inhaled Mom’s potatoes at supper. Then I hear “homosexual.” The news anchor mentions that one word and my stomach is in my throat. “Margaret do you see this?” Daddy says to me, his voice equal parts excited and disappointed. “It’s disgraceful. The gays have gone crazy.” I manage to chuckle, my throat closing up and my eyes filling with unwelcome tears. I don’t know why I suddenly need to cry, but there’s something more significant about this particular news story. This isn’t just another race riot, or something that has nothing to do with me. I’m connected to the people in the grainy image I see flashing too quickly before my eyes. “Yeah,” I reply after the station switches to a different news story, “they have.” The congregation at Our Lady of Conservation is disgusted. One woman is crying, repeating the phrase “Oh Lord, save them,” under her breath. Mom leans over to Daddy and says, “Those policemen are heroes.” Our pastor is preaching the Word of God, creating a thick tension between me and the other church members. I’m praying for my own soul because I know what God thinks of people who love wrongly. On the way home, Mom and Daddy talk about the sins that were committed last night. The venom they spit makes me slink lower in my seat, wishing the metal of our Ford Falcon was stripped away and I could be free of the poisonous environment that they create with their words. My hands are sticking to the seat. I can feel a drop of sweat sliding from my hairline, down my neck, into the collar of my dress. Because there are people who are worlds away and my parents are condemning them. My parents are condemning those people for who they love and I’m confused because they say nothing about me, and yet I think I am one of those people.
It’s nine o’clock, and I know what happens at nine o’clock. I find my spot on the floor, switching on the television as I pass it. Daddy is already on the couch, reading yesterday’s newspaper and shaking his head. It’s the same reporter from last night. He says that people are doing it again. They’re resisting the police. They’re getting hurt. Daddy is grunting angrily, whispering something about how “they should just give in.” But I don’t see it that way. These people know what they want and who they want. They know that love is the answer, even if the people they love are unconventional. I know who I love and I know that she is a girl and I am, too, but I think that might not be as bad as I thought yesterday or this morning or five minutes ago. I’m starting to understand what they have understood for years. I’m a hundred miles away, watching them through a little screen, but I have never felt so close to a group of people in my life. As I listen to the reporter’s voice, I feel what they feel. This riot is one that has been building up for too long, not just within them but within me. My eyes are spilling tears now and I want to show the world but I can’t. I still have to hide the fact that I love who I love and I still have to go to church and I still have to hear my family talk about the people at the Stonewall Inn like they are the enemy and I still have to play my role. But some day, when I find the bravery to go to a mafia-owned bar where the gay community gathers, someday when I gain the courage to stand up for what and whom I love, someday, I will not have to play that role. And I wish that day was today, but for now, I silently wipe my tears and say, “I think we need to fix the antennas on the television again.”
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