Along with many of you, I’ve been in a cold sweat of chicken rage today. And I don’t like it. It’s not productive. It’s not good for me. It’s not solving a damn thing. So, in the midst of all this floured, battered and deep-fried intolerance, this is my way of reminding myself about what I CAN do.
- I CAN chose to eat where I want. Some of us buy local to support small business. Some us shop at a friend’s Etsy site to support her business. Some of us don’t buy food with high fructose corn syrup in it. We hand our money over where we choose to. I CAN control where my paycheck goes. I can’t control where our neighbor spends her money.
- I CAN teach my children about tolerance and acceptance. I can tell them how important love and respect is. I can tell them how lucky I am to have found and married their father. I can tell them that everyone deserves the same rights as us. I can tell them that love between two consenting adults is a beautiful, precious, spiritual and, at times, rare thing. Hold on and celebrate it when you find it.
- I CAN vote. I can write my representatives and tell them that I believe in same sex marriage and equal rights.
- I CAN reflect on the progress that has been made towards equal rights over the past decade. It’s something. Not enough… but it’s moving in the right direction.
- I CAN choose to listen and not cut myself off from diverse, open-minded conversation with people on both sides of the table–no matter how difficult it might be.
- I CAN walk away from angry, spiteful or offensive conversation. I don’t have to listen to that. Hate isn’t my deal, baby.
- I CAN think for myself.
- I CAN keep learning and never assume I know it all. (HARDLY.)
- I CAN be grateful for a country where I’m not arrested for my beliefs. (We’ve got work to do, though, I know.)
- I CAN come home, cuddle my kids on the couch and take comfort that some artery-clogging fast-food chicken chain isn’t going to change my beliefs or the millions of others who share my beliefs. And it’s not going to make gay American citizens, or their deserved rights (no, they won’t make us go backwards, they won’t) just *poof* go away.
And, as my husband says: “Who the fuck puts a pickle on their chicken sandwich, anyway?”