They were out across the street, a handful of people there with signs reading, among other things, "God Hates Fags," "Thank God for 9/11," and "Matt in Hell." The last was accompanied by a picture of Matthew Shepard. All in all, they looked rather pitiful, standing there airing such twisted, hypocritical views. To parrot something that's been said many times over in the past several days, it's sickening to have such direct evidence of what people are capable of. And, in a way, embarrassing. Knowing that there are people like that in this country. I'm aware things are tough all over, yes, but it always affects me far more profoundly when I directly encounter the proof of it.

The crew and I set up backstage as soon as we could and made it out in time to catch a bit of it before running back to the theatre at seven. We sprinted down the street decked out in "Hate is Not an MWC Value" buttons and shirts, and the ASMs wore the plastic gold wings one of the drama profs saved from the garbage for them. On out way over, we passed one of the independent vigils. Supposedly, the main vigil at the campus center was a huge success. We picked our way past the police at the gates, past the mud and melting snow. Someone murmured, "It's the crew," and the crowd shifted a little to let us out of the mud.

It was mostly college-age people there, but there was at least one older couple holding a huge sign. Some of the others wore wings or held signs proclaiming "Hate-Free Zone" or "God Loves All Children," etc. All the while, more and more people came trickling over, quietly but steadily.

And the two groups just stared at each other. Peaceful protest and all that, see. They had their permit and everything; such preparation. Though I suppose it's necessary if the church, if so it can be called, makes a habit of traveling the country to protest Laramie productions. Bloody pathetic. We are a group of people bringing forth a message.

But so are they. And now what?

The staring wavered for a little while, then, when a voice said, "The cast is coming," the group parted so the candle-carrying procession could get straight to the curb. There were others behind them; Warren, his little hobbit of a brother, and Bly, were among them.

And then we resumed our staring, punctuated every now and then by flashes and video cameras.

After a few minutes of this, the stage left runner looked at me and said, "We should sing 'We Shall Overcome,'" and we got word up to the curb, where the cast was, and began. Afterward, we moved on to "Amazing Grace." By the time we reached the third verse, no one was left singing except for the cast. Beautifully depressing; I could pick out all eleven voices.

On our way back, we passed others on their way over. Ladybird and her roommate flashed me peace signs and wry smiles; some idiot started chanting, "One, two, three, four, we don't want a fucking war;" an anonymous girl shouted for one of the ASMs to break a leg; an anonymous boy told the other ASM, in a voice that was positively lecherous, "Nice wings."

Back in the theatre, I couldn't contain myself. I snitched Pierotti's notebook from the stage right props table and wrote for a few minutes in the stairwell just offstage. It was ten to the top of the act when I tore out my page and went back to gathering earplugs.

We aren't letting them win by giving them the attention they crave, we're turning it around so that any attention works for our benefit. Every minute they stood on the sidewalk with their signs, more and more money from our pledge drive went to Equality Virginia.

This tiny, isolated, quiet event seemed more intense than a big, nationally publicized protest. Maybe it only seems that way to me because I'm more responsive to matters that affect me personally, but the girl who suggested singing "We Shall Overcome" confided that she felt the same way. We didn't have megaphones or guitars or people zipping themselves into body bags, but this struck something that wasn't struck at the enormous peace marches or the much more subdued Richmond protest. At the former, there was nothing to be done but get swallowed up in the crowd, wave a sign, and shout slogans because everyone else was doing it. Here, there was no becoming part of a mob. And I think we accomplished a lot. If nothing else, awareness has been spread, which is more than I can say for the other gatherings. The majority of people I've spoken to about the issue had no idea that other people have such a humongous capacity for hatred and bigotry. Now they know. That handful of people across the street was living proof that those sentiments aren't always expressed by missile or a declaration of war or a boy several states over being beaten to death at a fence. For some reason, that seems terribly important.

The audience, disappointingly, was flatter than last night's, but no one seemed to mind terribly. Afterward, I heard snatches of Urinetown emanating from the dressing room. On his way out, the president of PRISM gleefully shoved an enormous bouquet of unidentified purple flowers in my face and bade me inhale. I walked back to my dorm feeling strangely detatched.

Ah. I also found it quite interesting that in the short period of time I was out at the counterprotest, a few local buses passed by. Repeatedly. If staging protests outside the main gate means buses will actually be available when they're needed, maybe the campus can wring some more good out of evil...