If I had to describe my family in one word, it would be, “busy”, and I don’t think that’s all too uncommon in a twenty-first century American household. My mom leaves home at 7am to teach until three in the afternoon, will likely stay at work until five or six, comes home in the evenings to grade papers, finish lesson plans, help with homework, and maybe even cook dinner if she’s not too exhausted before collapsing into bed by midnight and doing it all again the next day. My dad’s schedule is more of the same, with meetings and hearings taking the place of classroom time and choir rehearsals/bible studies occupying assorted evenings.
There’s no wonder that we don’t really do birthdays. Let me explain.
We usually get through birthday parties for the younger years (There are pictures of me in various party attire from 1-5), but then, something happens — too many homework assignments, parent teacher conferences, soccer games and suddenly, the date has come and gone with little more than a Happy Birthday wish, a gift and a promise to celebrate the next year.
My brother, Joshua too fell into this cycle. The last time I remember us celebrating his birthday, he was three years old, and every year we watched as he became more and more frustrated with us as he watched his friends, classmates and cousins celebrate their birthdays without celebrating his.
I don’t think we knew just how much it affected him until this year. This year, amidst all that I had learned about crafting around my intention, treating my body like a prayer box and being the one that I’m waiting for (you know, all those catchy phrases I’ve adopted and use to explain the crazy course of my life lately) - I decided to stop waiting for my parents to find the time. I was twenty two years old, and I was going to throw my baby brother a surprise tenth birthday party.
I thought big - no, over the top was the way to go. I invited fifty kids, booked a DaveNBusters-esque venue that would be considered chic even to adults, ordered a giant Star Wars cake, shelled out cash for eight large pizzas at the venue restaurant, unlimited laser tag and bowling for each child, bought expensive bags with real, themed toys and candy for each child. I needed him to know that all of this mattered to me because he mattered to me, to us.
In the lead-up to the big day, my cousin thought Joshua might have been tipped off, and planned a small gathering at my parents’ house with her son, another cousin, and two of my mom’s friends’ grandchildren who were around his age. There was an inexpensive banner and cheap candy in dollar store bags with a simple blue tablecloth and Spiderman themed plates. The menu was hot dogs and chip bags, and cupcakes that were leftover from the local grocery store. It was all orchestrated to be an elaborate ruse, a joke. No one expected what happened next.
When he arrived, and we all said surprise, he froze, all fifty-five pounds of his slender frame, his mouth and eyes wide with shock, hands stretched at his side like solar panels taking it all in and then, crumpled into tears. I’ll never forget the way his sobs wracked his body, as he bolted up the stairs. I followed, the overprotective big brother concerned with protecting his dignity - breaking down in front of your party guests definitely qualifies as being different, and at age ten, being different can be brutal. I’d learned that the hard way. It was a lesson I’d never wished him to repeat.
His initial shock was soon replaced with joy, and joined by gratitude, and the glimmer behind his eyes as he repeated “Thank you.” and “I can’t believe this is MY party.” over and over was so genuine, I made a silent promise to myself to always continue to follow that light.
The moment inspired me, the effect that such a small act of acknowledgement could have on his psyche, and yet was an incredibly sobering reminder of a major need of the human condition - to feel seen, known, and valued. We gave him the world every year - for birthday gifts he’s gotten iPads, other tablets, game systems, money, notebooks, etc. and he deemed this his best birthday ever. I wonder how many queer kids would trade all the things their parents provide for them in exchange for an, “I love you.” or “I see you.” or “You have value to us.”
I believe I still would. Most of the turmoil of the past decade, I can directly tie to this fear that I believe we all have shared from the beginning of time, that no one sees me and says to the world as a complete statement with no caveats, “You’re good.” That no one ever will.
The fact that that idea still rings even the slightest bit true to me, means I have not yet completed my journey to self-love, but I’ve found the best way to inspire love for yourself is to truly love your neighbor. And so I continue to show up, I continue to start new support groups to sit and listen, or to share when asked. I show up in hard conversations with activists, pastors and faith leaders entrenched in the gospel that many of my fellow believers would love to exclude me from and the stigma of following a God my non faith-positive friends see as an archaic superstition with my big leaky heart, dripping “I love you”. I show up bringing homeless queer kids pizza and baked goods from Publix, I pass out shampoo and conditioner, body wash and lotion, and condoms - that are all my way of saying, “If you need to hear this, know I love you, and you are valuable to me. Value yourselves too, okay? Promise me, and I promise never to be too busy to see you.” Its never much, but I’m unsure much is all any of us need. More than anything, we need each other, and I can do that.
Josh is a special kind of firebrand. He is outspoken and has inspired my boldness. His fearlessness stirs my confidence. I can only hope that I am as befitting a brother to him as he has been in all he's taught me. Happy Birthday Josh! I am trying not to shrink back from the gravity of the I love you’s and I see you’s that I so desperately still need. I am learning how to sit in my shock, soak them up and declare my gratitude. I’ve learned this from you. I can’t wait to find out how much more you have to teach me in the years to come.