Column: A free hug can make anyone feel alive inside
They visited our booth and eyed an assortment of PRIDE festival freebies, which included a wide range of LGBTQ+ flag stickers and other images representing various sexual orientations, gender distinctions, and romantic attractions: the rainbow flag; transgender; bisexual; lesbian; pansexual; non-binary; intersex; polyamorous; aromatic; asexual; genderqueer; genderflux; genderfluid; agender. Mind-boggling, the multitude of identities. Even then, we barely scratched the surface.
The stickers were stacked inside trays that were labeled for easy identification.
For heterosexuals, there were ALLY and SAFE SPACE stickers.
There were also FREE MOM HUGS stickers.
Our booth included an affirmation board for festival-goers to share positive messages. By day’s end, the board bloomed with pink, yellow, green and blue Post-it note affirmations: YOU ARE DESERVING. YOU ARE BEAUTIFULLY MADE. THIS MOM LOVES AND ACCEPTS YOU. YOU BEING HERE IS A TESTAMENT TO YOUR AUTHENTICATION TO YOUR SELF.
They sorted through our stickers in search of the right fit and wore a heavy, black shirt despite the 95-degree day. Two words were on the shirt’s front: DEAD INSIDE.
DEAD INSIDE, the antithesis of the Post-it note confirmations.
When anyone selected a sticker, I looked away to avoid seeing the correlating label. My intent was to respect their privacy even though I knew most would proudly affix the stickers to their faces or clothing. More than once, I heard a visitor say, “I’m getting this one for a friend who couldn’t come here today.”
A teenager, who recently “came out” as a lesbian, handed a sticker to her mother. “This one is you,” she announced excitedly. The mother accepted the demiboy sticker and smiled. “I’m really not sure what I am, but I relate most to demiboy,” mom said. Daughter agreed.
For some, it was their first PRIDE festival. One said her father was supportive, but her mother, mired in a religion staunchly disavowing queerness, wasn’t aware of her daughter’s sexuality—and might never know.
I can’t think of a greater power than one that brings with it the assurance that you are being genuinely accepted for who you really are. The festival was a great power source for attendees to recharge (if needed).
But DEAD INSIDE.
Their face bore the lonesomeness of a social outcast. A numbness. A confusion. An aura of invisibility. A stranger to a hug.
DEAD INSIDE.
I mentally wrestled with the possible implication this heavy message. According to The Trevor Project, LGBTQ+ young people face a higher risk of suicide because of mistreatment and stigmatization in society.
I worried about DEAD INSIDE.
“The stickers are free,” I said to DEAD INSIDE, my words serving as an icebreaker, as an invitation for conversation, as an affirmation that they had been noticed.
“So, what does it mean?” I said. “Your shirt.”
“I just like the shirt.”
“The flowers are beautiful,” Darcy said, finding positivity in the colorful floral illustration beneath the two words, perhaps a nudging for me to not delve so deeply. After all, it was just a shirt.
“Thanks,” DEAD INSIDE said.
I didn’t like how the flowers accentuated the shirt’s already funereal mood.
“But why DEAD INSIDE?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s funny.”
The humor was lost on me.
“What do those words really mean to you?”
“I don’t know. It tells how I feel. DEAD INSIDE. I feel dead inside.”
I told DEAD INSIDE about my three stepchildren, all adults, who identified somewhere within the LGBTQ+ spectrum, and how my wife and I do our best to represent rocks of understanding and support for them, as well as being proud allies to the LGBTQ+ community. We feel fortunate to have a high power that has made us that way.
I stepped outside the booth so that the table was no longer a physical barrier. I mentioned that my stepson’s transitioning resulted in him being a far happier, highly successful person. DEAD INSIDE seemed appreciative of being part of this conversation.
I held up a FREE MOM HUGS sticker and detailed how the national non-profit celebrates the LGBTQIA+ community, adding, “Members provide actual free hugs to those who need one.”
“Really?” DEAD INSIDE said, with a look of disbelief.
“You look like you could use a hug,” I said.
DEAD INSIDE smiled.
“Darcy, we need a free hug.”
I regretted my dependency on Darcy to provide the hug, ashamed of a timidity keeping me from embracing a stranger. I was manning a hugging booth, but from a wallflower’s safe distance. I mustered enough courage to ask, “Can I give you a hug too?”
DEAD INSIDE received a free Scott hug.
We gave several hugs to people in need of a physical display of acceptance, even though the heat and humidity had turned us all into stinky, slippery, swampy human sponges.
I knew my first hug made impact when DEAD INSIDE returned 30 minutes later with a friend in tow. “This is the guy,” they said to the friend, in reference to me. “Can I have another hug?” DEAD INSIDE asked.
“Of course,” I said, this time not defaulting to Darcy. DEAD INSIDE’S hug felt tighter the second time around, and mine probably did too. DEAD INSIDE then asked, “Will you give him a hug, too?” nodding at the tagalong. “I’d love too,” I said.
I learned the true power of a hug during the Dubois County Pride Festival. I sensed it from those I hugged and felt it as an ally. We all came away feeling ALIVE INSIDE.
