I Know How This Turns Out.

When I was just four years old, I was baptized (by my father) in a small Lutheran Church in Glyndon, MN. The year was 1971, and white couples adopting little black babies was not at all supported. Not even by the Lutheran Church. My younger by five months brother, Peter, had already been with the family for three years. He was a little bit easier to "handle" being he was only fifty percent negro. Yeah. 1971. When my dark chocolate beautiful self entered the scene, however, the townspeople had a little meeting in that Lutheran Church, and decided that my rainbow coalition family should pack their bags and head on over to another town where that kind of thing was acceptable. "One day those negro children will grow up and want to date, marry, and procreate with our white children - then what will we do?" they thought.

I can't make this type of stuff up.

My mother tells me very little about that time. But these are a few things she tells me:

At the "baby" shower some church folks threw for my mother on the arrival of her four year old bundle of joy, I pulled up my dress to scratch my tummy. One of the older ladies in the congregation gasped and said, "Oh my Goodness. She's black all over."

One day, my mother was fixing lunch for my brothers and I when there was a knock at the door. She went answer it and found someone from the church passing out literature. She handed the pamphlet to my mother then kindly explained that it was research that proved that black people had smaller brains, and therefore were less intelligent, than white people. Just a little FYI for your afternoon, Audrey. Have a nice day.

There are very few things I remember from that time in my life that coincide with the stories of our departure from that town. But I remember the day I saw my father cry for the first time. He was in his home office, on the couch, laying face down, and weeping. I have yet to hear a man weep the way my father did that day.  I can still see it: shoulders shaking, loud bellowing sobs I could see ripple from his feet to the top of his head. It sounded like my father's heart was being torn out of his chest, and that he was powerless to stop it.

I grew up in the Lutheran Church. Yes, it is filled with mostly white Norwegian, German, Swedish people from Minnesota or Iowa (I don't know if this is actually true, but the stereotype often has some small kernel of truth somewhere, right?). But despite the whiteness of the religion, I feel at home in pretty much any Lutheran Church in America. I will walk myself into any ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church of America) congregation, pick up a hymnal and sing any song the organist plays. Hell, I probably already played those hymns myself on the organ at my Dad's church in Houglum. I feel like my name: Kari Anderson, gives me a right to be there by birthright, and will often out qualify people who might "look" more Lutheran than I do.

I've gone through it before. I know that people inside a church don't always make the church holy. I know that there are people in church who can read the holy book and never, ever know the true story of love that permeates all of the pages. I know that I can sit inside of a church and hear the most beautiful of voices, and then hear those same voices outside of my families home telling me because of my skin I'm somehow less valuable, less beautiful... just LESS than them.

Some people might ask me why I stay. And I guess it's because I feel I shouldn't be the one to leave. I feel like I have it right. I feel like my family has it right.

In 1985, my mother invited two gay men to attend services at the church my father was serving as Pastor. On a good Sunday, the church maybe had twenty people in it. It was tiny.It was a "welcoming" congregation, however, when those two gay men came into the church... oooooo weee. To hear the people talk. My mother and father stood firm. They challenged many of the passages people had misinterpreted, spoke up and history repeated itself. They (my mother and father) were asked to leave.

So imagine my eye roll when my mother told me that 30+ years later, their church they are now attending had a vote on if the church should perform gay marriages. Did I mention this church is in Minnesota? According to the law, same sex weddings are legal, however, it's up to each church to determine whether or not they will perform the ceremony. "Your kind can come and worship here, Missy, but we're gonna have to ask you and your woman to not declare your love so loudly as to be married in this here facility. Thank you and have a nice day."  Basically.

On Saturday, my Aunt and Uncle are having a "Midsummer Night's Party." In Norway they would celebrate the longest day of summer with drinks and music and celebration. There will be people from the church in town here -- people who have left because of the decision to marry people like Jay and I, who will also be attending. My mom and dad will be here (they own the house...) and well, I've already told their story. I am planning on playing nice. But I'm not going to be invisible. My color, my identity, the people I love, are beautiful.

I've seen this movie before. I know how this turns out.