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North Carolina’s Body Politic: A Cadaverous Stump?

You know how everyone’s extended family has at least one raging drunk tucked into the mix? Who always totters around family gatherings, slurring their words, eating all the pinwheel sandwiches, and standing up and toasting at the most inopportune times, usually without their pants?

Well, I just saw mine on the news, and stared slack-jawed at the television screen.

And hung my head in shame, muttering, “Jesus. Get ahold of yourself!” as the newscast droned on about her latest antics.

But it’s not Aunt Patty making headlines tonight.

It’s my former home state: North Carolina.

***

Not only has North Carolina’s Republican majority routinely walked out of the Houses without their proverbial pants, but they seemed to have forgotten a little something else.

No, not the pantyhose tucked into their underwear. The Constitution.

With every slash the Republican majority makes to Medicaid, to voter rights, to LGBTQ rights, to women’s rights, to immigrant rights, to environmental protection, to religious freedom, North Carolina’s body politic is resembling a cadaverous stump.

Republican-authored legislation has been hemorrhaging minority rights at such alarming rates, it’s difficult to identify suitable tourniquets. But even when citizens apply pressure to quell the bleeding, they’re rewarded with handcuffs.

The most recent legislative lunacy evidences the callous disregard the Republican majority has for the rights of those “others” who don’t line their pockets with dirty money.

Who work and work and work for a better future, and are constantly feeling the swift breeze of so many doors slamming in their faces.

Who are just trying to get by.

Who just want a legal ID that reflects their gender identity.

Who just want to govern their own reproductive organs.

Who just want to marry the person they love.

Who just want to be acknowledged.

Who just want peace and balance, with a touch of order.

Who just want a state that takes into account all of its constituents, not just the wealthiest or whitest.

***

Before long, the newscast shifts to the weather, and I stare back down at the stack of papers on the cafe table, and think about our Disunited States.

How absurd it is that, after crossing state lines, the stories of minorities retaining civil rights read like chapters from The Lord of the Flies.

How foolish it is for there not to be blanket protections for all citizens–that gender identity, socioeconomic class, sex, and ethnicity are still such divisive topics, and often limit the rights extended to a state’s constituents.

It’s a sad time in our country when the drunk relative becomes the role model.

When a raucous few are rewarded for pouring them another, and the cab called by a concerned majority leaves empty.

When I don’t regret leaving a state I once loved.

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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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A Postmarked Message to Myself

Even before my glittery departure from the ranks of the gainfully employed, I read a lot of blogs. Now, I do it even more. Mostly because I love to read and write and look at pictures, and blogs engage all of that, making it less likely that my ADD-wired self won’t tear off and do something else. Especially if a particular blog satiates my love of design (and double plus bonus if it features our apartment).

So, I was reading a recent post on a blog I really like (and you should too), and it got me to thinking about my younger, more impressionable high school self. I’ve written plenty about my coming out process, have made an It Gets Better video, and have enjoyed becoming an LGBT advocate.

Still, I love writing letters. So, in the spirit of the Hommemaker, I decided to write one to my high school self.

***

Dear Matt,

I know why you’re paying close attention to everyone’s reactions to the first out gay student requesting to bring his date–another guy!–to the senior prom at your conservative, small town Alabama high school.

And it’s not because you think he’s cool.

It’s because a part of you identifies with him. But you can’t quite put your finger on that yet. You have an idea, but nothing fully formed.

All you can do is watch the fallout when the newspaper lines of the local paper read something about a “Gay student” and “Prom.”

Hear what other students call him.

Feel the palpable tension that falls over a crowd when he walks down the hall, the students parting like the Red Sea. And you part with them. Because you’re unknowingly in survival mode.

Because you know that, if you do put a name to what you’re feeling now, you’re not popular enough for it to be “cool” or even “okay.” After all, you’re that amorphous blob of an adolescent who has barely gone through puberty. Who always smiles, is friendly, and acts goofy. Who gets bullied by freshmen several years younger than you. Who has to stay in band because it’s your “only social outlet,” even if you hate it. Who has to like girls.

Because, well, you don’t want to be called “faggot.” Even if plenty of people already do, including those who’ve just learned the word and need a target to test it on, but who will probably never realize the repercussions of shouting it.

Here’s the thing: High school sucks.

So don’t believe the few people in your graduating class who’re saying that high school is the best four years of your life.

They’re clearly delusional.

Or they’ve gotten laid.

The point is, they’ve probably peaked tragically early, and will have little in the way of good times in the future. (In a few years, this new thing called Facebook will make it easier for you to realize this.)

But you know what? The fact that you’re processing such crazy-intense feelings at your age, in this context, is a feat in and of itself. A lot of people you’ll meet still won’t have found some of the base elements of who they are. And while being gay won’t define you as a person, being comfortable with your identity will help you build upon the strengths you already possess, but which need a bit of nurturing.

Identifying as gay will take a lot of mental and physical strength. You’re going to put your body and mind through an emotional wringer, trying to shoehorn yourself into an idealized notion of what it is to be gay.

But you won’t reach that point. Because, in the process, you’re going to hit rock bottom, only to come out bruised, but stronger nonetheless.

This process won’t happen over just a few years.

You’ll hit a handful of rough patches, each of which will test your resolve.

And you’ll gain clarity in the most unexpected ways.

You’ll come out to your family, and will be thankful for their support.

And you’ll write to that guy from high school who had the stones to come out when he did, who dealt with the crap people threw his way, to tell him that he was probably more inspirational to questioning students than he’ll ever know.

And you’ll get a response back. And you’ll have some sort of odd closure.

You’ll push yourself out of your comfort zone, and it’ll pay off.

You’ll become more invested in fighting for LGBT rights.

You’ll find your voice time after time.

Me speaking out against NC's bigoted Amendment One.

Your family will find theirs, and will help people in your hometown.

You’ll become part of a chosen family at a local community center.

And you’ll walk alongside others marching for equal rights.

Rally sign for Ides of Love, 2012.

You’ll gripe about failed dates, and you’ll vow to never go on any again.

You’ll meet an amazing guy when you least expect it, and you’ll be happy.

The duo on our way back from NYC, 2012.

You’ll be happy.

Love,

An Older, Wiser You