Posted on by palmtreemomma

Happy Pride!

June is Pride month. Sparked by the Stonewall Riots in June of 1969, many cities across the US have special activities to celebrate the LGBTQ+ community. But Pride month feels strangely quiet this year. Many parades and events have been canceled due to the pandemic. Racial tensions have sparked protests worldwide and the focus of many has been survival.

Survival. Of the virus. Isolation.

Survival. Of being Black in America.

Survival. Of being Queer. It’s still a thing.

Living colors

Last summer I walked the streets of Pittsburgh in awe as the city came together to celebrate. Moms, Dads, siblings, co-workers, friends. Coming together to support those who were waving their flags and wearing their colors. A living rainbow that is felt even more than it is seen. Unstoppable life. Unquenchable authenticity.

A few weeks later I watched as Austin sat in front of our booth at a local Pride event. He set up a free face painting station and must have painted close to a hundred faces. Rarely stopping from morning until late afternoon.

Queer. Straight. Young. Old. Male. Female. Non-binary. Some wore their pronouns with confidence. Others were still figuring it out. Face after beautiful face, held up to the light, waiting for the brush.

Sometimes those who have suffered repression and hate – but choose life anyway – are the only ones who can show us the light.

My husband painted and passed out glitter. He offered the unstoppable life and light that he had found and accepted the light of others in return.

I just stood there and watched. Toes quivering as the ground shivered from a holy breath that wrapped us all in the breeze.

Sometimes those who have suffered repression and hate – but choose life anyway – are the only ones who can show us the light.

Unquenchable authenticity

I stood in the back of our booth, selling rainbows and unicorns and other fun toys that made people smile. But I kept watching the glow coming from the front, as the light danced and the brush dipped and swirled.

It was as perfect a day as I will ever have. Because I witnessed a space where people did not have to pretend. Authenticity was celebrated. No one was different, only unique. Beautiful. Brave. Real.

If I had to sum up any Pride event in one word, it would have to be “love”.

I grew up in a community that celebrated conformity instead of uniqueness. So I’m still quite taken by the spectacle of unquenchable authenticity. The sheer joy I see in those who have chosen to love and live out of who they are is gloriously scandalous.

Instead of being afraid of them, I find I am drawn in. Because at the core is love. And like the ancient text says, there is no room in love for fear.

If I had to sum up any Pride event in one word, it would have to be “love”.

I close my eyes and try to imagine the whole world this way. The whole of humanity more concerned about being real than about fitting in. Polishing their own lights instead of blocking others. You don’t need to grab the mic or control the stage when you have found your own glorious inner light. You just need to be. Unstoppable life. Unquenchable authenticity. Painted with the purest of love.

New to this site? Read the beginning of my journey here. Feel free to reach out by email here if you need a listening ear or would like to continue this conversation.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Savior Culture

I grew up in a “savior” culture. A culture that taught that we had found the one and only way. We had the right answers. Our job was to save anyone who did not hold to the same values.

This has damaged me. And it has brought much sorrow and suffering to minorities and the earth that holds and sustains us all. Savior culture is steeped in pride and arrogance. It alienates and belittles all who are other.

White people, we are not saviors. We are not the answer. And we clearly have not found the way. Not when that way excludes, pushes down, and shushes those who are suffering. Or tells them how they should speak about their suffering. What they should or should not do.

healing or hurting

If someone comes to you, wrapped in trauma and shaking in fear. Blood dripping, tears flowing. Do you interrupt them and tell them the correct way to cry or the right words to use? Do you bring up your own pain and remind them that everyone is wounded? Or, do you drop everything, hold them, and listen to them while you bandage their wounds? Can you sit with them in their pain? Or do you become angry with them instead of their oppressors?

When we bear witness to trauma, we can either love or lecture. Hear or cause further harm. Protect, or persecute. We cannot do both.

Think about it for a minute. About all the ways you and I have been a part of a culture that tells the traumatized how they should react to their trauma. We criticize marches and slogans, speeches, and movements. We are so offended at Black knees kneeling to get our attention that it took a white knee kneeling on the neck of a Black man to wake us up. Most of us haven’t given it enough thought to realize that the anger and the violence that sometimes surfaces during times like this are because of us. Because of our failures. Kimberly Jones explains this well in this video. How we broke the contract.

on the edge

I look around me today and I see the world on the edge of its seat. Collectively on edge. Leaning forward. We’ve grown weary, to the point of exhaustion, fighting a very visible battle against an invisible virus. Maybe people have more time on their hands because of COVID. Or maybe we’re just ready for a visible, tangible thing we can do. Perhaps the air itself has been cleared of all the many things that clutter and take over our lives. Whatever it is, we find ourselves on the edge of our seats, taking in a big breath and coming together like never before.

My little city has had at least one rally, march or protest every day since George Floyd was murdered. And we are not alone. This could quite possibly be the largest civil rights movement globally, as all 50 states and more than 50 countries have joined in.

This is not our moment

But, white people, we must be careful not to shut down the voices of the traumatized. This is not our moment to pick up the mic. And while we must speak up, our conversations should center on learning from the Black leaders of the movement. Now is the time to let our backs be the floor of the stage. Our hands holding up the mics for others. Let’s freely offer our sweat, blood, and tears, but let the voice be the voice of Black people. This is not our moment to shine and it certainly is not our moment to save. It is our time to be quiet and listen. To swallow our words instead of correct or criticize.

Jo Luehmann says it so well.

White people cannot lead the fight against white supremacy… To explain why, I’ll compare this to patriarchy. The fight against misogyny should be fought by men too, but imagine men on panels posing as leaders that are fighting against patriarchy. Haven’t they had enough to say on this? If you can’t feel racism in your bones, if you cannot feel the oppression of living in a world made for whiteness then you can’t lead the fight against that oppression. You cannot be an expert. We need you to join the fight, but please know your role here.

Jo Luehmann

Jo has many wise words and I encourage you to follow her here and learn from her.

what we can do

This is not to say that we should be quiet and ignore the movement. Stay in our comfortable homes and let others do all the work. Silence is a form of violence. I’ve found myself wrapped in it often enough to know that silence is painful to those who are suffering. No, we must speak up. Now more than ever. But we must take care not to shape or control the narrative. This is not our moment.

When we must correct, let us correct our fellow white people. If we must challenge, let’s challenge each other. If we must motivate someone to do better, let’s motivate each other. Because we can do better than this.

Now is the time to let our backs be the floor of the stage. Our hands holding up the mics for others. Let’s freely offer our sweat, blood, and tears, but let the voice be the voice of Black people.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.