Why I Wear Rainbows

I had a friend, I would call a best friend, André Hétu. During the summer of 2001, while I was living in Montreal, we worked together and each Saturday, we'd meet up at about four a.m., get in his minivan, and he'd drive. He'd drive until ten or eleven a.m., we'd hike up a mountain and get ourselves back to Montreal by midnight, so André could go dancing. We hiked up dozens of mountains, explored hundreds of miles of wilderness. He was twenty four years older than me and I had no idea how he did it, but I did my best to keep up and loved every moment we spent together.

I didn't know it at the time, but there was a large contingency of people at the office who weren't excited about the loud American kid who drove a Mercedes showing up for an internship when dozens of longtime loyal employees were being laid off during the telecom crash. I was on a personal mission "to save the company" but for the first month everyone thought I was just some kid screwing around. André was kind, and inviting. He was loving while most people were distrusting and standoffish.

After, I moved back to the U.S., I returned to visit Montreal at least once a year. I took friends, girlfriends, and family on trips to Montreal. We'd catch up with André for a few days or even a week-long backpacking trip.

After a few years, I kept returning to Montreal, but we would miss each other somehow. He would take forever to return calls, if he did return them. I'd try to reach him well ahead of a trip and then he'd call me back after my trip.

His email responses grew short. I figured maybe he wasn't practicing his English as much as he was when we worked together. Maybe talking to me really took some work. I didn't think there was anything wrong. We just didn't connect as easily. We were always up to lots of things. I assumed we were both living life to its fullest.

I felt connected whether we were spending time together or not. To me, our friendship transcended space and time. Our communication difficulties and missed connections seemed circumstantial.

Then, one day, in 2007, I heard from a mutual friend, André had discovered he was gay and "came out of the closet." I recall that it didn't seem like a big deal to me. I looked forward to catching up and learning about André's life journey first hand, whenever that may be.

I met the love of my life, Sarah Townsend-Grant and in 2008, we were getting married and moving to Connecticut. We had never explored Maine. She had never been to Quebec. We were broke, but had a full month of time available and a new puppy, named Delft. For our honeymoon, I planned a backpacking, mountain climbing, canoe camping trip to share all of the best of the best places André had shared with me. (In between wilderness excursions, I plotted decadent experiences of civilization in Quebec city and Old Montreal, and a two week stay at The Lakeside Loft in Mt. Vernon, Maine).

I dearly wanted my soulmate Sarah Townsend-Grant to meet one of my best friends. André hadn't responded to our wedding invite. I left him a voicemail expressing more urgency than normal and he called me back. When I saw his number on my caller ID, I was delighted. It affirmed my mental model that nothing was wrong... we were both just busy.

After a casual greeting and friendly small talk, André said he wouldn't be able to make it to my wedding. Then, he got very quiet. He said that he had figured out he was gay, and he fully understood if I didn't want to see him during our Montreal trip. I told him that I already knew he was gay and of course I wanted to visit him. He seemed excited and we picked a place and time where we could meet.

I didn't realize how odd the call was until I hung up. Someone I considered my best friend just offered me an 'out' from our friendship. I couldn't really wrap my head around it. I set it aside in my mind and looked forward to our upcoming visit. When Sarah and I met André in Montreal, André expressed delight that we showed up. He was genuinely surprised we were still friends. I was still dumbfounded.

Then, he proceeded to tell me how most of his friends (and some family) quit speaking to him when he told people he was gay. He didn't want to tell me, as if somehow, we could simply let our friendship live on as a memory without risking it.

My eyes teared up. I softly cried because I never imagined what that could have been like. What a profoundly lonely experience. He reached out and touched my hand. It was an odd moment, him comforting me through my experience of his pain. He said "it's not so bad, in most countries I could be imprisoned or even killed for being this way. We have it pretty good here."

That moment gave me a glimpse of what I don't know that I don't know about what it means to be gay (or anything else), in a discriminatory world. It left me knowing that, in a discriminatory world, not being discriminatory is not enough to have others feel safe or welcome.

It left me wondering...

"Who else do I feel connected to that feels far from connected to me because they don't know whether they are safe to express themselves? 

Who else is suffering quietly around me?"

"Who have I missed the opportunity to know entirely?"

"Isn't it nice that I feel safe everywhere I go, and don't have to hide my identity for fear of being rejected?"

So, now I wear rainbows. For me, it is a symbol of peace, love, and safety, in the midst of a world where bigotry exists. As a straight white male, I mean for it to say, "I have no idea what you're dealing with and I want to stand with you. I don't know what that looks like. Maybe I look confused, because I am. Yet, I want you to feel safe and supported and I think this is an overt expression that says you are safe with me. I don't want to unwittingly lose another best friend or future friend because you don't want to risk the possible pain of inquiring into my bigotries before or after you've gotten to know me. And, maybe, just maybe, if others see that I feel safe standing with you, they might too."

We kept in touch by phone and email, but that was our last time together in person. In 2013, André met the love of his life, Stéphan, who I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting. Not too long thereafter, André was diagnosed with cancer, and died, but not before he and Stéphan were married.

The rainbow falls short of being all inclusive. It's not a universal sign that you are loved and welcome here. It doesn't, for instance, express that I admire Mormons for their practices of giving or Scientologists for their commitment to personal development, or Libertarians or veterans for standing for my liberty. I don't think police see rainbows and feel appreciated and loved, nor do I suspect it lands with that kind of power in the African American community.

Practicing Christianity doesn't yet symbolize for most that I am interested in loving you (even though that's what inspires me about Christ and the Episcopal tradition). For most people I've met, the cross falls far short of communicating Jesus' love. I don't know of a flag or symbol that's sufficient. So, I wear rainbows. It's the closest thing I've found to express "I stand for love".

And, for those it doesn't reach, I love you too. For those who think I'm wielding it wrong, I probably am, I'm open to hearing about it. For those who cringe when you see rainbows, I'd like to hear from you. I aspire, that if we meet, you will find love here. I aspire to be as welcoming and gentle as André when he befriended the punk American kid.

Thank you André for the awesome adventures and other challenges you're still helping me take on. Thank you for the joy of rainbows in my life.

Gabriel

Reposted by #LoveWhatMatters