I did not know my paternal grandmother well. It was news to me that she had red hair, when I gave birth to a ginger and wondered where the genes came from. I had only seen her with silver. 

My mother told me that Nana was not especially pleased to have her last son. My father. Nana's hands were already full with children, including twins, and so dad's raising was mostly left to his oldest sister and the YMCA. 

I, on the other hand, felt very much wanted. I was my mother's fourth and finale, when what she had hoped for was a full house like her own childhood had been. My father adored me enough to name me after himself. Lorentz Ray christened me Loren Gay. Not that anyone calls me that. 

The sentiment of belonging was my rudder through the tumult of my mother's manic storms. I could withstand anything so long as I was wanted. 

John and I have escaped the pandemic for thirty months, but one of us finally succumbed. It is not because we were more diligent than other people who have fallen sick, sometimes more than once. I take absolutely no credit for the miracle. But when the little red line appeared on John's test it meant that our plans needed to change. He stayed home. I discovered that our guest bed is quite comfortable. 

My test determined that I was negative, and I wondered what the repercussions would be. There were a few obligations on my docket. I checked with each of the supervisors involved... the college professors who had asked me to visit their classes, the desk job at the cathedral. In each case they gave me clear guidelines about masking and social distance, and said I could still participate. 

Word spread quickly about my husband's misfortune, HIPAA laws notwithstanding, and when I appeared at a few places in town eyebrows went up. I wanted to plaster a sign on my forehead. 

"I AM NEGATIVE!"

But that seemed excessive. 

For a narrow slice of time I understood what it means to be an outsider. Even if most of the rejection took place between my ears, it was a scary sensation to think that my presence was taboo. I thought of the civil rights years, and how black students being sent to white schools might have felt. Entire swimming pools were emptied after black children swam. How were Japanese Americans treated after the war? What kind of reception did Middle Eastern people receive after 9/11? How is anyone who is branded by rejection able to keep walking amidst staring eyes? 

My experience was minuscule compared to a lifetime of being ostracized, yet I was grateful to have even that glimpse.

I think it offers the clearest window for compassion. Plus it reminds me what an inestimable gift it is to simply want each other.