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Today was Pride in Syracuse, NY, the city that I call Home. I went though it was something like 93 degrees by eleven thirty when the parade got going, and the fact that I had to get to work by four that afternoon. I was tempted to skip it this year, both due to the heat and to get a few more hours sleep, but I knew that if I did that I’d regret it afterward. Another reason I knew I’d regret not going was the fact that my mom and brother were going this year.

My mom hasn’t gone to a Pride parade before, but I love the fact that she went this year with us. My mom had a great time. Her workplace had representation in the parade, and I got to meet her coworkers while she got to meet my friends. My brother and I are both bisexual. We’re lucky enough to have a mom who has always been supportive of us all along the way and I do mean ALL along the way. My mom is uncommonly fantastic. When I nervously came out to her back in college, instead of the reactions my friends got from their parents (denial, tears, bed-wetting, temper tantrums) my mom hugged me and bought me an orchid to cheer me up. Mom bought my bro an wig for drag queen endeavors when he came out. Like I said. Uncommonly fantastic.

I’m getting off on a tangent. Back to the story at hand: Mom came to Pride. Last year it rained and we had one single lonely protester who protested his very hardest for the first few blocks of the parade until he got too wet and tired to protest on and left us to gayly march along under our rainbow umbrellas in peace. This year it was gorgeous and sunny and the protesters who couldn’t have come last year (or risk melting in the rain) came out in droves. They showed up in the forms of a priest, a mess of altar boys carrying an obscenely large crucified Jesus and various sour-faced be-bearded bible-thumping harpies. All throughout the commencement portion (or at least the part I was there for) the protesters sang hymns and bellowed warnings that if we proceeded with our lives, loving who we love, that we’re destined to burn in hell. (Good to know, Priest with Altar Boy. Thanks for that heads up.)

As my family and I stood struggling to hear the various commencement speakers talk about LGBT issues in politics over the hymning hoardes behind us, my mom leaned over and said to me, “This is gonna get ugly if they don’t shut up.” I haven’t had the chance to talk to Mom more about why she said that, but I know why her statement resonated with me.

My family and I are all recovering Catholics (we now consider ourselves spiritual). Mom was raised in a strict Irish Catholic family with the typical five million children, church on Sundays, and nuns for teachers. There was a time that my Mom and Dad brought my brother and I to church on Sundays. My brother would always run up after Mass to get a big hug from Father Quinn. Years later we would learn that Father Quinn sexually abused some of the young male members of our church, though thankfully not my brother. In March 1991, just before St. Patrick’s Day, when I was six and my brother was three (before we learned about Father Quinn) my Mom called our church to ask that a priest come pray with/do last rites over my Dad, who was going into brain surgery for his cancer, a risky procedure that he wasn’t likely to live through. Mom was told no priest could be spared, as they were busy preparing for the St. Patrick’s Day parade. My father lived through that surgery, but died in December of 1991. We no longer attend church.

Today’s Pride commencement speech paid respect to the family of community member and transwoman Lateisha Green who was murdered in Syracuse last year. I remember the community response and outpouring of support and massive vigils that followed. Tragedy always comes at an inconvenient time, and it is at these times of great crisis and pain that communities are tested and, hopefully, draw together to support one another. I am aware that the LGBT Community is not really comparable to The Catholic Church; I’m just trying to show you where I’m coming from with my anger, and what it looks like to be in the middle of these very different groups.

Today at Pride my family and I found ourselves physically standing between these two groups. One group with a message of love and acceptance, caring for and supporting any and all its members at times of need; the other group spewing hate about the first group (and anyone else who is too different), only willing to extend a hand of support to those who align with their viewpoint, and only when it’s convenient to them.

I wanted to go tell the protesters exactly what I’ve just told you. I wanted to ask them how it felt to wake up that morning, make breakfast and get dressed in their religious robes and gather up their enormous Jesus and come out downtown to yell at a huge group of people, who have done nothing more heinous than love one another differently, that they are going to burn in hell for the crime of loving. What kind of person wakes up in the morning and says, “Time to go spread some hate! Won’t God be so proud of me for spreading His Word”? This coming from a group that’s all too willing to turn away from comforting their own if it’s inconvenient.

Truthfully, I also wanted to flip the protesters off and get into a screaming match with them, and I think that may have been what Mom meant by her comment that “This is gonna get ugly.” However, we all knew that wouldn’t have helped the situation at all. Instead of lowering ourselves to their level and responding with hate, when the parade would pass a patch of angry sign waving (“Homosexuality is a sin”) and Bible reading protesters, we smiled and waved at them, held hands with family, lovers and friends, and waved our signs (“Love is the Answer”) right back at them.