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judecorpI tried to set myself up not to have a sad day today, but I was somewhat unsuccessful. I think the air of sadness was just hanging over everyone, and for so much of the day I was able to push it away but it's getting late and I'm getting tired and there it is. People's disappointment just kept getting beaten into me - every coworker, every home visit. The clients I helped register to vote seemed especially disappointed. Everyone was talking about the election this morning, it's inconclusiveness. I told people my standard line about planning for the worst in case I was pleasantly surprised. Only I wasn't.
It's not even the presidential election that I'm most sad about, though I know that many of my friends are down. Some of them really poured their whole heart and soul into the Kerry campaign, especially friends in Ohio, and I have so much sympathy for them. But what gets me is the eleven states that let fear and half-truths elect bigotry into their constitutions. Especially Ohio.
I feel like Ohio hocked a big fat loogie right into my face, and that it looked right at me for a long time beforehand to ensure I was making eye contact. I feel the betrayal a child feels when a parent beats her silly and then, when the angry moment wears off, says, "I love you." I feel so... despondent that a place that I poured my life's energy into could turn on me, and in such large numbers.
I know that the 60+% of Ohioans who voted in favor of Issue One are not my friends, not people who love me and care about me. But I imagine that there are many people who voted for my discrimination that know me personally. I imagine that there are people I counseled in the shelters, people whose homes I visited, and parents of children for whom I did my best to ensure safety who in one swift click denounced the existance of my family even as I busted my ass for theirs. Do you wonder why I feel betrayed?
I worked with people who would not let their children trick-or-treat or read Harry Potter because it was Satanic. Back in New England, I'm sure people doubt these people exist, but they do - in droves. I worked with people who ended every phone conversation with, "Have a Blessed day!" Every single one of these people smiled with me, laughed with me, appreciated my help and extended basic courtesies to me. Every single one.
I live my life as out and proud as I can because I want to be a living, breathing, smiling example of queerness to anyone who claims not to understand it, to find it disgusting, to declare it sinful. I am the girl who gave your car a jump in the dead of winter, I am the social worker who helped sign you up for Social Security and who got your kids gifts for Christmas, I am the volunteer who helped talk your child out of committing suicide, I am the person who put change in your cup, I am the person that walked down the street to put your misplaced mail in your mailbox rather than threw it out, I am the girl who helped you carry your things and I am the employee who stayed at work for two extra hours on a Friday evening to ensure that your children had something hot to eat for dinner before they were taken to a foster home. And because my heart skips and leaps for a woman, you tell me that our family, the children that we so desperately want to bring into the world, don't deserve the same protections as your own children - those protections that I, PERSONALLY, upheld for you.
Well shame on you, citizens of Ohio. Shame on you because I loved you. I dreamed about your bricked streets and your violent storms and your affordable homes. But most of all, shame on you because I held your hand as firmly as I could when you needed me most, and you cast mine off when I needed you.
Things may be difficult here. They may be expensive and rushed and cold and overwhelming and large. But today reminded me that we moved for a reason - that we saw the future and ran from it - and we were right.
It's not even the presidential election that I'm most sad about, though I know that many of my friends are down. Some of them really poured their whole heart and soul into the Kerry campaign, especially friends in Ohio, and I have so much sympathy for them. But what gets me is the eleven states that let fear and half-truths elect bigotry into their constitutions. Especially Ohio.
I feel like Ohio hocked a big fat loogie right into my face, and that it looked right at me for a long time beforehand to ensure I was making eye contact. I feel the betrayal a child feels when a parent beats her silly and then, when the angry moment wears off, says, "I love you." I feel so... despondent that a place that I poured my life's energy into could turn on me, and in such large numbers.
I know that the 60+% of Ohioans who voted in favor of Issue One are not my friends, not people who love me and care about me. But I imagine that there are many people who voted for my discrimination that know me personally. I imagine that there are people I counseled in the shelters, people whose homes I visited, and parents of children for whom I did my best to ensure safety who in one swift click denounced the existance of my family even as I busted my ass for theirs. Do you wonder why I feel betrayed?
I worked with people who would not let their children trick-or-treat or read Harry Potter because it was Satanic. Back in New England, I'm sure people doubt these people exist, but they do - in droves. I worked with people who ended every phone conversation with, "Have a Blessed day!" Every single one of these people smiled with me, laughed with me, appreciated my help and extended basic courtesies to me. Every single one.
I live my life as out and proud as I can because I want to be a living, breathing, smiling example of queerness to anyone who claims not to understand it, to find it disgusting, to declare it sinful. I am the girl who gave your car a jump in the dead of winter, I am the social worker who helped sign you up for Social Security and who got your kids gifts for Christmas, I am the volunteer who helped talk your child out of committing suicide, I am the person who put change in your cup, I am the person that walked down the street to put your misplaced mail in your mailbox rather than threw it out, I am the girl who helped you carry your things and I am the employee who stayed at work for two extra hours on a Friday evening to ensure that your children had something hot to eat for dinner before they were taken to a foster home. And because my heart skips and leaps for a woman, you tell me that our family, the children that we so desperately want to bring into the world, don't deserve the same protections as your own children - those protections that I, PERSONALLY, upheld for you.
Well shame on you, citizens of Ohio. Shame on you because I loved you. I dreamed about your bricked streets and your violent storms and your affordable homes. But most of all, shame on you because I held your hand as firmly as I could when you needed me most, and you cast mine off when I needed you.
Things may be difficult here. They may be expensive and rushed and cold and overwhelming and large. But today reminded me that we moved for a reason - that we saw the future and ran from it - and we were right.
