As the clock ticks toward a new year and a new administration, I’ve been thinking about patience. Not the passive kind, where we sit quietly and let things happen to us, but the active, gritty, show-up-every-day kind of patience. The kind we need to extend to others—and ourselves—if we want to see any real change.
Let’s address the elephant (and donkey) in the room: for many of us in LGBTQ+ spaces, patience has felt like a luxury we couldn’t afford over the last several years. When your existence feels up for debate, when policies threaten your safety and dignity, it’s easy—sometimes necessary—to draw a hard line. And I’ve seen that line drawn in countless families and friendships, often with good reason.
However, those lines are also walls. And walls can trap the very people we need to reach. It’s not about “both sides” or some kumbaya nonsense. Some people are wrong—flat-out, dangerously wrong.
But here’s what I’ve learned: minds don’t change in a vacuum. They change in relationships. And relationships, even strained ones, require patience.
I learn this lesson almost every time I go on stage, and catch myself judging an audience prematurely. I have a lot of thoughts that I am embarrassed to admit I have, a lot of "they're never going to like me," and "fuck, is it even safe for me to be around them?" When I catch myself thinking these things, I remind myself, that if I'm not even willing to give them a shot, how could I expect them to do so for me? And time and time and time again, in red states and blue states and purple states, there is one common factor: people are willing to listen and people are willing to change. And I am absolutely shocked that, when I extend my hand, literally and metaphorically, how many people actually take it.
I also learned this lesson in April 2024, during AlaskaB4UDie Fest, when someone gave me a hand—literally and figuratively: Hayden Kristal. They’re brilliant, hilarious, and patient in a way that makes you feel like they’re holding a lantern for you while you fumble in the dark.
At the time, I was struggling with my hearing loss. Deaf in my left ear, terrified of a potential future that might entail for me as an entertainer, and absolutely convinced that I was a lost cause when it came to learning sign language. My teachers had told me I wasn’t cut out for it. I believed them.
One night, over beers and bad karaoke, I sheepishly admitted my fear. I was sure they’d agree that I was hopeless, but instead, they asked me one simple question: “Do you want to learn?”
I laughed nervously. “I’m terrible at it. I really suck. I’m a lost cause.” And, secretly, I also didn’t want to look like a fool–ironic for someone at a comedy festival.
They didn’t roll their eyes or tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself. They just smiled and said, “Don’t worry. Making mistakes is part of it. Sometimes you just need a hand to hold—metaphorically speaking.”
That was all it took. A little patience, a little grace, and suddenly, I wasn’t a lost cause. I was just a beginner.
With their encouragement, I started asking questions—so many stupid questions. I fumbled and flailed and mis-signed things that left my cheeks bright red, left others confused, and occasionally left both of us laughing. But I kept going because they made it safe to try. And I practiced for months. And now, it’s part of how I communicate, it’s part of how I am able to access and process the world.
They held space for me to learn, to fail, and to grow. And in doing so, they opened up an entire world I thought was closed to me forever.
I know it's not the same, but it is a sense I keep coming back to. When I see some much vitriol--rightful, valid, explosive anger--from my peers who feel so wronged and betrayed right now, I also see another group that doesn't know how to hold our hand either.
It is going to take real patience, and real hope, to learn a new way of communicating with one another. Extremism and name-calling has gotten us to where we are now. What got us to where we are now will not get us to where we want, need, and deserve to be.
I believe that is the kind of patience we need now, as a community and as a country. A kind that doesn’t excuse harm but recognizes that change is messy and people are flawed. The kind that doesn’t lower the bar but offers a hand to help others reach it. To set boundaries, but also leave room for bridges. Moving forward, we need to hold space for each other in ways we haven’t before—especially for the ones who’ve made mistakes, or even actively hurt us. Because patience isn’t just about kindness; it’s about hope. Hope that people can change, that minds can open, that the gaps between us can shrink if we’re brave enough to reach across them and just fucking try.
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