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Dear North Carolina: It’s Not Us, It’s You.

Y’all know I love letters.

And love letters.

But this one is particularly apropos as I watch, horrified, as North Carolina backslides into history through daily leaps and bounds.

Dear North Carolina:

I have mixed feelings about leaving you.

Mostly because I held you so highly for so long.

You seemed like a place where a southern liberal could find compatriots and a bit of that southern-style flair and hospitality I so cherish.

And, for a while, I thought you provided exactly that.

I grew academically in Chapel Hill.

I did my share of wine-fueled porch-hopping in Sanford.

I met the love of my life in Raleigh.

But the short time since the Republican majority took hold of both the House and Senate–the first time in a 100 years–you’ve become a shade of that state I personally held as the Southeast’s liberal scion. 

Now, though, you’re being driven into the ground by nonsensical legislation and a hyper-conservative government that attacks me, my family, and chosen family; other minorities–women, people of color, immigrants; individuals’ religious rights; and the environment. Just to name a few.

You’re becoming the laughing stock among your Deep South cohort. And, as a native Alabamian, you should know that some folks in my home state are whispering to their Georgia and South Carolina relatives, “Wow, is that cray-cray transferred by osmosis?”

So, North Carolina, I have a question for you.

Are you worth the fight?

Because the past few years I’ve done nothing but fight, march for equality, speak out against bigoted legislation like Amendment One, and rail against an apathetic majority. And, sure, there have been victories. But the severe degree to which you’re backsliding into history makes me wonder what the future holds.

I’m tired.

I’m done fighting for rights that other states, and countries, recognize as they should.

A life spent fighting doesn’t seem like a life I want to lead.

I want to focus on living.

Every single day over the past few weeks, my partner and I have been reminded why we’re leaving you for California.

Sure, Cali has her own problems. But at least with her there’s probably less likelihood that we’ll be accosted and called “faggots” for merely holding hands in our car while stopped at a traffic light; that we’ll be shadowed and stalked on the road by pickup trucks plastered with Confederate flags; that we’ll hear our legislators repeatedly legitimize unconstitutional, institutional violence and bigotry against us and other minorities.

Maybe I’m just sensitive. Or maybe I’m a slighted Millennial who’s experienced the recession’s pitfalls since its inception, and constantly sees my fellow generational cohort continually screwed through economic and legislative (in)action.

But my partner and I can only defend you so long before we acknowledge that your base does not deserve our economic contributions nor our innovative spirits.

We’re tired of reinforcing Battered Citizen Syndrome. We’re not going to come running back, defending you every single time you punch us, expecting everything to be roses and rainbows afterward.

We’ll do what we can to support our good friends who continue to fight. But know that they, too, are getting tired of your repeated blows. And it’s only a matter of time before your tactics to regulate citizens’ social lives in lieu of effecting positive, beneficial political change backfire–when you find yourself quickly sliding down that “Most Desirable” list, being abandoned by progressive companies seeking a home base.

So, my partner and I will move gaily forward with our lives. In California. And we’ll hope you’ll soon find a brain like Dorothy’s scarecrow, and actually realize that you’re aligning yourself with the wrong side of history. And that, very soon, you’ll know what it feels like to be a minority.

Bless your heart.

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Making Do

In the coming days, the average, conscientious American will think about North Carolina for a few minutes–probably as coverage of Amendment One’s passage blips across their television screen or pops up on their smart phone. There will be the shaking of the head, the exasperated sigh, the usual and oft-overused phrases about the South being backwards. But then they’ll be next in line for their coffee, or American Idol will come on, and that’ll be that–kaput for civil rights in North Carolina, at least in their minds.

But for those of us grappling with the after-effects of this hateful legislation being translated into law, Amendment One is everywhere we look. It’s along the roads, it’s on bumpers, it’s in our workplaces. We can’t escape it. We have to listen to the bigoted commentary, the enthusiastic hoots from the bubbas next door about “those fucking faggots.” And we try not to scream.

At work this morning, my friend asked me why I didn’t just move. She emphasized that the best way to exercise civil disobedience is to take myself and my money to more tolerant locales. Sure, I thought about it well before the vote came back. But I told myself that I’ve felt disenfranchised before and have stayed rooted; hell, I grew up in Alabama (insert tired cliché here). Still, Amendment One’s passage was something new for me. What made me sob into my friends’ shoulders Tuesday night wasn’t the outcome, but rather the wide margin–the degree to which so much hateful ignorance still exists. It hurt. And it hurt worse than my hangover the next morning. It still hurts today. And will for a long time.

She waited. And I told her simply, “Raleigh is my home.” That it’s taken me so long to find somewhere that felt so comfortable. That I’ve built a life for myself of which I’m proud. That I’ve been immensely fortunate to have such a strong network of friends who are more than just “family”–they’re family. And I’m not leaving any of it. Or them. Because as strong as we each are on our own, we’re a tremendous force en masse. We laugh, we cry, we fight for what’s right against those who fight for what’s Reich.

And while it’s been a time for intensive introspective reflections, a time for mourning, it’s also a time to galvanize ourselves to reach out. To offer a hand to those who feel even more isolated and alienated than they’ve ever felt before; to the youth who thought this might be a turnaround, that they might see how things get better; to the elderly who thought they’d see that same turnaround. I have to remember that in this time of anger and upset, there’re so many more who are hurting more intensely, who are contemplating darker alternatives. We have to keep the fight alive and the momentum fierce.

Responding to my inquiry about how he’s been faring this week, my dear friend Norman–82 years young–said, “It’s been up and down. Just like an erection. But you just have to make the best of it.”

Phallocentric allusions aside, we all have to make the best of it. Even if there are a lot of pricks in the state.

 
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Threading A Future Together

Moments like these demand such strength to stay upright. An observer by nature, I often soak in what I see and process it through prose, the medium through which I’ve channeled much of my life and that which has become my saving grace so many times before. But today, words fail.

Some might say I’m feeding into a defeatist mentality. That I think it’s over. That it was all for naught. But they couldn’t be more wrong. Am I disheartened that a majority of North Carolinians chose hate and ignorance, thereby causing North Carolina to backslide into the same welter of inequity and disenfranchisement promulgated by its neighboring southern states? Undoubtedly. But am I exceptionally proud of the strides the LGBTQ-ally community made over the past year, in anticipation of Amendment One? You bet your asses.

For the better part of a year, many of us have been fighting the fight: handing out buttons and posting signs in our yards; making convoys to voting stations and participating in phone banks; educating those who didn’t understand the amendment’s wide-reaching implications and bolstering those who did to keep on trucking; planning festival events and organizational activities to showcase the Triangle’s diversity in the hopes of demonstrating how problematic this sort of institutionalized bigotry is and how many it will affect; marching to make a difference and making our presence known. Coming together for a common goal; making a difference when we could’ve easily thrown up our hands and embraced apathy. We’ve made an impact. We’ve grown, we’ve cried, we’ve driven ourselves to the brink.

And sometimes we lose. But Amendment One will not stand the test of time. It will be relegated to the proverbial dustbin with other similarly authored legislation—of the same ilk that once barred other minorities from sharing basic civil rights. It will instantaneously become a horrendous blight on North Carolina’s constitution, and will be an embarrassment for future legislators to repeal. It will undermine North Carolina’s vitality. Businesses will hemorrhage employees who no longer receive benefits for their children or their partners. Everyone will know someone affected. No citizen will be spared. Amendment One is a vector of a legislative epidemic.

Hateful people will always exist. But they won’t always wield majority rule. The issues that concerned generations before mine are disturbingly laughable to us today. What today’s young people care about is making a life for themselves—and doing so together, regardless of our abilities, ethnicities, or gender identities. We realize that the religious right’s latest buffeting will be the last significant wave we will have to endure—that those of us fighting for equality have droves of advocates joining us in solidarity.

We’re all part of a quilt that’s been tattered by hate, bigotry, and ignorance. But it’s slowly being patched together through proactive activism and genuine respect. Because somewhere in the madness, we realize that our respective futures hang by threads. But if they’re sewn together, our bond will never unravel.

And our success will blanket the nation.

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Making Coble Culpable

As I walked up to the podium, I was seething with anger–so much so that I actually shook through most of my speech. It takes a lot for me to get this angry, but I was incensed by Paul Coble’s decision to speak not only for other commissioners who disagree with him–Betty Lou Ward, Ervin Portman, and James West, I commend you–but for all of Raleigh. Of course, Coble is not the only one to espouse such hatred from on high. He is of the same ilk as the Westboro Baptist Church’s hate-mongers, just more fashionably conscious in his choice of sheep’s clothing. With cavalier, grossly overgeneralized statements, he dismissed the issue, demanded a vote, and got his way. And all I could do was think how nice it must be for him to serve in an elected public office and feel as though he can say anything without consequence.

But I am one of the LGBTQs who lives with the consequences of statements such as his. I endure the hate speech, the hate crimes, the perpetuated institutionalized violence. I try to use reason and sound facts to legitimize an aspect of my life to those who have no business being a part of it. I neither embody nor perform the slanderous, outlandish, and problematic stereotypes mapped onto me, because I am no one’s puppet; I control my life’s strings.

Thoughts such as these ran through my mind as I hastily jotted-down my brief speech in a downtown coffee shop an hour before I walked up the courthouse’s steps. And while others took their turns to speak, I could not help but latch onto Coble’s expressionless face and his agitated body language. Each time an ally or member of the LGBTQ community spoke against the resolution he authored, as well as against Amendment One, his demeanor mimicked that of a petulant child. He refused to make eye contact, and did everything he could to convey that each and every one of us was wasting his time. Sadly, I expected nothing less. Maturity is not something with which age endows us; it is something built, something learned through experience. But since he has never had his life forcibly shoved beneath a societal microscope for bigoted voyeurs to poke, prod, and dissect, it is unsurprising that he can wake up every morning, look in the mirror, and be proud of his reflection.

As the worn cliche goes, actions speak louder than words. In authoring such a hateful resolution, and trying to fly it under the proverbial radar, he and his supporters become complicit in every act of violence against LGBTQs in Wake County, the Triangle, and all of North Carolina. He and his supporters are bedfellows with bullies needling vulnerable school children. He and his supporters have blood on their hands for every LGBTQ or LGBTQ-perceived child who feels less than human and finds suicide to be the only answer; for every LGBTQ senior who is left with sores and bruises in their nursing home bed by bigots charged with their care; for every act of “correctional rape” exacted upon a transgendered person; for every abduction and murder of an LGBTQ person or ally. Hate breeds hate; its implications cannot be deflected. Hate is a human invention–a social construction; it is a learned behavior. Being an LGBTQ person is not.

I am not going anywhere. I will continue to stare hatred and bigotry squarely in the eye. I will continue to show others that they are not alone. I will continue on my mission for equal rights and protections under the law until I am satisfied or dead. Power does not come from an elected position; it comes from within–from an ability to empathize, understand, and respect your fellow person.

With younger generations caring more about finding their financial footing in this economically uncertain world, leading sustainable lives, and being a part of a social network and community, Coble and his minions are quickly becoming the minority. We will be victorious. We will be equal.

I already am.