So I went to a march last Sunday. A peaceful protest. A communal sign of support. Let’s just call it a love walk; I’m running out of synonyms.
It was at our local Islamic Community Center, a mosque with golden spires that, at the onset, appears out of place in that little residential community. But dig in deeper, enter the doors, admire the vibrant colors of the hijabs and the dogmatic supplications of their 1:00PM prayers, and you realize that you’re just itching to pull up a mat beside them. At least I was.
We lined the streets, colorful signs swinging through the air they weren’t political they were purely loving. Yes, we were protesting the travel ban, but, more than that, we were demonstrating solidarity, surrounding the mosque, and the beautiful people inside, wrapping them in a blanket of love in the hopes that their prayers would bring them peace.
I cried. I think a lot of us had tears pricking at the corners of our eyes. And the tears weren’t from the angry shouts of driversby. They weren’t from the middle fingers. They weren’t from the lady in the Beamer, who accelerated and tried to mow down those of us who dared to cross the street. They weren’t from the local chapter of the White Supremacy group, whose lifted trucks spewed out streams of exhaust that left us coated in soot, wiping the grime out from under our eyes. I blew a kiss to the passenger who shouted Fuck You, his PBR clutched in one hand, a cigarette in the other, because I think he probably needs some love. And I’ve got plenty to spare.
No, the tears were from the turnout. The tears were from the children, screaming the words Love One Another at the top of their lungs. Their throats will be sore tomorrow, but it will have been worth it. They’ll go to sleep with angels resting by their bedsides tonight. The tears were from the woman, whose tired and weary face was framed by a hijab, her eyes alight with love and wonder, who stopped beside each one of us to give a hug. She asked me how to pronounce the word “misogyny,” then asked me what it meant. I told her. She said it made her sad. And that made me sad.
The tears were from the cars that drove by; the honks, the waves, the peace signs, the shouts of joy and support and solidarity.
What a day. Even now, more than a week later, my spirit is filled. My cup is overflowing. My heart is content. And I only had to travel 10 miles, into the heart of another culture, where I was loved, embraced, and supported.
And all it did was remind me of this great capacity for love that each one of us carry within. Sure, the world makes us forget. Cruel people leave the mark of anger on our hearts and I understand. But know that, more than anyone, they need what you have to offer. More so do the poor in spirit need love than the poor in wealth. It is the empty hearts we need to fill; it is the seeking souls we need to find.
Irrespective of political persuasion or religious foundation no one is more worthy of your love than the man standing beside you. Go love them. Go smother them wrap your arms around them tell them they are beautiful and worthy of the world. Because they are. Because they live, and they breathe, and they exist. That is enough. It must be.