My crazy-ass leg wound

Many years ago, I spent a day up in Taylors Falls, MN with some friends. At one point, we were right next to the river's edge (the St. Croix River) when something happened and I fell. I was walking at the back of the pack, so no friends actually saw it happen (but they did hear the sound of the splash as part of me hit the water).

When I stood up, they noticed that blood was coming from my leg....but I literally had no idea what my leg might have hit or grazed during the tumble. Anyway, we wrapped my leg up, and then I took some Advil when I got home (when in doubt, take Advil...right?).

Over the next few weeks, my leg appeared to be healing nicely.....and that was a good thing since I had no medical insurance at the time.

But then, about a month after the tumble, I noticed that a red ring was forming around the site of the wound. I might not have been a genius, but I knew that red ring was a problem. So I headed to a clinic associated with a county hospital here in the twin cities (read: no insurance). That's when I learned that the body, in an effort to protect itself, will seal the wound at the surface.....which is fine when it's just a surface wound, but that's not what happened to me. It turned out that when I fell, something actually punctured and penetrated my leg....so underneath the surface, there was a tunneled system of open infection that needed immediate attention. The doctors had to re-open the wound (which was probably the most intense pain I have ever experienced) and then attempt to 'track' the wound to see if bone had been involved. There was even talk of potentially needing to utilize a hyperbaric chamber (intense oxygen therapy to help the body heal itself)....but thankfully, by packing the wound and spending more time with doctors than I care to remember, the wound healed itself without the need for further intervention.


I'm sharing this with you because I had an "ah-HA!" moment the other day....

This crazy-ass leg wound of mine is a metaphor for my own racism.

During the first 3 weeks after I fell, I thought my leg was healing nicely - I mean, there was NO open wound....at all. Skin was COMPLETELY covering the wound.


On the surface, things looked great.

But when the surface was opened, a huge festering and infected hole was discovered.


I don't know about you, but I like to think of myself as pretty accepting of all people, regardless of skin color or race or religion.

On the surface, everything looks fine. I have black friends - I'm good!


But then I catch myself having ugly thoughts.....thoughts that make my own stomach churn with disgust....

Like when I see a black man riding a bicycle.....and I wonder if he stole the bike.


Or when I see a black man in a wheelchair....and I wonder if he was shot during some sort of gang-related war.


Or I see a black woman with several kids, and I wonder if each kid knows who his or her dad is (first, assuming they do not know....and second, assuming there's more than one dad).


Or when I make fun of people who pronounce "ask" as "axe."


Or when I laugh at someone's name, wondering if his or her parents got the idea for the name while shopping for detergent at Walmart.


I hate having these thoughts. Hate it. And I admonish myself every time.


I know this is something within my heart that needs to change, and I will just keep lecturing myself every time it happens. I don't know what else to do.




I'll keep packing this wound until it heals from the inside.


Change begins with me.

Twenty years ago...

I moved to St. Paul in September of 1996, about 3 or 4 weeks after my dad passed away. I moved in with a friend who owned a house on St. Paul's west side - there were actually 5 or 6 of us living in the house (something that is relatively easy to do in your 20's....I can't even fathom that kind of living situation now).

I was surrounded by women who loved to look pretty, loved to wear dresses, loved Jesus, and prayed faithfully for a good, holy husband. And then there was me.....living in a bedroom down in the basement, slowly coming to terms with my sexuality - something I had been secretly fighting for about 10 years.....while in high school in the middle of the bible belt....while in college at one of the most conservative schools in the country.....while in the convent pretending to have a religious vocation.....while serving with a traveling youth ministry team for 2 years.....while back in school on that same conservative campus.....while living in Houston, working as a nanny.....and lastly, while experiencing my dad's death.

That Fall, after his death, I took some of the money from my dad's estate and bought my first computer. And with a little help from my new friend AOL, I ventured out into the crazy world of the Information Super-highway.

Once online, I met Sarah P - she invited me to join a group of women for an evening out.

And that's how I ended up at a gay bar for the first time. Even though I was scared to death, a part of me knew I was taking a huge step just by going out that night.

Going to a bar might not seem like a big deal to you, but I assure you - it was the scariest thing I had ever done.

And that night, at a gay bar, full of folks just like me, I met a group of women who would become friends....and eventually, they became family.

That bar was my safe place, and it remained my safe place for many years. A gay bar.

I never went to get drunk or hook-up. Those things never happened. I simply wanted to be around people like me. At a gay bar.



A sanctuary. A safe haven. A gay bar.



Orlando - I am so sorry.