No home here

Our neighbors across the street have a new sign on their front lawn. It’s about 20 by 30 inches, has a heart design on it with a vaguely American flag pattern, and says, on both sides of the placard, “Hate Has No Home Here.” The sentiment appears in smaller print in five languages beneath the English, of which I can identify Arabic, Korean, Hebrew, and Spanish. I have always had decent relations with these neighbors, but I immediately felt a slight shudder.

There are some kinds of statements that put you on the defensive right off the bat—like when somebody starts a conversation by asking, “So when did you stop beating your wife?” The minute you open your mouth to answer you already look guilty. If the anti-hate campaign continues to proliferate in our town, I fear I will come under general suspicion. I will be in a small minority of Glensidians who have not taken a public stand against hate.

There’s a scene in an old Three Stooges episode where the drill sergeant seeks a volunteer for a dangerous mission from a line of grunts standing at attention. When he turns away for a moment, the men in unison take a giant step backward, save one poor soul who hasn’t changed position but now appears to have stepped forward. Lots of luck proving that the others are the ones who moved, not he.

But there’s enough undocumented opinion flying around these days, so I drove to the two retail establishments where I had learned the signs were being sold to see if my paranoia was unfounded. One was a food co-op buzzing with people who looked like I probably hitchhiked with them in the ’70s. I stopped a man who seemed to be the manager and asked if I were in the right place for a “Hate” sign. Yes I was, he said proudly, but they were all sold out until tomorrow.

I popped the questions I had rehearsed for five minutes in the car: “What are you trying to accomplish with the signs?” I asked. He answered that this is a progressive neighborhood and that they were shocked by the election results. “Oh, so it’s a political movement,” I said, “in coded language.” He quickly denied this by pointing out that the signs are red on one side and blue on the other. I asked if he could understand how I, as a person who is against everything he is for, would feel unloved by the sign in my neighbor’s yard, and he graciously replied that he could, and then returned to work.

I fear I will come under general suspicion. I will be in a small minority of Glensidians who have not taken a public stand against hate.

My second destination was a gift store in town featuring whimsical art by American and Canadian artisans. Four blocks from my house, it has never looked busy; but today, in the time it took me to scope out the Christophe Poly earrings, three customers came in for lawn signs—two elderly women and a young mother with schoolchildren in tow.

I asked my questions around the sales: “I need a clarification: What people do you think are doing the hating?” I asked. The owner cited white supremacist groups and enemies of inclusivity. “So this is a political thing,” I responded, recalling my food co-op interview. She quickly replied that the signs are red on one side and blue on the other (so they must get this question a lot and have a list of talking points for unfortunate exchanges like this).

“Would I be a hater if I were a congressman working against gay marriage?” I asked. I would be infringing on her personal life, she said: She and her partner of 20 years would not be able to enjoy the favorable tax treatment they now do as a married couple. I brought up NAMBLA, and she said that was totally different. “So you draw the line at pedophilia?” “It’s abuse of adolescents,” she said. “Maybe it’s free choice of adolescents,” I said.

God says, “Hate what is evil” (Romans 12:9). He declares it in English, Arabic, Korean, Hebrew, and Spanish. Hate will one day pass away when things that God hates are abolished by the coming of His Presence. But for now, at least, hate has a home.