FINDING CONNECTION OUT OF CONFLICT.

How to meet anti-LGBTQ hate with unconditional love.

I always thought of our doorman like a friendly uncle.

Calling him our building's doorman is honestly doing him a disservice. He's so much more than that. A security guard, a mechanic, a hard worker and a helping hand.

Whenever anyone in my building waits outside for a bus or a cab, he stands with us until it arrives.

There is a genuine compassion inside of him. Which is why what he did one Saturday evening hurt me so deeply.

I spent the weekend with my chosen family. Gay men, lesbians, and a transgender woman. It was a beautiful two days, spent laughing and celebrating.

Except for five minutes at the front desk.

We needed some assistance on the first night of my friends' stay at my building. As always, I immediately thought to ask our doorman for assistance.

I was excited to show my friends how gracious and handy our doorman is. We took the elevator downstairs, and I saw him sitting at the front desk reading.

As we approached, he looked up and noticed my friends for the first time. I watched his face change. He did not look like my doorman anymore.

I said hello in my usual, agreeable way. I asked him for some simple assistance, the kind he'd always extended so warmly before — always with a smile.

There was no smile that evening.

He looked at us and shook his head. "You'll have to figure that out for yourselves," he said dismissively.

I thought he was kidding. As he leaned back in his chair and cast a judgmental look at my group, I realized he was very serious.

It’s hard to feel safe and comfortable, especially after an anti-LGBTQ+ encounter you didn’t expect.

We took the elevator back upstairs. It was very easy for my friends to assess the situation. They thought he was an a**hole.

I was much more confused, mainly because I knew he wasn't one. I was suddenly in no mood to celebrate. I was stunned. I was hurt. I felt betrayed.

There were so many questions left from our brief encounter.

Was he being transphobic towards my friend? Or homophobic towards my gay and lesbian friends? Or both?

Had my doorman only helped me because he didn't perceive me as gay?

Does he treat all queer people this way?

Can I ever feel comfortable around him again?

The gatekeeper to my safe space was gone. I felt betrayed. My confusion turned to hurt, and then to anger.

My friends had simple solutions to the problem.

"You should complain to the building manager," they said. "He was rude and unhelpful. He should be held accountable."

My anger grew. I felt my skin crawl and my blood boil. I wanted my doorman reprimanded. I wanted him fired.

I wanted him to feel the way I felt.

Eventually, my friends moved past the moment and were adamant on celebrating our time together. It was much harder for me to forget what happened.

I did my best to enjoy the company of my friends. We had a wonderful time, and it was a joy to experience their love.

When they departed the next day, I was left with memories of our encounter with my doorman. And I was left with my feelings.

My anger slowly dissolved into what caused it: disappointment.

I was disappointed in how he treated us.

I was disappointed that our relationship wasn't what I perceived it to be.

But I was also disappointed in myself.

My entire job is predicated on meeting the world with unconditional love. I am called to embrace every person with open arms and a commitment to serve.

When I was faced with my doorman's conditional hate, I fell short of my commitment.

I thought deeply about the struggle my LGBTQ+ community endures in this way. I reflected on how our fight for equal rights and treatment feels so draining, and how these small moments harden us against the world.

And then, I thought about those on the other side of our conflict.

We cannot control the thoughts or behaviors of others. But we can control ours. Let’s meet hate with love.

I imagined I was brought up to fear or loathe gay people. What if I was ignorant to the humanity of transgender people, or if my parents taught me that being gay was a choice?

And what if, when I found myself in conflict with a queer person, I was fired or publicly shamed for it?

If I was that person, my views wouldn't change. I wouldn't become more accepting. I wouldn't learn to love. I'd simply learn to hate even more.

It's so hard to resist the urge to meet homophobic and transphobic behavior with public shame and professional punishment. 

Let's be honest. In the heat of the moment, it feels good to "win" a game that we queer folks lose so often.

But in the long run, we haven't accomplished anything. We haven't changed the minds of the bigots.

We've only entrenched their opinions of us.

I made the choice to work through my feelings. To breathe through the anger. To let it dissipate. 

I'm only human. I won't pretend it was easy. But I did the best I could. 

Because I wanted to try another way.

I saw my doorman Monday morning. I was nervous.

What if he met me with more hate? What if he said something disgusting about my friends?

I swallowed my fears. I chose to meet him with unconditional love.

"Good morning!" I smiled and waved in his direction.

He looked up to meet my gaze. Then he smiled, and waved back.

Maybe he was relieved not to be yelled at. Perhaps he was grateful I hadn't called his boss. He might simply have been glad to avoid an awkward encounter.

Or maybe he'd thought about what happened, felt poorly about it, and was genuinely happy to see me smile his way.

I cannot control his thoughts, his feelings, or his behavior.

But I can certainly control mine. And I chose to meet him with unconditional love. 

I will choose to do the same tomorrow.

And that, to me, feels much more like victory.