a funeral that the family attended, and certainly no service of any kind at the church, as I was used to. In hushed conversations, I overheard my mom and her brothers talking about the service that the “gay community” had held for him. There was a community? I didn’t really comprehend what that meant until many years later. It was decided that in lieu of a funeral service, the family would gather at my house and simply share memories of DeLos. I remember my Grandma Carol crying over the loss of her son. I remember my uncle Sandy being unwilling to share anything at all, and my uncle Steve (in characteristic fashion) lightening the mood with humor as only he can.
And I remember that something in me changed.
I no longer wanted that shirt. I was ashamed for having ever wanted it at all.
That day, I stopped hating gay people. I hadn’t known any of them, and so it had been easy to turn my anger and hurt towards them. After hearing all of the stories about him, “gay” became something real to me, and not something hateful to throw at my friends when we were casually insulting each other.
Six years later in December of 1993, the film Philadelphia premiered. I went to see it, and sobbed all the way through. It was only the second time I’d ever cried in a movie. What touched me the most was the way Andrew Beckett and his boyfriend were supported by his family, and ultimately, how he was remembered. Not as a gay man, but as a brother and a son.
I’ve had many experiences since that first meeting with DeLos that have built upon my belief that each one of us hungers and yearns to be accepted. And acceptance is something I can give and receive.
Acceptance to me is the epitome of unconditional love. It’s also something that I have not by any means mastered. In fact, I work on acceptance just about every day.
You see, whenever I interact with someone, whether I know them or not, I have hundreds of judgements that I make about that person, and most of them are not kind. Some are even downright mean and rotten. I’ve come to understand that I do this as kind of a knee-jerk reaction to my own discomfort. When I feel “small”, “insecure”, or “not enough”, I find something in others to make them smaller or less than me. By making them smaller, I am naturally made “more” or “better”. I’ve mentally taken something from them in order to feel better about me.
To me, acceptance is embracing the very same difference that I judge.
After all, I don’t know what it’s like to be this other person standing in front of me. I have no idea why they look, dress, talk, act, or believe the way they do. Perhaps, just like me, they had an experience that changed their life and led them to this point, standing here in front of me.
It doesn’t matter what color, heritage or nationality they are. It doesn’t matter what their religious or political beliefs are. It doesn’t even matter who they hold hands with. The differences in people around me bring richness and joy to my life.
What I know within myself is that when I accept others, I feel spritually aligned and at peace.
Acceptance brings peace to my world.
This I believe.
