Drain Lauren - Banished: surviving my years in the Westboro Baptist Church

January 20, 2005

A particularly large crowd was packing the National Mall in Washington, D.C., on the third Thursday in January for the second inauguration of President George W. Bush. This big day for our country was a perfect opportunity for us to spread the Word of God, and I was proud to be a part of it. At only nineteen years old, I was going to be sharing my beliefs with the world, showing the sin-loving masses a better, righteous way. Anticipating huge crowds, my fellow church members and I had gotten there especially early that winter morning.

The energy around the capital was unlike anything I had ever experienced, and my adrenaline was pumping. The intermittent freezing rain had not deterred hundreds of thousands of people from swarming into the city. Even though the inauguration didnt begin until noon, the streets around the Mall were already jammed five hours before. There were twenty of us in our group, which made it one of our larger assemblies of picketers. Shirley Phelps-Roper, the daughter of our pastor, Fred Phelps, was in charge of the protest. She had set the minimum age at sixteen, so my best friends and I were eligible. She had contacted the National Park Service, the authority for the event, months earlier, enough in advance to secure the church a high-visibility position right by one of the Mall entrances. With the pastor getting older, Shirley and her sister Margie had become two of the churchs bigwigs, and they were both along for this picket.

I was happy to be with my three closest friends, Megan, Rebekah, and Jael, who were a few of the pastors many grandchildren and the only girls around my age in our community. We had all packed what we called our picketing clothesapparel that was practical and warm. Since we were accustomed to hours in the freezing cold, these outfits included many layers to protect us from the elements, like Columbia ski jackets, plenty of gloves, glove liners, hats, scarves, and thin thermal underwear.

We had flown into Washington from Topeka the night before, concealing our signs in our carry-on bags. We were scattered throughout the plane, and our fellow passengers had no idea we were associated with the group many of them had seen on TV. I had been saving up for the $400 airplane ticket for a few weeks, working part-time as a front-desk receptionist at St. Francis Hospital in Topeka and as an assistant in the church office. It was an expensive ticket for a twenty-four-hour trip, but the opportunity to represent my family and my church on the national stage made it worth the cost. All of us who had been selected were thrilled.

We had spent the night at a local Super 8, our hotel chain of choice. They were reliable, clean, and inexpensive. Shirley had booked the rooms early enough to guarantee all of us a bed. We still didnt get much sleep, because we were up before dawn to get dressed and organized. By 7 a.m., five hours before the event was scheduled to start, we were at the Mall.

We made our way to the protester registration area, where huge numbers of people had gathered to voice their objections to any number of issues. We knew from watching the news that the event was going to be drawing plenty of Bush detractors, and sure enough, the counterinaugural groups were there in force. Most of the opposition was angry over the Iraq Warone such group carried one thousand coffins representing dead soldiers. Turn Your Back on Bush was a group encouraging everybody to turn his back when the presidents motorcade came down the street, and Not One Damn Dime Day protesters urged people not to spend any money on Inauguration Day. Others were the mouthpieces for civil rights, abortion rights, environmental issues, health care, voting rights, and the evils of corporate influence.

Because this was the first inauguration since the terrorist events of September 11, 2001, the level of security was unprecedented. None of the registered groups was threatening violence, only civil disobedience, but the event organizers werent taking any chances. Every protester from every group had to go through airport-type scanners before they could enter the protest area. Despite our early arrival, we still had to wait more than two hours to get through the checkpoint. We had no intention of trying to get anywhere near Bush. We only wanted our message to be seen by the thousands of people walking by and by the media, who with any luck might put us on national television.

We kept our signs, shirts, and caps hidden from view so that we wouldnt be harassed as we made our way through thousands of heavily armed security and military agents to our assigned protest site. Finally, almost in position, some of us started announcing our message. God Hates You! I declared, as we pushed forward. The high we got from picketing took over. You are going to hell! You are all fag enablers! we hollered over one another. We are the only true patriots, I added. If you people were really patriotic and religious, you would be standing with us holding signs. I told them that God mocked their calamities, and good Christians were supposed to warn nations against sin. Thank God for September 11! I yelled, the strongest insult to the sinners and the one most certain to get a rise out of the people within earshot.

I looked at Megan, Shirleys oldest daughter. She had the same fiendishly excited look on her face that I did. All of us were brimming with passion. We quickly became the center of attention, and we reveled in it. Our objective was to stir up as much controversy and animosity as we could in the four hours our permit allowed us. We were succeeding before we even reached our positions. Finally, when we were at our site, we pulled off our sweatshirts and jackets to expose our godhatesfags.com T-shirts. We held our picket signs high in the cold air; mine was a big poster with the words GOD HATES FAG ENABLERS printed in bold, straight lettering.