in ways I could not have anticipated. I’d been getting in trouble all my life for talking too much and too fast, rambling on and on about subjects and ideas that almost no one else cared about—but this anonymous stranger wanted to hear them. Which is how I ended up telling him silly stories like:
“This morning I was trying to think of an economic principle to describe a situation. I learned it in Microecon, but couldn’t remember the name of the principle. Eventually, I did. I just got to my bed and found an exam from Microecon. The one with the answer I was looking for (principle of diminishing marginal utility). Haven’t seen this in 5 years, and have no idea how it got here. No one even knew I was looking for the answer. Weird stuff!”
As much as I enjoyed sharing my stories with him, I wanted to hear his stories, too—but it seemed hopeless. I was already consumed with curiosity, and his refusals to open up just made me all the more determined. Since he always balked when I asked questions—especially ones that might reveal more of his identity—I stopped asking (or at least reduced my questions by half; I was truly desperate, though I couldn’t allow myself to admit it). It was clear that my fear that he was an insidious deceiver had a twin: his fear that our friendship—the deepest friendship I’d ever had outside of Westboro—would reflect poorly on him if it became known in his small community. I realized I just had to be patient and not too probing, to let him share what he wanted when he wanted.
“Do you play an instrument?” I asked him one day.
“No, but I have DirecTV.”
I found him ridiculously clever.
As the weeks and then months passed, my patience paid off. In addition to the information I’d already gleaned, I discovered that he was from a very small town (though not in Nebraska, I was relieved to learn; I still harbored many hard feelings for the state after police officers in Bellevue arrested my mother for lawfully protesting). I knew he was somewhat older than my twenty-five years—early thirties, I guessed. His family had always had a farm, but his parents were professionals: a social worker and a nursing professor. His only sibling, a brother, lived in Chicago with his wife and three children. His family was of Norwegian descent, and he was very tall, with blond hair and blue eyes. I even got part of his name: his initials, C.G. His fear of being connected to WBC made even more sense when I discovered that he was an elected official. I didn’t like his reticence, but I could see where he was coming from.
Most of our discussions revolved around Westboro and theology, which he wasn’t terribly familiar with. I tried to educate him, but no matter how tenaciously I defended our positions, he just couldn’t get past some of them—especially the funeral protests. “But what about the family?” he would press me. My answer to this question sounded more and more hollow as time went by, but I refused to admit how uneasy—almost guilty—this line of questioning was making me feel. I argued the position I’d believed since I was a kid: that the definition of love was “truth,” and that any expression of truth was, by definition, loving. Truth was love regardless of context, target, or tone—even when it involved holding a sign that read THANK GOD FOR DEAD SOLDIERS on the sidewalk near a military funeral, while singing praises to the homemade bombs that killed them. C.G. strongly disagreed, and it became a point of contention that came up more often than the rest of his objections. When I wanted to talk about commandments and truth, C.G. was focused on humility, gentleness, compassion. To him, our message and methods clearly lacked these qualities—no matter how truthful we believed our words to be.
I’ve commented on the signs/picketing several times. You’ve never given quarter to any real discussion. (They’re biblically supported, etc.) I’ve said and continue to believe that it’s just BS designed to gather attention. I understand that you need attention to deliver your message; however, I’ve never encountered a family as intelligent or creative as yours.
You are carrying those signs because of circumstances 20 years ago in a city park and subsequent momentum.
You can do better.
I had been raised to view life as a battle between good and evil, and I knew that every person fit