Cardboard Bullies

My mother places a hard wooden stick in my hand, a piece of bright yellow cardboard stapled to the end that reads, 'HOMO SEX IS SIN' in big, bold letters. She gives me a smile and I force one back, gripping the sign tightly.

My father leads us down Sixth Avenue, right between Christopher Street and Central Park. The rest of our group holds up their signs as they walk, bombarding passerby with 'GOD HATES FAGS' and 'YOU'RE GOING TO HELL', though the march hasn't even started yet. I keep mine down, the hateful letters pressed against my legs.

We stake out our spot, my mother happily sighing and telling me, "it's time these faggots understand their place on this Earth." I watch my aunts and uncles chat with each other casually, their neon signs yelling obscenities at anyone and everyone who happens to catch a glimpse of them. We patiently wait for the "abominations" to arrive. We wait for our chance to strike down their first parade.

The sky is dark grey and the air is heavy, threatening us with a storm. I sit down against the building behind me, my sign face down on the ground to my right. I scoot a bit to the left.

Soon I hear the distant thunder of feet and thousands of voices chanting unrecognizable phrases. My father ushers me up off the ground, placing the cardboard bully back into my palm. At the first sight of a bright rainbow flag, my family begins to chant their own unrecognizable phrases, but theirs are full of hate while the marchers' are full of hope. I remain silent, my arm dutifully holding up the sign like a machine.

I watch people pass by. They don't give us a second glance. We yell and flash our cardboard bullies their way, yet they all keep smiling and chanting. We try to break through their jubilant cries with hateful ones, but they don't seem to care. I see defiant fists raised into the air and arms wrapped around each other's waists, their smiles radiating. I look up at the sky, and it's bright blue. They have wiped the storm away.

I make eye contact with a teenage boy with thick sideburns and bell-bottom jeans, nothing out of the ordinary. If I saw him on the street, I wouldn't know his sexual orientation nor would I care. So why does it matter? If we all are human, what's the point of our hateful signs? We cannot tell others it's wrong to be human.

I smile genuinely at him as he smiles brightly at me, beckoning me towards him. I put my sign down, my hand aching from gripping it so hard. I step off the sidewalk, my father trying to grab me and pull me back into their world of hate. But I walk up to the boy and take his hand, thrusting it into the air as I am swept away into this world of kindness.