Hankies

I am ironing hankies on a hot summer day. The only light on in the house is above the dining room table where my table linens and slacks have already been gently placed after their pressing. I am careful with the hankies, their thin cotton dotted with flowers. The iron is turned from highest heat to lowest delicate, to avoid burning or browning.

My favorite one has dark red roses embroidered large in one corner, then perfect, tiny loops of color to make a lacey border. I smooth out the circles all the way around. This is the one I used when I waved at the crowd during the gay pride march. I’m not sure what Nana would think of that, her hankie such a delicious prop for my outfit, the perfect accent. Of course she loved my brother Arthur and would be pleased to see me still honoring him more than ten years after we lost him, as I fight to stand up for those still living. But the parade itself might test her relationship with the Pope. She was a true believer, hoping to protect us with her rosary and prayers. What would she think of gay marriage, certainly a long stretch for her French Canadian mind? The sister of strict nuns in Quebec, she would likely disapprove. But still love her grandchildren. And their children, whatever the arrangement. The heart was her foundation, guiding the pragmatic mind. She would recognize that each generation takes another mantel, changes definitions of God to include the most righteous definitions of love.

My mother would have wanted to be on the sidelines of the parade, cheering with pride of her own, tickled pink at my stylish church lady outfit with the hankie. Bragging to anyone who would listen. Mostly proud of the writing on my sign. She would agree with the politics, and the religion, of the first side, “Real church ladies don’t discriminate”, even if she didn’t understand the WWUD without an explanation. The second side, however, would make her a little teary. “All families are precious families, my momma knew that.” A big red heart makes the point. But it is the past tense. She is not on the sidelines, or anywhere near the parade. If she watches us from heaven, a little of her Canook French is heard in her happy exclamations. She is so glad she saved all those hankies, adding Nana’s to her own. She just knew someone would need them someday and she would have a ready stash. Like all items she saved, filling her house to bursting, hoping to make the match and save someone’s day. You just never know. And now I prove her point, despite my lifelong efforts not too.

The hankies will become the symbol for the official church ladies as one marcher grows to be a contingent, representing our liberal church and what we really think it means to be Christian. The hankies reject disgrace. They are proper, friendly, and correct. They will not be denied. And the strong women who came before me are my cohorts, lending their style to the next fight. Unwittingly, but not begrudgingly. They see the light in my eyes and know I take their strength, that I do what makes sense for me and lead with my own heart, as they did. The hankies fold softly into place on the table. A century of small cotton squares. Not to be denied.

Written June 26, 2005