good intentions
One of my neighborhood’s biggest attractions is its Planned Parenthood, or at least that’s the impression you’d get from the small band of protestors who show up in front of it on a daily basis. They gather there every morning to hoist homemade signs, clutch rosaries, and accuse women and doctors of murder. Their goal is to shame women out of their right to choose, but in practice it’s not very effective. This is Boston, after all, and a few religious nuts aren’t going to make much of a dent in a city where a young man can marry his boyfriend and then sign that boyfriend onto his state-funded health insurance. I hear we have a Republican senator these days, but then, I’ve also heard that there’s some guy with a hook for a hand scaring teenagers at Makeout Point. It’s possible that they’re the same person, at least in theory.
The Planned Parenthood protestors are typically some combination of religious zealot, senior citizen, and mental patient; senior citizen being the most prominent category. It’s rare to see anyone under the age of 50 in protest gear.
Which is why he caught me off guard. He had no angry handmade sign, and he couldn’t have been older than thirty. I’m referring to the the red-haired guy who was standing outside of the Planned Parenthood as I was walking home from the gym a few weeks ago. As I passed by he tried to get my attention, and like all true Bostonians, I did my best to ignore him. Usually the iPhone earbuds help, even when they’re not actually playing music. But this guy was insistent, and he tried a little harder. It worked, he got my attention and my eye contact, and I really had no choice but to say, “Yes?” I really should have known better. The weirdest stuff happens to me when I’m walking home from the gym.
“Hello, sir. I was just wondering if I might be able to pray for you today.”
“Uh, no thank you. I’m good on prayer.”
“Are you sure? Not even for, you know, like,” and here he paused for just an instant, “physical healing?”
“No no, it’s not going to help, err…that is, I’m good, thanks.” And then I was on my way.
I was half a block away before I fully processed what he had said to me. Physical healing. My mouth hung open in astonishment. How dare you, you presumptuous little prick. If I need your help I will damn well ask for it, and any such request certainly won’t be for you to throw happy thoughts and pixie dust in my direction. Exactly who the hell do you think you are, you condescending, Bible-addled clownbag?
At this point I had stopped walking, and was strongly considering turning around and unloading all these thoughts and more on the guy. Ultimately I decided against it. Sure, the guy was a condescending, deluded idiot, but public brow beatings wouldn’t do any good here. If you’re crazy enough stand in front of a Planned Parenthood on a beautiful Wednesday afternoon and offer people prayer, then I strongly doubt any measure of sociological education will get through to you. At the very least, the guy had good intentions. Horribly misguided and insulting, yes, but there are worse people in the world. And besides, it was a beautiful day. Why ruin it with a fruitless argument?
Although between you and me, I hope the guy with the hook for a hand finds him.
It would be nice, in a terribly bad sort of way, to find him later and ask if we can pray for HIM to not be such an idiot. And then to kick him in the teeth.
Jon I’d like to share some of my happy thoughts and pixie dust with you some time. That shit really works!