Fires Such as These
Originally Posted on my Substack, Nov 10, 2024
I live in small town Ohio. Houses are spread out amongst large plots of beautiful, rolling farmland. There’s frequent “deer crossing” and “carriage traffic” yellow signs dotting the country highways, and plenty of tall flagpoles topped with the unmistakable red, white, and blue flags that signal, “you are in the heart of America.”
In rural communities like ours, everyone’s a regular at the one gas station in town or the one diner. There are spaghetti dinners in the church basement to benefit local families and a small cemetery filled with a handful of familiar names. I wave to the same folks every time I walk my dogs, and when I have to go out of town for the weekend, my neighbor feeds my horses and chickens.
There are ignorant drunks in this town but there are also queer people—some (in each category) who are loud and proud, and others who live lives of quiet desperation. I know what it’s like to silently despair about facing monumental challenges alone: I transitioned in Alabama during a global pandemic without the aid of my parents. It’s terrifying to lose your support network, to be cast aside by people you once counted on to be there in times of need, to know that a core aspect of your identity is the reason former friends stopped reaching out to check on you.
If we are great, what makes us great? Surely it is not the cold-heartedness that turns a father or mother away from their son because of who he loves. Surely it is not the violence of ripping down a rainbow flag that someone has put up as a sign of safe harbor for other wounded souls. Staining the earth with the blood of those who seem different than us may be a path we have walked before, but we have the freedom to forge a new path—one that draws on the wisdom of all the earth, of all the ancestors.
My life experiences mean that I am no stranger to facing situations that have pushed me to the brink of every survival skill I possess: for me, November 5th might’ve been just another Tuesday. When the vital infrastructure of your life has already been yanked away more times than you can count, you’ve either learned a thankless resiliency or fallen in the face of a gauntlet of trials that society could prevent. The fact that any lgbtq young person should die, for example, as a result of being ejected from their home or attacked by their peers is an ugly indictment on the behavior we allow in our society. True greatness does not rely upon domineering intolerance.
And so as the election results rolled in, millions of marginalized people across this country felt a familiar tightness in our chests. Not because we haven’t walked through fires such as these before, but because we know what hangs in the balance. Where some may have been able to cast their vote without concern for their personal safety, many of us know the consequences of handing power to those who spread misinformation and encourage violence.
There is a place I go now when life hands me a difficult pill to swallow. It’s a tall hill at the edge of a cornfield overlooking the farmland and sparse houses arrayed out below. I hike there with my dogs, who run happily along the tree-line, nosing pockets of crisp leaves. The November air is cool and a breeze dances over my arms and face as I get closer to the peak.
Standing at the top, I look down at the world below me. A mixture of bare trees and some that still hold brown, orange, and even some green leaves yet. Bright red or faded white barns punctuate the view. All of my physical senses have brought me to this moment, standing here, in this body that has also traveled a great physical and spiritual distance, in this body that is home. I breathe in. I am no longer alone. I have a community of support, of found friends and family, woven together like many threads of love that form a spiritual armor around me. I breathe out. There may be no end to suffering, but there is also no end to the hope, beauty, and kindness that animates my life and will continue to do so, come what may.