Something I Can't Shake

The Personal Is Always Political

I haven’t written in several months and it is not for lack of thinking about writing. Almost daily topics come to mind that I want to write about and yet time to write has felt like an illusion most days — one that has bits of reality in it but that disappears when I reach out a hand to grasp it.

“Government for the people,” I am learning to ask, repetitively, for which people? Which socioeconomic class is the government for? Which gender and sexual identity does this “government for the people” serve? Which shade of white do you have to be to benefit from their systems?

This past weekend my girlfriend and I went to a cabin in the Western North Carolina mountains for a couple of days. If you are not familiar with this part of the world, let’s just say seeing the occasional Confederate Flag flying along the side of major roadways is not uncommon. For many of us who live in North Carolina who have any identities that could be considered marginalized, when we go to the mountains we have a much more heightened awareness of our surroundings.

The cabin we stayed in was just outside a quaint mountain town. On our second day there we went into town and had lunch and most of the people we saw that day were over the age of 50, if not 60, and 90% if not more could be deemed racialized white, and with that came an uneasy feeling. My girlfriend and I are racialized white, and yet there is something deeply unsettling about being in a space that is so uniformly white and cisgender heterosexual — a reminder of what these spaces are designed to center and protect. Simply from our external appearance, it is pretty obvious that my girlfriend and I are queer. If I don’t have my hair up in a topknot I can sometimes still pass for cis het but those times are getting fewer as I embrace who I have always been, more and more each day.

That night we drove to a mountaintop inn and had a lovely birthday meal. We sat out on a patio that overlooked the mountains. The host and staff of the restaurant were welcoming and kind. We commented to each other on the drive back to the cabin that it was almost as if the waitstaff was glad to have us there — a warmth that felt less like service and more like relief. It was a small farm to table restaurant and one that definitely exceeded our budget but it was a special occasion. There were only five other tables being served while we were there and it felt like everyone had a hyperawareness of our presence as did we of theirs. It was an intimate space where people mostly talked in whispers which only increased our awareness. The wind was gusting across the mountaintop, so much so that they had temporary clear vinyl weather screens rolled down for the evening.

On our way out of town the next day we stopped at a local bakery, recommended by the property management company. The parking lot was full so we parked around the corner and walked up a wooden boardwalk towards it. It was packed inside and once again we were aware of our presence as were most people seated inside. We ordered our food to go and decided to wait outside with our buzzer because the chill of the outside wind was for the most part less overwhelming than the wave of side glances that we were receiving inside the bakery. As we sat on the patio a man and woman, possibly in their late fifties, got in their very oversized gray pickup truck, one that looked like it was ordered with all the bells and whistles. I had noticed that they carried food out of the restaurant, so when they proceeded to sit in their truck and not leave, I thought nothing of it. In fact for the ten plus minutes that we sat outside I thought nothing of the fact that they were still there sitting in their truck. The chill of the wind did eventually get to me and we went back inside and waited the last few minutes until our food was ready. Still not thinking anything about the man and woman in the truck, we walked out the door of the bakery. As we walked out they started their truck. I thought it was odd that they were still there and we started making our way back down the boardwalk. They backed out their truck onto the street that was parallel to the boardwalk. They slowly drove in the direction we were walking. We turned the corner and went down a flight of stairs to my van. I looked towards the street and in the middle of the road in front of me sat the same gray truck. It was not at a stop sign or traffic light, we were definitely being watched. I quickly got into the van.

I had the most awful feeling throughout my whole being, one that I am still having a hard time shaking now more than twenty four hours later. A feeling of knowing this script by heart, having grown up inside it. People who think they are doing the town a service by making sure “those types” don’t feel welcome — because they believe we are a threat to their faith, their children, their way of life. I know for some these narratives could sound farfetched, and I might have agreed — if I hadn’t grown up inside them.

I have spent most of my life not living my queerness out loud. This was the first time I have felt not just the weight of eyes on me, but the weight of action — someone moving their body in space to make sure I knew I was unwelcome. That feeling is still with me.

So when you hear about what the government in the USA is doing in 2026, it is not out of the blue or coming from nowhere. It is coming from foundational roots that the country was formed upon almost 250 years ago. Roots that, if you dig deeper, are still unhealed from the very trauma they claimed to be escaping. Roots that still believe the only way forward is through systems of patriarchy and capitalism.

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Avoided No More: On Writing Through Struggle, Shame, and Self-Doubt
Alongside my Substack writing, I’m a contributing author in Avoided No More, a collection of essays about telling the truth and living inside it. My piece, Permission to Be, reflects on embodiment, identity, and becoming.

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