My hero

My nephew, Lance, was asked by his teacher to do a drawing about what he did over Easter. He drew an image of a young man being brutally bashed by four men, complete with lots of blood, while onlookers and police stood and did nothing. His caption read:

My friend is innocent. He was walking alone. He was badly hurt by four bad men who have no conscience. I am so sad that I didn't even feel happy about Easter. My Uncle is gay, what if this was him??

The event to which he refers was the bashing of a young gay man by four cowards while onlookers watched. The police treated him like a criminal, telling him that “his kind” belonged in the park beat. The crime was never reported in the newspapers, and to my knowledge few questions have been asked and no arrests have been made.

Lance constantly floors me with his compassion and maturity. It makes my mind spin to think that a child of seven—very mature for his age, I grant you, but seven nonetheless—understands that gay people are not immoral, dirty or deviant, but deserving of the same level of respect and dignity as everyone else, when many adults don’t understand that.

Understandably he’s now very worried about my personal safety. Kate told me that he made me a special rainbow sword to keep in my pencilcase to fend off would-be attackers.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is why Lance is my hero.