Ash Thursday
Remember that you are somebody
A year ago my thumb was coated in ash. Yeah, okay, so it wasn’t truly a year as Ash Wednesday was in March last year. But last Ash Wednesday I stood at the front of the chapel and made the sign of the cross on foreheads and a few hands. A few came up to me in tears. These were generally queer folk. A year ago I did not know that I would be gone a year later, but it was always the question. I did know that mortality was something considered daily by the queer — and especially trans — community, not just on a special evening kicking off Lent. I remember the ash feeling both holy and heavy. But the heaviness was something already there. I was marking what we already knew. In that space we were bringing the horror to the Divine, begging for it to mean something. Here, we were seen. Here, our humanity was marked, was acknowledged, was part of something bigger than ourselves.
You may have noticed that today is actually Thursday. Ash Wednesday was yesterday. And even in this Catholic city, it came and went, and I didn’t see a single ashed forehead. Not one. Mine was not, either — but I thought about my mortality all the same.
I’ve had a lot of thoughts, but they keep spiraling around all of the news coming out of the US. . . how the Heritage Foundation has decided to say the quiet part out loud — that they have always been coming for adult care. . . how more and more providers of gender affirming care are closing their doors due to the pressure from the government, leaving so many scrambling . . . about the JAMA Investigation revealing that TWENTY SIX PERCENT of gender diverse youth in the US have attempted suicide. 26. Percent. Not thought about — attempted. And really my thoughts get stuck there.
Remember that you are dust. Stardust. Fertile soil that contains and sustains life.
Yesterday I saw a video clip of the Rev. Jesse Jackson on Sesame Street. He had a whole group of kids repeating, “I am somebody!” And I wonder who is telling our trans kids that today, who is helping them feel it in their very bones. It certainly isn’t the US Government. It isn’t all of those who have decided our children are political footballs. It isn’t the healthcare facilities who have decided that complying is more important than the lives of those who depended on them for healthcare.
But that teenager? She is somebody. The kid still figuring themself out? They are somebody. The 5-year-old telling his parents they are using the wrong words? He is somebody. Every single one of these kids is somebody, made of the most precious of materials.
This Lent, instead of thinking about how we will all someday die, I am challenging you to consider how we can do everything in our power to help these kids live. And not just in the basic survival sense, but in the fullness of what it means to be seen and known and take up space — to be recognized and loved. They deserve it. And our world — we — need it. We need them.