I am not having a good day. It started out good, I suppose, though particularly commonly. Roll out of bed a few minutes before the alarm; ponder the day during shower; piece together lunch box; check that the internet is up for my wife’s morning; kiss her sleepy noggin; head out the door.

See what I mean about it being quite typical? But then I reached my car. A few weeks ago, following a car wash, I noticed that their were a few penises that had been finely drawn on the roof using as ink the pollen and grime of a hot New England summer. Only after the lousy car wash did I notice them there, and figured they would wear off soon enough. I honestly had a laugh, a little curious about the provenance, but quite willing to chalk it up to “these kids today”. It didn’t bother me, and a few times since that I’ve noticed them there when the light catches the roof at just the right angle, I chuckle slightly: roof cock.

But this morning was different, as a very fine mist revealed much more of the art than I’d noticed earlier. I’m not sure if it was always there or if perhaps a newly created annex had taken shape. In that dew were visible a few smaller penises (for there was little room after the magnum-sized originals), complete with intricate hairs and testicles. Whatever, again, I say. Until I looked further toward the back of the car: “Fagget”.

Now, I feel violated.

I don’t even care that the epiphet is misplaced. I’ve been called that word before, most vividly during optional country line dancing in high school gym class, where I heard it called from the bleachers (assumedly “spelled” correctly, coming from a much posher school district than that where I park my car nightly). They oddly chose that word to describe me, at a time when I was holding court with an entire class of girls, all to myself. Really?

What bothered me far more this more is the realization that there are still people in the world, much closer to home than I’d imagined, it seems, who would call someone a name based on perceived qualities that they perceive to be negative.

I don’t really know what my background is. I grew up in a culture (family, friends, faith community) which did not speak often about our identities and beliefs. I do know, however, that I chose to come of age into a self that is progressive-minded. I have surrounded myself with friends and colleagues who are kind thinkers. I joined a family who believe in what is right, and are not afraid to talk about it. And I serve and worship at a church that believes these things.

But this inherently sets up a bubble in which I still get shocked when I see strong poll numbers this summer in support of finger-pointing at immigrants and minorities and rudeness in general, just two months after the world turned upside-down, shining with acceptance toward same-sex marriage. That June afternoon I was so sure “we” were onto something. Because I have encircled myself with such a corps like-minded people, I pause a moment, aghast, when I learn of people who oppose the things my gut tells me are right and just.

That’s the framework that brought me to this morning’s misty observation. Penis art, that could be anyone who enjoys a good laugh. But a misspelling bigot– Close enough to me that they could touch my car–

Who could it be? My mind raced the entire trip in to work. Where was my car a month ago (assuming all the graffiti came in one swoop and I just hadn’t noticed it all before)? I make the assumption it was on my street, where the car rests overnight. But on the day I first noticed some of it, a friend joked that it could have been while the car was at the mechanic that week. It could be in church parking lot. It could be in my parking garage at work. Or in a parking spot outside the grocery store.

And why? Is it something about me that would be observable while I’m in my car? Maybe it’s my clothes, my hair, my music, my courteousness while driving, the way I try to give a wave and a smile to those neighborhood denizens, whom I don’t know particularly, but that I still consider part of my community. Maybe it’s not even connected to me. Maybe all the cars on the street have hate dew on them this month.

I’ll never know, but it stays with me today.

Even when you surround yourself with a bubble of love, there are people just outside its thin membrane.