Between Sorrow and Schadenfreude: A Progressive Christian’s Response to the Assassination of Charlie Kirk

I am so fucking sick of living through major world events.

If you’ve been on some remote retreat in the Himalayan wilderness and haven’t had access to literally any media anywhere, alt-right influencer Charlie Kirk was assassinated at a college event in Utah. I saw the infamous video. It was pretty wild to witness. I’ll confess, a lot of emotions washed over me in that moment, some I’m not proud of. Did I feel a twinge of schadenfreude at the death of man who advocated for me to be put to death for being queer? I’ll admit, maybe a little. Did I feel a bit of relief that he can’t spew any more hateful rhetoric. Absolutely. Let’s get one thing straight — Charlie Kirk was not a good person. If you don’t believe me, I dare you to click that little link up there. He is not someone to idolize or even eulogize, the same way you wouldn’t write a sweet memorial piece for Scar.

“He was a loving uncle and fierce leader for his people.”

All of that being said, I want to make another thing clear: I consider myself a follower of Christ. I feel uneasy using the word “Christian” as of late because of how horrifically perverted American Christianity has become, but my theological beliefs line up most readily with Jesus’s teachings. The real Jesus, not the evangelical one. You know, the wildly subversive pacifistic brown-skinned Palestinian Jewish man who repeatedly preached against tyranny and the wealthy? I’ve always been fascinated by His life and ways, and while some of my personal theology contradicts the established dogma of most denominations, I consider Him to be my spiritual guide and savior.

And that’s what’s making this hard for me. The part of me that’s human wants to dance on the dude’s grave. Yet the part of me that has been redeemed by Christ, that divine inner voice, wants to honor the fact that he was still a person, and he was a child of God too.

Two things can be true at once. Charlie Kirk can be a truly despicable person and the world can be better off without him, and we can also mourn the fact that humanity has devolved to this point. We can mourn the humanity in him, the part he willingly killed in himself years ago for the sake of extremist politics. We can mourn for his kids, who didn’t ask to have him as a father and now have a disturbing core memory to contend with. We can mourn for our trans brothers and sisters, who will inevitably be scapegoated for this. And we can mourn the fact that we’re heading to a very dark place if something doesn’t change quick.

I recently read a post that said that the true test of a Christian isn’t whether or not they love Jesus. It’s whether or not they love Judas. Jesus is easy to love. Judas is much more challenging. And in a lot of ways, Charlie is my Judas. He is proving very, very difficult to show compassion toward. The man got what he had coming to him. To paraphrase the Good Book itself, you live by the sword, you die by the sword. But there’s another relevant verse:

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you…”

Matthew 5:43-44

We can’t fall into senseless hate. That’s what Charlie would have wanted. The best way to “honor” his memory is to fight back against everything he stood for, including violence and hatred. This isn’t to say there’s never a time when violence is the answer — we had to kill a lot of Nazis in the 1940s to ultimately save a lot of innocent folks, and even Martin Luther King, Jr. understood why folks lash out violently at times — but we also can’t become desensitized to this shit. This can’t be our new normal.

I’ve been worried about the state of the world all day, and I’m praying this won’t be a Franz Ferdinand situation and WWIII doesn’t spring from it. But I’m scared it’s too late. People have become so brainwashed already. I called out my first boyfriend on Facebook for waxing poetic about the man as if he were a saint, and he responded with some of the most vile, vitriolic, hurtful bullshit I’ve ever had directed at me. It was bizarre. He was such a sweet kid, but it goes to show you how effective these conservative influencers are in manipulating young men. We’re dealing with a lot of propaganda and disturbing messaging in the media.

My heart hurts for the state of the world and for the future. I always dreamed I’d become a rock star and have children and live to be a little old lady like the ones I work with. I don’t want to go to war. I’m a lover, not a fighter. This isn’t the future I want for me, and I hope it’s not the future you want either. I sincerely hope with every fiber of my being that we can turn this around. In the words of the late great Ozzy, maybe it’s not too late to learn how to love and forget how to hate.

Maybe the Prince of Darkness and the Prince of Peace had more in common than you’d think.

All I know is I can’t handle much more of this. I was simply not made for times like these.

Nonbinary Enough: The Awkward Realities of Being an AFAB Femmby

So, I’m technically nonbinary.

This isn’t a coming out post. In fact, I’ve been pretty open about it since I realized it a few years back. Yes, I know I’m a woman, and yes, I do use she/her pronouns for the most part, but it hit me that there’s more to the story. I’m not just a woman or just feminine. I’ve realized I have some definite masculine energy, and I’ve been going out of my way to honor that little man inside me.

Like, I did drag!

His name is Richie Styx and he’s a British rock star. Think a less-sucky Russell Brand.

I’ll be honest, though. Sometimes I feel like a massive imposter when I enter nonbinary spaces. Like I said, I am an AFAB femmby. In fact, I blend in perfectly with cis women until I mention the fact that I’m nonbinary. And until I open my mouth, to be fair. A lot of folks recognized me as queer even before I came to terms with it. I guess I just have that vibe.

Conservatives will tell you it’s because I had blue hair.

But I don’t really embrace or shout about being nonbinary to the same extent that I shout about being pansexual or even polyamorous. And I think to some extent, that’s due to the fact that I’ve gone all in on being pan/poly. I’m literally dating a woman, married to another nonbinary person, and casually seeing a couple of guys. I’m out here living as visibly pansexually and polyamorously as possible. But — like I mentioned earlier — most people would have no idea I’m nonbinary until I say something.

So when I enter spaces for nonbinary folks, I almost feel like I’m a fraud. And it sucks because I still feel some of the negative stuff that comes with the territory of being nonbinary and don’t really know how to address that. I definitely have some degree of dysphoria, but there’s really no feeling gender euphoria for me unless I could literally shapeshift between being Jessica Rabbit and a hot twink at a whim. There are things I wish I could change about my body to make me feel more androgynous, but I’m talking like, adding an extra head of height to myself. Testosterone wouldn’t do shit for me — I’d just get hairier, smellier, and hornier than I already am, and that sounds like a nightmare for everyone involved.

Real picture of what I’d look like on T.

There are times I straight up don’t feel nonbinary “enough” to call myself nonbinary, because I’m comparing myself to other folks who are transitioning medically to mold their bodies into what they want. I realize this is a very transmedicalist viewpoint to hold, and one I’m trying to unlearn. I know there’s no right or wrong way to be a woman, and no right or wrong way to be a man (okay, there are a few wrong ways.) Why is there a “wrong” way to be nonbinary, then? If anything, being nonbinary should be the most liberating of the three mainstream options, since there’s no predetermined social roles for us in Western civilization. It’s a relatively new concept in our culture (although it’s existed in other cultures for millennia).

I’m starting to realize, though, that there is a place for everyone at the gay table (gay-ble?), so long as all folks are treated with respect. There is no “Queer Olympics” and it’s not a competition to see who can be the most unambiguously, outwardly queer. Some folks can’t be openly queer for safety reasons, and we need to save them a seat at the table as well. The nonbinary people who don’t mind presenting as their birth gender, and the ones who present as their birth gender to keep from getting hate-crimed, and even the ones who present as their birth gender because they’re just tired of correcting people — they’re all valid. We’re all valid. I say “we” because yours truly has very much been in all of those situations I listed.

I’m glad I’m nonbinary. I feel a lot of freedom in the way I go about the world and represent myself. Although I present mostly as femme, I get a lot of joy out of letting my dudely side out too, to the point where both of my primary partners have questioned if I’m actually transmasc! For the record, I don’t think I am. I’ve just got a little man inside me, and I like to honor him every once in a while.

To be clear, here is the little man I am picturing.

Putting on the Straight Jacket: Choosing Between Safety and Your Own Identity

Alright everyone, today we’re talkin’ trauma. But first, the daily prompt WordPress gave me tonight:

What sacrifices have you made in life?

It’s serendipitous that this was today’s prompt, because while this wasn’t necessarily the direction I was planning to go in with this topic, I feel there is another important angle to consider.

Living and being in the world authentically requires sacrifice. And it absolutely can cause trauma.

Up until a certain age, the trauma I experienced never really left the school hallways, so once I was done for the day, I could compartmentalize all that BS and, I don’t know, play Sims all day. My bullies didn’t really live rent-free in my mind since I was too busy thinking about all the stories I wanted to write, and to be entirely honest, I didn’t have much else to worry about as a child. You know, aside from my terrifying OCD-driven intrusive thoughts.

No brain, I *don’t* actually want to stab my mother, I literally just want to play dolls.

Here’s something I came to realize: things were so easy because I actually had a pretty privileged life growing up. I was white, relatively well-off (well, blue collar, but my family never hurt for food), and straight…right?

Oh.

In the immortal words of NSYNC, bi bi bi.

I think I always knew in my heart of hearts that I was bisexual. You see, speaking of Heart, I came to realize I was staring just as longingly at old photos of Ann Wilson as I was at Peter Frampton. Yes, I am a millennial. My mom gave me some of her vinyl collection when I was around 12, and the cover of Dreamboat Annie just like, awakened something in me.

Then, I went to the church I grew up in and that got beat out of me pretty quick. I learned what it was called when a girl thinks another girl is hot. It was called being a homosexual and it was bad because…they never really said aside from a couple of Bible verses that I’ve since discovered meant something else entirely. But the message was clear. If being gay was bad, then I was not gay, simply because I did not want to be bad.

And then I met my best friend in college. She was a lesbian. The closer we got, the more I realized I preferred being around her to any of the guys I dated. I even realized I preferred her company to that of the man I eventually married. No one made me laugh like her. No one understood me like her. And like, she was way cuter than most of the dudes too.

If you haven’t caught on yet, she’s my wife now.

But something changed when I just said “fuck it” and started living openly queer. Suddenly, religious and political discussions were a minefield and I’d be taken aback by how freely people would say the most dehumanizing bullshit about folks like me — especially if the person I was talking to didn’t immediately register that I wasn’t straight like them. I had to watch how I word things around strangers, as dropping a phrase containing the words “my wife” could potentially put me in danger. Driving through smaller towns felt especially unsettling now. I wasn’t sure if I was surrounded by people who’d want me dead if they knew the truth. I’m originally from a small town; I know how it is. These folks don’t often meet people who aren’t like them, and when you’re that insulated from the full range of human diversity, exposure to that diversity can feel threatening. And when people are threatened, all sense of reason falls to the wayside and it’s fight mode.

I don’t want to fight with these people. But they want to attack me. All for something I never chose for myself. All because I thought girls were pretty.

In the last few months since the current administration took over, I’ve been considering what I’d even do in the case that homosexuality is outlawed. I am bisexual, and I could put on the straight jacket if I really needed to. I had for all those years I exclusively dated men. But I realized I wasn’t truly happy in that arrangement. I wasn’t fully, openly myself.

That’s why the topic of sacrifice kind of hit me. I’m sacrificing a lot of comfort and privilege just by being who I really am for the first time. There’s a term for that constant sense of looking over your shoulder that comes with being a marginalized person. It’s called minority stress, and refers to the chronic stress that we experience from constant discrimination and not knowing if the next person we run into will be a crazed bigot who wants to murder us. The thing is, I never had to experience that as a kid. My wife may have, since she’s black and race is a lot harder to conceal than sexuality. But remember, I was a white kid in a white family in a 99 percent white town. The only source of trauma for me, like I mentioned at the start, was being bullied.

All of that being said, would I go back in the closet if it meant freeing myself from the stress and potential threats? Would I willingly live out the rest of my years playing the role of the traditional wife in a heterosexual marriage? Would I sacrifice my own identity for my safety? Honestly, I don’t think I would. It is hard adjusting to being a marginalized person when it’s not something I grew up experiencing, but after spending years running from myself, I’m not about to backtrack on work I’ve done to be who I really am. Because who I really am is finally here, and she’s ready to take on the world.

Chosen Family: The Life-Changing Power of Finding Your People

Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.

Family.

That’s the first word that comes to mind after this Easter.

The day started in the fucking crapper. It was my third overnight shift as a caregiver and my chronic-whatever that’s making me not eat was really flaring up, to the point where I had to sit down every two minutes or so to keep from passing out. From the start of the day to the end of that night shift, I’d eaten maybe 400 calories, tops. I couldn’t get home from the facility fast enough. Once I walked through the door, I peeled off my scrubs and climbed into bed with my girlfriend and her other girlfriend, who were staying the night, and I slept like a damn rock.

I thought Easter was going to be pretty shitty as well, considering my state of health. And it would have been, except today made me realize I have the greatest support system on the planet.

From the moment I woke up this morning, the whole polycule doted on me. Livvy, my girlfriend, headed out into the wild to fetch me food I’d actually eat. Crass, my wife, hunted down my Sylveon kigurumi and made sure I was warm and comfortable. Meanwhile, Gabbi, my metamour, played all of the funniest bullshit she could find on YouTube for me. As my loved ones went above and beyond making sure I was healthy and happy, I came to this really beautiful realization.

We might not share a bloodline or a surname. But we’re family nonetheless.

Growing up, I was pretty close to my family. But after my grandmother’s passing when I was in high school, the glue that held my family together sort of dissolved. I haven’t had real quality time with my cousins in years, and my older siblings and I text maybe twice a year. The only blood relatives I still talk to regularly are my mom and dad, who are, in all fairness, the greatest humans to ever have the honor of being parents. But aside from them, I don’t really have a strong connection to my family, which kind of sucks, especially considering I wanted that kind of connection. There’s a reason I begged my parents to give me a little sibling for years.

Yet I’m realizing lately that family looks different for everyone, and sometimes, it’s your chosen family that’s really there when you need them.

This was a short post — more of a life update if I’m honest — but I wanted to write about how happy my little family of neurospicy queerdos made me this Easter, just by caring for me when I really needed it. I know it’s not conventional or traditional, but why stick to tradition if there are other ways that work just as well, or even better? They say it takes a village to raise a child, but really, we’re all still growing. We all need support throughout our lives. That’s what being with my partners means to me. That’s what being polyamorous means to me. That’s what being a family means to me.

I’ll leave y’all with a song by one of my favorite pop artists, Rina Sawayama, who absolutely should be as big as Chappell Roan.

Family is what you make it.

We Need Each Other

I’m starting to really appreciate the concept of community.

You see, I realized something recently — up until last year, my wife Crass and didn’t really have a community of our own. We had a few friends, even a few ride-or-dies, but no village, so to speak. And every night was the same — we’d get home from work, sit on the couch, and veg out until we inevitably got tired enough to sleep. It was a life, but it didn’t feel like living. It felt like we were just wasting time until the sweet release of death.

“I heard you were desperate for friends.”

I think things started to change for us when I met my girlfriend (we’re polyamorous, to clarify). We actually met at a Valentine’s Day event that I was hesitant to even go to because I wouldn’t know anyone there. But I met Olivia, and she had this contagious energy about her. As I found out, she loved going to things like art shows and open mics and festivals, and I found myself following her to those types of events. Suddenly, I was doing more than just working. I was living.

But karaoke was the catalyst that led to the life I know now. When we first went to Fort Wayne for my ill-fated internship, Crass suggested checking out the local gay bar the first week. Which was very uncharacteristic of her, an introvert, but I think she was feeling what I was feeling at the time. Restless.

It was at the gay bar that we met the first karaoke crew. There was Kyli, feisty and charismatic, and Theo, her calmer (albeit very silly) best friend, and their pal Zariel, a big lovable goofball who could sing “Poison” by Bell Biv DeVoe like no one’s business. They were so quick to welcome us into their world. We started going on all kinds of adventures around town, and despite the internship falling through, I don’t regret a thing because of the people I met there.

As I’ve started to say, the real music therapy degree was *the friends we made along the way.*

I’ll admit it sucked moving away from them (which was the only part that sucked about leaving Indiana, where no one should be). We’d finally found a tribe to call our own, only to lose them almost immediately. But we had to do what we had to do, and that involved moving to Kalamazoo, where the universe had been leading us for years. I started to worry if we’d find our people in this town. It was a college town after all, and we skewed a little older than college age. Were we doomed to be lonely again?

Then Crass threw out the same suggestion that seemed to work in Fort Wayne — let’s check out the local karaoke scene.

That first night, we met so many fantastic people (and one awful person), and we were hooked. From then on, every Friday, we’d gather at Old Dog Tavern downtown and sing our hearts out. There was Steve and Luke and David, the three most wholesome white cis dudes you’ll meet this side of Mister Rogers (but with a lot more marijuana). There was Mary Emma, a beautiful and confident slightly older queer woman who quickly became someone I could look up to. There was Clara, a kind statuesque blonde bartender who could quite possibly out-belt Aretha herself. There was Kim, who admittedly sucked, but they can’t all be winners I guess. The karaoke scene had so many colorful characters, and I loved getting to build relationships with all of them (except Kim, cause fuck Kim).

They say no man is an island, and it takes a village to raise a child. I’m sure those proverbs extend to women and nonbinary folk as well. I don’t often quote from the Bible on here anymore because I know spirituality can be a touchy subject, especially with our current political climate, and I don’t want to alienate any of my readers. Still, there’s a few verses from my favorite emo song — ahem, Biblical book — Ecclesiastes, that describes this phenomenon perfectly.

Two are better than one,
    because they have a good return for their labor:
If either of them falls down,
    one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls
    and has no one to help them up.
Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
    But how can one keep warm alone?
Though one may be overpowered,
    two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

-Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

I’ll leave y’all with this, and I promise it’ll all come together. When I married my ex-husband, it was a shotgun affair because of his faith, so I didn’t know a lot about him, like the fact that dancing is prohibited in his aforementioned faith. No one told me that until the reception. I was pissed. All I wanted since I was a kid was a fun session I could dance at with all my friends and family! I honestly should have been more of a bitch about it than I was.

I shoulda gave *Bridezillas* a run for their money.

Anyways, that marriage obviously failed, and when I remarried my current spouse, we had a small, intimate (also shotgun) ceremony that lasted all of ten minutes. So I never got my wedding dances.

As I mentioned in a different post, Olivia and I are engaged-ish. We can’t legally marry, but we can have one hell of a commitment ceremony to make up for it. And when one of my new friends found out about the disaster that was my first wedding, he offered to rally the karaoke crew together to raise funds for a ceremony for me and Olivia, one we could really dance at. It was enough to almost make me tear up. Not just the idea of finally getting to dance, but the idea of all my friends coming together to help us.

I have a community now.

Things aren’t great at the moment, and it has been weighing on me quite a bit if I’m honest. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next few years. The Trump administration already removed the T from “LGBTQ,” which does not give me warm fuzzies about the future of us queer folks in this country. Will I be rounded up and imprisoned or worse for loving another woman? I don’t know yet, and it’s scary. But I’m not going into battle alone. I’ve got so many good people in my corner now, and I have no doubt in my mind every single one of them would fight for me if it came down to it.

Community is going to be what saves this country. More than ever, we need each other.

A Mother’s Love (Fiction)

“I think you’re going to be just fine.”

Those were the words that made Liam’s eyes well up as the light of the computer bounced off his horn-rimmed glasses. His pink face turned into a puffy hot blimp as the tears streamed down in twisty little trails, leaving dark splotches on the collar of his shirt.

You see, those were exactly the words Liam needed to hear after the fight that led up to where he was now.

He’d been agonizing over what to tell his mother for months — no, years. He’d always kind of known. He never did fit in with the girls his age, and he felt drawn to this different, alternate version of himself, a version he was actually comfortable with. He’d made a clandestine ritual of throwing out his femme clothes and began seeing a doctor in secret for testosterone.

After several months, though, the changes were impossible to hide. His flute-like voice had started deepening into a warm tenor. His peach fuzz had begun turning into a proper smattering of patchy teen boy facial hair. He’d been concealing his already-small breasts with a binder. He even started smelling like your average 18-year-old guy (well, part of that was admittedly the Axe).

He had to say something. Anything.

“Mom,” he started, appearing in the doorway of the living room where his mother was seated watching Jeopardy. “I need to tell you something. I’m a boy. My name is Liam.”

“Leah—“

“Liam, Mom.”

His mother snatched the remote and made a show of muting the television. “Leah, this isn’t you. You’re my little girl.”

Liam crossed his arms. “Mom, I’ve never felt like a girl. I don’t want to be a girl. That’s not who I am.”

“Who put these ideas in your head?” she hissed indignantly.

“No one, I promise! I’ve always felt like I was different! I just have a word for it now, Mom. I’m trans.”

The remote flew across the room. “No child of mine is going to fall for that transsexual nonsense. Leah, go say your goodbyes to your internet friends, because starting tomorrow, I’m going to be monitoring everything you do online.”

Liam’s bright blue eyes went wide. “You can’t do that! I’m eighteen!”

“And you live under my roof until you graduate, Leah. I’m not entertaining any of this. You are a girl and you always will be. I named you Leah and you will die a Leah.”

Silence.

“I just wanted you to understand me,” Liam muttered, thankful the darkness of the dimmed living room concealed his tears. He turned away from his mother and bolted up the stairs to his room.

“‘Say goodbye to my internet friends,’” Liam repeated under his breath. “Like I have any.”

Desperate for advice, he booted up the search engine on his laptop and frantically searched “FTM forums.” FTM, of course, being the widely used abbreviation for “female-to-male,” or more precisely, trans dudes.

What Liam didn’t know is that “FTM” had another meaning he wasn’t aware of, one he’d not considered when he received a DM from a certain stranger.

WildHeart39: I see you’re looking for some advice?

LonelySloth2007: hi, I’m 18 and really scared

WildHeart39: Yeah, I was there too not too long ago.

LonelySloth2007: really? how did you tell your mom??

WildHeart39: It just got really obvious after a while and I had to say something.

LonelySloth2007: that’s exactly what happened to me

WildHeart39: How did she take it?

LonelySloth2007: not great lol

WildHeart39: That’s a shame. It should be a happy occasion, you know?

LonelySloth2007: exactly, and it’s like she doesn’t even know who I am anymore

WildHeart39: Were you close before?

LonelySloth2007: we were always really close but she can’t accept me like this

WildHeart39: That’s a real shame. You seem like a really sweet person.

LonelySloth2007: I needed to hear that, thank you 🙂

WildHeart39: I won’t lie, I’m a little scared myself. No one gives you a how-to guide!

LonelySloth2007: yeah, like the body changes are exciting but scary

WildHeart39: It’s almost like going through puberty again! Like what the hell are my titties doing?

LonelySloth2007: I heard all the fat gets redistributed though with all the hormones and shit lol

WildHeart39: Don’t get me started on the hormones! I feel like I’m going crazy all the time!

LonelySloth2007: is that normal?

WildHeart39: I think it is, but I think you get used to it eventually.

LonelySloth2007: how long did it take everyone to be accepting?

WildHeart39: I’ll be honest, a lot of people weren’t accepting. I come from a very religious family.

LonelySloth2007: my mom’s not religious, she’s just mean sometimes

WildHeart39: Sadly some people are just that. I always say that if religion never existed, people would find some other excuse to be a dick.

LonelySloth2007: that’s so true tho

WildHeart39: I don’t know a lot about being a parent yet, but I know that you’re supposed to love your child unconditionally, you know? I already love mine.

LonelySloth2007: you seem really kind

WildHeart39: I’m just trying to be a light, you know? The way they always taught us in Sunday school. Be a light unto the world, or whatever. At least I’m living out that part of Jesus’s message. Even if I’m a filthy sinner to most people.

LonelySloth2007: you’re not a filthy sinner!

WildHeart39: And neither are you.

LonelySloth2007: you really mean that?

WildHeart39: I know we’re just internet strangers, but I really appreciated talking to you tonight. I don’t think you’re a bad person or a sinner. I think you have a beautiful heart.

LonelySloth2007: …

WildHeart39: Did I say something wrong?

LonelySloth2007: no, just no one’s ever been this nice to me before

WildHeart39: I’m glad I could be that to you!

LonelySloth2007: I’m really scared things are gonna go wrong

WildHeart39: Listen, there’s a lot of uncertainty in this world, and to be honest, I’m worried for my little one. I hope I can give her the kind of life she deserves. And I hope if she ever comes to me with something that’s bothering her, that I can be there for her.

LonelySloth2007: you sound like a good dad

WildHeart39: *mom, but it looks like I’m going to be doing both duties anyways!

LonelySloth2007: fair enough haha

WildHeart39: Anyways, the cravings are hitting me hard tonight, so I’m gonna go DoorDash myself something. But keep your head up. I think you’re going to be just fine.

At that exact moment, a young woman logged off the first-time mom forum to order herself some cookies. She rested her hands on her swollen belly and smiled.

And somewhere on the other side of the nation, Liam smiled, too.

Empathy is Dead

So uh, about that election.

As you could probably infer by the fact that I am a queer woman, I am not thrilled with the results. I feel betrayed by everyone who voted for the Orange Menace, and even more betrayed by the leftists who “protest voted” against Kamala for her stance on Israel. As if Trump isn’t going to level Palestine the first chance he gets. Now, we’re stuck with the consequences. The Supreme Court will be stacked with conservative judges for decades to come, and if Roe v. Wade being overturned is any indication, they’re coming for gay marriage next. It was cool having a wife while it lasted, I guess. Not to mention the fact that I’m probably only going to be able to conceive with my girlfriend, who is trans and saved some of her baby-making material, via IVF. If these clowns come for reproductive rights, I’ll probably never get to be a mom. Which is fucking heartbreaking and I might never get over it.

Those are not the things that scare me most about this election cycle. I think there’s something far more sinister going on.

We have an empathy problem.

I wrote a while back about how humanity is dead, and empathy is close behind. I’ve lost so much faith in humanity beings these past few days. People really don’t care about others. I see so much pain and heartache amongst those who will be most affected by the new regime, and these fucking insensitive maggots are gloating in their faces over it. It’s sick. Literally, I posted about my frustration with the results and the overwhelming response I received on social media was “suck it up, homo.”

And charming replies like this one from the aptly named johnpoophead.

I don’t think we’ll ever be okay again. I’ve lost so much hope. And people left and right are trying to gaslight me into thinking things will be fine, that Trump is the “most pro-LGBTQ president ever” and none of the terrible things I fear happening will come to fruition. I hope they’re right, for my sake. I’d rather hear “I told you so” than “get in the gas chambers.”

The results of this election have proven to society that bullying pays, that people who do things like, well, everything listed here, are acceptable leaders. And if Trump were to drop dead of natural causes tomorrow, none of this would disappear. The hate and ignorance are too strong now. I’ve even heard reports from folks in other countries saying their politics are turning far-right as well. Even if I could flee the country, where could I go? Nowhere is safe anymore.

My heart hurts. I didn’t want to believe people could be this terrible, but here we are. I’ll never trust anyone again, not when there’s a chance they could have voted against my right to have a family of my own. I want to believe humanity is good and that most folks are decent, but then…

It’s going to be a long four years.

My Strange Addiction: Watching People Suck

Oh hey, a prompt.

How do you waste the most time every day?

I have a confession: I’m fascinated by the worst people. It’s probably detrimental to my mental health, but I often find myself looking in the comments section of absolute cesspools on the internet for hours on end.

In my more naive years, I’d often debate people like this. I’d craft some well-written argument about how yes, trans folks are valid, gay folks should have a right to be with who they please, and black folks should, ya know, exist. This is usually followed by guys with profile pictures that look like a frostbitten toe laugh reacting the post to hell. I’ve since stopped because it’s no use arguing with people who look like this:

Apologies to this man for using him as an example but like, do better bro.

I consider it a matter of knowing my enemy. I want to know what these asshats’ talking points are so I can watch for signs of that shit in everyday conversation. The second someone brings up TERF rhetoric or starts talking about how we need a “straight white pride” month, I know to run in the opposite direction as fast as humanly possible. But also, it’s just kind of fascinating to me. Like, what leads a person to that level of hate? What makes one devolve into posting bullshit like this?

Ahh yes, the worst thing a woman can be, the mother to a biracial child.

It costs zero dollars to not suck. Imagine if people just minded their own business and didn’t brigade random people’s posts because they shared a picture of a queer person having fun? The other day, I had to put one of my own posts on private because it kept getting shared to hate groups. Like, why though? What are people getting out of this? I wasn’t even that mad — haters make me famous and all that — but the notifications were annoying as hell, and I was tired of seeing Greg’s thumb-looking ass popping up on my feed every few minutes.

I guess to me, it’s a reminder of what I fight for everyday. I use my platform on here to humanize the queer experience. I realize a lot of these folks have probably never met someone who isn’t exactly like them. I was similar when I first went off to university. I repeated the whole “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve” BS because my high school friends would say it — God knows I’d never admit to being bisexual in front of them. But a funny thing happened when I moved to my college town. I met other queer folks and even came to terms with my own queerness, and I changed. But these people have never left their hometowns. They’re in a white, cishet circle-jerk forever, and it’s actually pretty sad. There’s a lot of beauty in human diversity and the way we connect with one another. We’re just people, and we want to live and love too.

Imagine seeing something this precious and being like “wow, I hope they all die.”

I should probably cut back on my “patrolling” these ugly spaces though. Even reporting doesn’t do any good — the comments never get taken down (thanks, Zucc!). Maybe I should look more toward the beautiful things in life and focus my energies there instead. Even the Bible says so:

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

-Philippians 4:8

Hmm, maybe the Good Book is onto something.

Engaged and Poly: What It All Means

If you haven’t heard the news yet, I proposed to my long-term, long-distance partner Olivia last night at a house show, the two year anniversary of the show we met at.

I had it all meticulously planned out — I bought her a rose gold opal ring and played the song I wrote for her during the show and did the whole “down on one knee” thing. She cried. I cried. I think some random strangers cried. It was beautiful.

Now begins even more planning, venues and dresses and cakes and all that. We’re going to go through all the motions and do a spiritually binding ceremony of sorts. But here’s the thing — we can’t legally marry. I’m legally married to my wife, Crass. No, I’m not leaving her for Olivia. They know about each other and like each other a lot. In fact, we all plan to live together as a family.

That’s the joy — and pain — of polyamory.

It hurts that I can’t ever legally make Olivia my wife, but for all intents and purposes, she will be my wife. I plan to do everything in my power to treat her as an equal to Crass, from adding her to my will to making her legal guardian of my future kids (whom she will have a hand in making as the sperm donor). We’re fighting an uphill battle against a monogamy-centered world that doesn’t understand, but it’s worth it. She’s worth it.

As a queer woman, I’m reminded of all the LGBTQ+ couples throughout history who never got to have their love validated by the government. I’m a romantic at heart, as much as I want to deny it at times. I don’t need a formal piece of paper saying we’re a couple. The greatest love stories of all time were never “sanctioned” by the government, all the queer and otherwise forbidden romances between folks of different races or socioeconomic backgrounds during a time when those relationships weren’t allowed. The Romeos and Juliets and the Jacks and Roses.

There’s a Bon Jovi song (of course) that reminds me of these relationships.

I was afraid to listen to it as a church-going kid because it mentioned sin and sin is supposed to be bad, right? But the message of the song is so much more beautiful than my child-mind could have comprehended. It’s about not needing the government or the rest of the world to validate your love. The young couple in the song maintains that it’s not legal marriage that makes a love, but the love itself.

Or is it right to hold you
And kiss your lips goodnight
They say the promise is forever
If you sign it on the dotted line
Bon Jovi, “Living in Sin”

Listening to this song as an adult through a queer lens, and especially as someone in a “scandalous” polyamorous relationship, it takes on a new, deeper meaning. I don’t know where we fit, the three of us, but I know I belong with my partners. I belong with Crass, and I belong with Olivia, and nothing can ever take that from me.

True love is a rare, special thing, and I was lucky enough to find it not once, but twice. That’s not something to take for granted.

I Just Can’t Wait to Be King

So I already fell off Bloganuary. Blame my internship. But I’m interrupting my radio silence because I have some exciting news to report to everyone!

I am going to start doing drag!

Drag Race' Legends To Host Political 'Drag Isn't Dangerous' Telethon — I can only *aspire* to this level of fabulousness, though.

My wife and I have been frequenting the gay bar down here in Fort Wayne. It’s a little blip of queerness in an otherwise very cishet state. Drag is a huge part of the culture there, and as I watched the queens and kings work the crowd, I realized I was made to do this kind of thing. Dress up obnoxiously, wear a crapton of flamboyant makeup, and lip-sync to fun songs in front of a bunch of people?! It’s like they created a job description just for me.

At first I wrestled with whether I’d be a king or queen. After all, there are AFAB queens, also called “bio-queens,” which sounds very sci-fi, like some kind of alien insect queen.

But the thought of being a king is kind of exciting. After all, I’ve recently come to terms with the fact that I’m bigender, or at least genderfluid in some capacity. As a kid, I wasn’t sure I was supposed to be a girl. I felt like my voice was too deep and my mannerisms were too boyish. I found myself identifying more with Bon Jovi than Disney Princesses. As I got older, I settled into womanhood and actually became something of a girly-girl. In fact, I’m probably girlier than most women out there — I love makeup and dresses and being pretty! I’m at home with my femaleness, but I still feel like there’s a little man living inside me. And I think drag will be a fun way for me to get to know him.

So, meet Richie Styx!

He’s an ambiguously gay British rock star from the 70s. He’s very much inspired by the likes of glam icons Freddie Mercury and Marc Bolan, with a little Richie Sambora thrown in (which is who I named him for). I had a lot of fun creating my man-sona from bits and pieces of male figures I looked up to as a kid.

I’m still just a baby king. My first performance will be an open stage night next Thursday. I feel so cool and confident as Richie though, and I can’t wait to bring him to life with my act. I think that’s the beauty of drag — you can be literally anything. You can be a Disney Princess or an alien queen, or even the old-school rocker dude you always admired as a kid.

Call me Simba, ‘cause I just can’t wait to be king.