Riding Along With the Equality Ride
For months, my friend Justin had been trying to get me to meet the people on the Equality Ride. I can't claim to fully express what the ride is without having been on it, but the best description I can offer is this: roughly 50 young adults traveling the country in two buses, visiting college campuses that make life difficult for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people. At some universities, the policies are so strict that students can be suspended or expelled for supporting gay friends or family members. The ride's aim is to change that by talking—engaging students about their experiences with sexual and gender identity, exploring how faith interacts with those identities, and challenging the argument that these identities are fundamentally immoral.
The other half of the effort is public relations. When schools refuse to let riders onto campus, they hold vigils on the sidewalk, walk campus borders, or deliberately trespass. At one stop, riders carried pictures of their families. At another, they left lilies to mark the suicides of LGBT students and read those stories aloud. The message is clear: "All we want to do is talk," the campaign seems to plead, "and yet we are handcuffed and arrested because the school doesn't want their students to have this dialogue."
I agree wholeheartedly with the effort to talk with students, but this method of civil disobedience sits uneasily with me. It feels disrespectful to invade private property as part of an organized group. These colleges do have the right to bar people from their grounds and, to a lesser extent, to set a code of conduct for students. A college can certainly enforce its own attendance criteria—as a man, I wouldn't complain about being denied entrance to a women's university.
Still, the chance to spend a weekend with the riders in the Twin Cities was too good to pass up. I couldn't make the final official stop in Mankato, but I could join the riders as they wrapped up the trip. A chance to get out of small-town Minnesota, make new friends, and try things I'd never experienced before. I had some concerns: without ties to any queer community or political movement, what common ground would I share with these people? As someone with no firm commitment to a faith, would I fit in with a primarily Christian group? I resolved to keep energy forward, but I didn't know what I was getting into.
A Weekend in the Cities
Friday, nine o'clock, and I'm hauling clothes and blankets into Justin's van. He's tired—he missed the highway exit by about 30 miles—but warms up as we talk. He shares how two months on the ride has changed him: he's more self-sufficient, more convinced of the intrinsic worth of people, and more able to separate actions from character. He talks about the importance of loving the people he met, even those who told him he'd never be accepted in heaven or that his existence is an outrage in God's eyes. It reminds me of Ueshiba-sensei's claim that "true budo is a work of love"—expressing compassion for those who mean us harm is a beautiful virtue. It's not enough to strike back, or to stand and take the damage. Blending with one's attacker, redirecting the aggression, and perhaps saving both lives feels like a truer expression of love.
We arrive at a mid-size hotel in what looks like a warehouse district. Things are a little broken down, a little edgy, but there's life to the place. I sweep through a blur of faces and handshakes. These people are, in many ways, different. The clothes run from grungy to dressy, and often tighter. The hair ranges from shaved to vividly colored—my personal favorite being a coppery orange. Piercings and tattoos adorn ears, lips, and noses. I briefly worry about memories of flying toward a mat face-first, but reason that such injuries must be rare or preventable. Others look entirely "normal," indistinguishable from any crowd. Gradually, the differences normalize and fade behind the faces themselves: tired, outspoken, joyous, relaxed. Many are pleased to meet me, saying "We've heard so much about you," and I find myself grinning back.
In the lobby, the hallways, and on the street corner, the people are open, individualistic, and connected in a way that doesn't exclude me. I'm at ease, contrasting Japanese and Chinese grammar with two young women, listening to plans for the night. After two months under schedule, they're excited to be free: some head for drinking and clubbing, others seek quiet indoors. We walk down Hennepin Avenue, lined with theaters, bars, and clubs. We draw glances from "family," as they're called here, and straight people alike—sometimes gawking, sometimes friendly. I don't express many gay markers, so I'm usually treated like anyone else. Walking with this obviously queer group, though, colors me as part of an unusual culture. It's fun to play the guessing game of who falls into which camp. "Oh yeah, they're definitely family," we comment as two twenty-something men drive past. Guys walk hand in hand everywhere. While others continue to the clubs, I head back to the hotel for sleep.
Saturday morning brings family in the traditional sense: Justin's parents are in town and take us to breakfast at a suburban restaurant. They're beaming, tanned, and enthusiastic about their son's work. I wonder if my dad will someday be as comfortable. We're joined by Linda, a family friend with a youthful humor and a commitment to music—she's involved with at least one band and keeps us updated on recent concerts. I answer initial questions about what I study, where I work. Mostly I listen, following conversations about weddings, music drama, and family history. I pull out my camera and get a few good shots, my favorite being a wooden barrel filled with the new warmth and greenery of spring. It's a feeling that suffuses the whole morning in my memory.
The rest of the day blurs. I catch a few hours of nap, dip in the pool and hot tub, and discover that much of Aikido doesn't make sense when floating. Refreshed, I tag along to a local colony of Justin's fraternity—my first contact with the Greek system.
The campus is enormous: roughly 30,000 students, fifteen times larger than my college. Blocks of houses with students out front on couches and chairs, dancing. Everyone seems to hold a beer. Music rumbles from speakers. The target is a three-story stone house built in the early 1900s. We introduce ourselves to returning students and ask for a tour, learning about house activities, membership, and plans. I'm surprised there are only two minority students in the colony out of about thirty. Everyone we talk to appears to be white, Christian, straight, and well-off. Obviously not true for everyone, but the norm is striking. Justin explains that while the selection bias is much weaker than it used to be, the accumulated stereotype persists—hence the trouble finding minority applicants.
Justin and I walk downtown at sunset, the warm light throwing blue glass, gray concrete, and steel beams into relief. My shots don't capture the warmth. We sit outside Lyon's Pub on Sixth and enjoy a hearty meal. I encounter spinach and artichoke dip for the first time, savoring warm flatbread. The waitress is excellent—good timing, friendly, ready with recommendations. Seven dollars buys a delicious turkey sandwich; I'm happy for the night.
Different Cultures, Same Night
Back at the hotel, blending in sometimes takes work. Smoking is remarkably prevalent, and I sometimes need cleaner air. Unsure what pronouns to use when appearances blur the line between male and female, I find more flamboyant personas occasionally obnoxious and remind myself that demeanor varies. As I get to know people, the speech patterns normalize, smoking becomes tolerable in short bursts, and questions of gender become irrelevant. I discover Delfin shares my love of photography; I learn about his graduate school plans. Talking about the ride's stops gives real appreciation for character. I've heard my generation doesn't organize or protest for causes. Finding people my age who have a cause, and can speak eloquently and respectfully for it, is heartwarming.
A few hours later, I squeeze into a van with eight riders headed to a nightclub called Pi. I've half-promised to explore the fraternity party instead. The whole van sings and grooves to music both energetic and hard to take seriously. Still a good time, though, as they tumble out at the curb in high spirits.
At the fraternity house, the night has brought crowds. Guys with arms around shoulders, girls huddled over phones, everyone with a drink. I try the handshake patterns but miss steps. Downstairs, fifty-odd people crowd around game tables. Homophobia is loudly expressed, which confuses me as I watch guys in constant physical contact—it's okay, I surmise, as long as it's between brothers. On the dance floor, a girl tries to catch my attention, but the music blasts conversation apart. She signs an apology: "I guess we won't be able to talk." Disappointed, I slip away for space and air.
I may not belong in this culture, and I don't think I want to. But there's something genuine: being drunk, dancing, all at the same party is enough for these people to feel connected. The camaraderie between members is visible in their greetings, banter, and relaxed yet present power structure. These people belong. The smoke and noise was too much for me, but I'm glad I saw it.
Listening and Learning
Sunday is for work: I help set up the ride's meeting space, then go walking with my camera for coffee and sources for my paper. After an hour, I concede downtown Minneapolis is unhelpful and settle for a Borders cafe. Back at the hotel, I sketch arguments around the privatization of radio spectrum, socializing on the back patio while writing.
At six, we leave for a party at Haven's house. The 26 west bus riders walk a few miles across the Mississippi to the suburbs. The evening is warm, the sun diffusing through clouds in purple and orange. I'm full of energy, admiring architecture, sharing life stories. Haven's home is a small white house in a quiet neighborhood, little fencing between yards. On the lawn, eating curry and salad, I hear stories from stop after stop: being directed to a fenced-in "free speech zone," being arrested for carrying pictures of parents, finding the bus paint-balled and scratched by keys. They tell me about the police chief who, required by law to jail the riders, still brought fried chicken to their community barbecue that night. I wonder how I'll make a difference in the world.
Walking home, I talk with Matt, a former Brigham Young University student. He asks "how do you identify," and I have no answer. "As a person," I finally say. "Sure, you can apply 'gay' as a label for convenience, but that doesn't define me any more than 'student' or 'frisbee player' does." We have much in common—books, social styles. For a while I'm convinced we're clones, but differences emerge: he comes from a strongly Mormon background. As he describes BYU, I reflect that there's one story everyone here shares, different for every person: coming out. Sometimes quiet, sometimes dramatic—never the same twice.
Around ten, a half-dozen riders ask if I'll join them at the clubs. "Sure," I say, resolving to keep energy forward. I grab a black short-sleeve dress shirt and move to iron it. "No, you don't understand," they explain. "You don't want to look nice. Don't iron it! And don't wear anything under it. Trust me." Bemused, I defer to the professionals, and we walk out into the night.
Our group chooses the Saloon, marked by a tall image of four young men embracing. The bouncer is surprised when I cheerfully say I won't need a wristband—perhaps taken aback by the honesty of someone under 21. Inside, a large dark room holds people of all shapes and sizes. A plexiglass shower box sits elevated in one corner, where a man in next to nothing dances for the crowd. Not really sexy, but hard not to watch.
The building has four main rooms: two primarily bars, one for dancing, one for games. The music is an eclectic mix, from pumping rhythm and blues to upbeat sixties pop. I'm not sure what I'm doing here beyond being present. I can do the bump-and-grind, but it's not my thing. I can lead a basic waltz and follow swing on a good day, but that's not the style. There's nobody here to aiki-dance with.
Guys turn in their seats to follow me, some nearly asking something before turning aside. One sketchy forty-something approaches and informs me, in a flouncing lisp, "You are the cutest thing in this whole place!" He leers. I smile broadly. "Osu! Thank you very much!" I bow. He tries again, but I remain enthusiastic, friendly, and utterly non-sexual—confused, he leaves me alone. Another follows me down the hall, explaining "I'm stalking you." Wary, I rejoin friends. When Justin bumps into me, I reflexively prepare to throw. "Sorry, I didn't realize it was you." He laughs. Sober and with good company, I'm safe here.
At the back bar, Mike, Cylest, Jillian, and I talk about where we're from and where we're going. Mike grew up in a strongly Mormon Alaskan community and wrestled with his church's claims about his orientation. Cylest joined the ride as a straight ally and found herself coming out during the trip. Jillian looks forward to rejoining her son in California, where she'll work as a national park chaplain, leading services in nature. The bartender asks who we are and why we're all connected. We explain, and he offers a free shot to everyone. We go home happy, tired, some a little intoxicated. I chase down one rider and walk her back to the hotel—a good way to close the day, helping someone get home safely.
A Journey's End
Monday is for work: reading sources and mostly finishing my Electricity and Magnetism term paper between meals from a massive snack table. I watch thunderstorms gather from the hotel deck over a striking landscape of rusted billboards and high-rise apartments. Riders write personal notes in hand-labeled journals, postcards to donors, evaluation forms. Matt says, "I know you don't have a journal, but I wish you did, so I'm going to write this for you." I borrow pen and paper and write back. It's an unexpected, heartwarming expression of inclusivity—even though I wasn't on the ride, I'm part of this journey.
That feeling deepens when I'm invited to the closing ceremonies. I help set up sound and projector, and take in the visual history of the East and West buses. Some images impress deeply: two riders holding hands in front of a "no trespassing" sign; a field of lily blossoms scattered on grass, riders solemnly led away; brightly colored prayer quilts abandoned on the ground. There are snapshots of wacky humor, poignant defeat, joyous reconciliation. These images, more than anything else, convinced me the Equality Ride is something powerful, something beautiful. Maybe I don't agree completely with the implementation, but it's important.
Shawn echoes some of my concerns: "Although we always say it's not our fault, that the schools choose to arrest us, they could just let us onto campus—that's not the whole story. We do push the issue. We're the ones who decide to go on their property, like it or not." It reawakens the question from the weekend's start: is this disobedience worth it? Are the lives changed sufficient cause to disrespect a school's rights? Could preventing one suicide justify trespass? It's unclear to me. But listening to each rider in the circle share final thoughts and remembrances, one answer emerges: this ride has changed us, and what we've done together has mattered.
