Last Saturday, I attended the launch party of The Nashville Trans Solidarity Project. My friends Dialup Ghost and the wonderful DJ Afrosheen performed two tremendous sets. Many members of the queer community showed up to share a night.
This event was the first time I had ever cross-dressed, and I was welcomed by everyone in the room, greeted by genuine smiles and compliments. I felt beautiful and loved. I was overflowing with joy to participate in such a great night and to see all my beautiful Trans siblings smile and dance together.
The day after the event, I had to work a Sunday shift as an usher at the Schermerhorn Symphony Center. I arrived around noon and discovered I would be working a private event. “Cool,” I thought, assuming I would greet people as they came in, smile real big, etc. Easy.
I then learned the event was a memorial service for Jim Ayers, and Governor Bill Lee, Mayor Freddie O’Connell and Senator Marsha Blackburn would be in attendance. Blackburn would be in the special box above the door where I would be stationed.
My first thought was, “Oh, that’s ironic. Dialup Ghost has a song called ‘Tennessee Senator Marsha Blackburn is a Drug Dealer.’ It’ll be funny to tell them I met her.”
Then I sat with the idea that I would be close to a person with immense power, and who has channeled all of that power into bigotry, hatred and violence. Blackburn is a purveyor of Birtherism, homophobia and racism. She co-sponsored the Ensuring Patient Access and Effective Drug Enforcement Act of 2015, which is widely believed to have drastically worsened the opioid crisis—hence the name of the Dialup Ghost song.
I’ve never been that close to someone who has spent their entire political career doing immense damage to people’s lives and wellbeing. As I was standing by Door Four in my ill-fitting, uncomfortable suit, I began to feel angry and sad.
I had just spent one of the best nights of my life celebrating the strength and beauty of trans people in my city, my dear friends. Now I had to hold the door for a person who has made millions of dollars to further their suffering.
When Blackburn descended the stairwell toward the backstage doors, I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to calmly gather myself and, with great poise and grace, say, “Mrs. Blackburn, I hope you feel a deep sense of shame for the lives you’ve ruined.” But that felt stupid and insufficient for all my feelings.
I wanted to scream and yell whatever cruel thing I could imagine before getting hauled out by security in some great display of martyrdom, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that either. It felt silly and self-serving.
I don’t know if it was cowardice or helplessness, probably both. But I just stood at my post and stared as angrily as I could as she walked by, most likely without a second thought.
When I clocked out, I complained to a coworker, put my jacket away, walked to my car and cried. I don’t know why.
I just felt so helpless. I imagined how long and successful Blackburn’s career has been and how gleefully she and her colleagues have been dismantling trans rights over the past years, and I felt defeated.
I have been asking myself, what should we, as Christians, do? How does the worldview of people of good faith respond to this injustice around us?
This is a gnarly question I will wrestle with for a lifetime, so I’ll summarize my ideas the best I can with the caveat that smarter people have more salient thoughts.
I’m not a theologian. I’m not even a very good theology student.
The best I’ve got is this: Everyone in that venue on Saturday night is beautiful and worthy of love and life. Every queer person, minoritized community, person with a disability, and all those despised by the state deserve the same dignity.
It is our job as Christians to scream our lungs out, loving and advocating for justice.
In one of the first articles I wrote as a Good Faith Media intern, I interviewed Jason Kirk, author of “Hell is a World Without You.” In our conversation, he said, “Joy is an act of resistance.” Every bit of joy we claim for ourselves, every bit of love, is a small act of defiance against a world that is calloused and cruel and wishes ill on any person it can punch down on.
I want to live up to that. I don’t want to give in to the defeatism and hatred I felt on Sunday.
I want my center to be a joyful celebration of the openness, smiles, hugs, and love I felt with my community. I want to extend that love as far as I can and protect it as the sacred thing that it is.
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Samuel Shepley is currently a junior at the University of Belmont. He is double majoring in English and Faith and Social Justice.
