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Content warning: this post makes references to sexual abuse and incest

I have been thinking about writing this for over 2 years, ever since I started this blog. Every time I thought about it, I shied away because of how painful it is to think about. This is about the most impactful person in my life, for better and worse. This is about my brother, and all the things he meant to me: protector, abuser, elder, tormentor, rival – all of the above. To reveal all sides of him is to look at him as highly imperfect and a product of his environment. Which is another way to say that hurt people hurt people. I cannot talk about my loving older brother without also mentioning his abuse of me. I cannot talk about his torment of me without also mentioning his protection of me, serving as a firewall against our parents. James contained multitudes: some of them good, some of them insufferable.

It’s hard to know what my first memory of James was, but I’m pretty sure it was when I cut pictures out of his children’s encyclopedia, for which he hit me. I was 3 (he was 8). Or maybe it was that same year when I broke his microscope that he was given for Christmas. Whichever it was, it wasn’t positive for either of us. For most of our childhood, James was kind of absent – either buried in a book or doing some other quiet activity alone, away from me – definitely away from me. We didn’t interact much, and when we did neither of us found it particularly enjoyable. As we got older, and I became “human” that changed somewhat, but not always for the best. I remember screaming matches at various times, like when we were in the car waiting for our parents to come back with groceries, and I only stopped shouting at him because I noticed passersby looking at us disapprovingly.

I also remember each of us witnessing the other get whipped by our father, as one of us would lie still, not daring to move, while we listened to the other crying out in pain. As much as we both resented our father, James was the chosen one. He was the smart one. He was the “heir”. Of the 2 of us, he was the one who most closely resembled our father: the arrogance; the moral certainty; the condescension. James was the one destined to follow in our father’s footsteps in the ministry. I was the slow one. The one that everyone worried about because I talked late. I walked late. I was perpetually in James’ shadow. But I did have one thing going for me: at least my eyesight was good. James needed glasses from the age of 8.

Puberty was a very difficult time for James, and he wanted someone that he could take out his frustrations on (this will become more clear later). I was a pretty convenient target at the age of 8 or 9. Sometimes he would start undressing in front of me so that I would “be quiet”. At other times, he would trap me on the floor and give me back massages that seemed… weird to me at the time. Sometimes he would undress to show me his erect penis. Sometimes he would ask me if I wanted to “look at sperm under a microscope”. This continued for about a year, until one day when our parents came home during such an episode (James hid before they could see what he was doing), and I blurted out, “James keeps running around naked!” They were astonished and asked him why, and all he could come back with was that it was the only way to get me to “stop bothering him.” It stopped – until much later.

James also had difficulty making friends, and it didn’t help that we were basically hermetically sealed in a bubble of our parents’ creation. It also didn’t help that we moved frequently due to our father taking on new positions in different churches every 2 or 3 years. Eventually, they took us out of the local public school when we were 8 and 13, respectively, and started a Christian school to keep us away from the heathens and the atheist, godless schools. In their minds, we needed to be protected from the abortions, the gay agenda, the teaching of evolution, and other manifestations of secular humanism. In short, we needed to be schooled under God, where we could pray in school without persecution. And as long as we remained in this hermetic bubble, we were fine. We never had to worry about what the outside world thought of us. This is the environment that led James to profess that he, too, would lead a life as a paster, a “warrior for God”. This is the world where our Father would be unchallenged in his rule over our house, and where he could beat us however often he pleased. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but as I write this, the word that comes to mind is “claustrophobic”. Our school was tiny, starting with 6 students in the first year, and then ultimately growing to 15 at its largest. There was one other boy James’ age and none my age. James and I both tested high on academic assessments for our age, which came as a surprise to me. We always knew James was smart, but until that moment, I never considered the possibility for myself. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but looking back, I can’t help but notice that we were the perfect little examples of God’s goodness that our parents were only too happy to use for their purposes. It was awfully convenient that they could start a new school and shine a positive light on themselves on account of our academic excellence. And since we believed that good things happen to those with the strongest faith, it must have been true that God was blessing us directly.

Every school day we would start by pledging allegiance to the American flag as well as the Christian flag. The curriculum was “Accelerated Christian Education” or “ACE” for short. It ticked all of the right-wing Christian nationalist boxes: the earth was 6,000 years old; McCarthy was a misunderstood anti-communist hero; gay bad; and of course, wait until they put a ring on it. Like any quasi-cult setting, as long as you don’t think too hard about the outside world or venture out into it, life seemed fine. And for a teenager who didn’t know any better, James seemed fine, until he wasn’t. There were many nights where James would be crying for reasons I didn’t understand. All I could hear were vague references to not abiding by God’s principles. I couldn’t say for sure, but looking back, this was probably related to his inability to square his sexuality with our biblical teaching. Our world came crashing down when James was 16, and our father suffered a mental collapse, leading to his resignation and the eventual loss of our house. The next fall, we transferred to a larger Christian school for James’ Junior year, where, for the first time since 7th grade, James had classmates his age and gender. I know he had difficulty fitting in, but at least it was in the same “moral universe” with the same ACE curriculum that we had used previously, giving him at least some sense of familiarity, as terrible as it was.

That change was nothing compared to the following year when we moved – yet again – to our mother’s hometown, and James had to endure his final year of high school in a full-on public school. We went from hermetically sealed christian nationalism with very few friends of our own age, to all the trappings of a traditional American high school, with proms, football, and, of course, bullying. It was a whirlwind. While it was unsettling for me, it must have been tragic for James. Within 2 years, he went from being on a path towards the ministry, which was the ultimate calling in the only world he knew, to having the rug pulled out from under him. Everything we thought we knew – everything that had been important to us – was now gone. I know James had a horrific senior year in school. I would often see him standing alone, biding his time during lunch hour and waiting for class to start again so he could go back inside. He did have some positive moments, such as when he acted in the school play, something that wasn’t possible given our previous school’s tiny size. But those moments were outweighed by the craziness we endured.

The reason we had moved back to my mother’s hometown was because her family still lived there, and her dad, our grandfather or “pawpaw”, had an auto parts business with a warehouse and an unused storefront. They also had an unused trailer home in their yard, where we lived for the first year we were there. The warehouse came in handy, because after our father resigned as pastor, we were left looking for a way to make money. Despite many other options – our mother was a licensed hairdresser, and our father had a bachelor’s degree – they decided it was best to start a craft furniture business. For the previous year, we made do with a small living space and equipment wherever we could fit it. Once again, it was awfully convenient for our parents that James and I were capable and handy, useful for the next great adventure our parents undertook. James proved useful at cutting wood that our mother would hand-paint, and I proved useful for sanding the rough edges off of said wood in preparation for decorating and painting. As an 11-12 year old, my fingers were small and nimble, which was perfect for the job at hand. At 16-17, James was able to learn on the job well enough for us to make passable products for sale. It was a family operation, and James and I were brought along for the ride. No one stopped to ask if this was a good idea – this was the path laid before us, and this is what we did.

That was James’ junior and senior year – veering from one extreme to the other, fulfilling one more obligation of our parents’ will, without consideration of the impact it had on us. Eventually, it came time for James to go to college, and he was only too happy to go somewhere far away, about a 6 hours drive. But of course, there would be one more episode of drama before that could happen. Our father was unhappy being the “helpmate” to our mother’s business and somehow got involved in a relationship with our local pastor’s wife. I swear I’m not making this up. I’ll never forget when our father dropped this bomb on me and James the summer he graduated from high school. He told us they were separating and would probably divorce. Both of us spent the rest of the day crying – it was probably the closest we had felt to each other.

James’ college years were no less dramatic. He started out on a scholarship but quickly lost it by the end of his freshman or beginning of sophomore year. And from there he went downhill pretty quickly. Losing the scholarship meant needing to work to pay for school, which meant less time for studying, which meant spiraling further into an abyss of depression and anxiety. It was during his visits on vacations that the next episodes of abuse began. In the middle of the night, I could feel him touching me. When I woke up, he would reel backwards, pretending to have been sleeping. Or when I was taking a shower, I could see him peering beneath the door, looking at me. This happened several times, and I never said anything. I didn’t want to cause any trouble, and besides, he was already having a tough time, and the last thing I wanted was to be the final source of condemnation for him. I knew our parents would use this against him. As his grades and prospects for graduation spiraled, our parents decided that he needed a change of scenery, and thus he began his military career at 21. After he left home that last time, he never abused me again.

For the next couple of years, I didn’t see him much. He was eventually stationed in Germany, where he stayed for a couple of years. I graduated from the same high school as him and went to college. During my junior year, I went home during a break, and James and I had a heart-to-heart conversation for the first time in years. He told me he was gay; that he had been for as long as he could remember; and that he had tried to suppress it for years. It all made sense – the nights spent anxiously crying over God’s principles; the gap between his sexuality and his upbringing; the need to take out his frustrations on others, namely me. It had been at least 5-6 years since the last episode of abuse, and I hadn’t thought about it since the last time. What he said next deeply troubled me – after telling me he was gay, he mentioned that he did some things to me that “weren’t cool, bro”. Again, I hadn’t thought about any of this in years. I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t know what to say. Whenever anyone talks about how sexual abusers can re-traumatize their victims when they apologize, this is what they’re referring to. Whether I was healthily coping up to that point is anyone’s guess, but after hearing this, I definitely wasn’t coping well. After I returned to school, I immediately sought out counseling to help process what I had relearned. The summer after junior year, I attended an exchange program in Germany. James picked me up at the airport, and we spent time together at the army base where he was stationed. This is probably the best time we ever spent together. I loved getting to know his quirky army buddies, and they all seemed to genuinely care for each other. I had never seen him happier. I think that was probably the last time I ever saw him in a state of joy.

At some point over the next year, he was transferred from Germany to Texas because he wanted to complete his computer science degree, and there was a promotion on offer. He was also under suspicion from the army of being gay. This being 1994-1995, it was still the era of “don’t ask, don’t tell” and your fellow military personnel could turn you in, often because they themselves were under suspicion. He and another member of the Army, a lesbian woman, decided to enter into an arrangement of convenience. They would be together to thwart suspicion of both of them. To really sell it, they decided to get married. I learned of this during my senior year, and the wedding would transpire over Christmas break. We still have photos: the cutting of the cake; the tuxedos; our smiling parents (hers didn’t bother to show). Having spoken to him beforehand, I knew everything. My job was to be the best man and to not say anything. He needn’t worry – the last thing I wanted to do was make our parents angry. Having successfully convinced everyone that this was, in fact, a real marriage between a man and a woman, I returned to school to finish my senior year.

The next few years get a little fuzzy, and we didn’t stay in touch very much. But one thing that definitely happened is my brother’s wife, who was also an addict, took James’ money, ran away, and left James with no ability to pay the rent. In debt, he was also discharged from the Army, but I couldn’t say why – did someone rat on him? I don’t know. All I know is, he was desperate, had no money or job, and called our parents. And then the truth came out. This was 1996, a little over a year after the wedding. I remember an angry call from our father, “Did you know about this the whole time???” he demanded to know. I responded as calmly as I knew how. I think I mentioned that Jesus and John were probably lovers, and he didn’t like that suggestion at all. From there, the talks and visits grew further apart. He came out to my wedding – of course, he was penniless and had no means to get from the airport to our location. I remember getting a mysterious page and calling the number, where he answered from an airport payphone. (1997, y’all!). I picked him up and drove him back, and I relayed the most recent drama from our parents – 1 week prior, they decided they weren’t going to come to the wedding. And then, days later, they changed their mind again and decided to come anyway. I mentioned this to James and wondered why they were having such an issue with my wedding. I’ll never forget his response: “Because you’re living in sin with a Chinese girl, and you’re getting married in the gay capitol of the world, where your gay brother is coming to visit!” It honestly hadn’t occurred to me, but I had to agree. Looking back, I can see another reason – they were probably still in a state of shock over James’ “sham” wedding and were skeptical about my relationship. That thought didn’t occur to either of us. As far as we were concerned, that was ancient history and not something we even considered.

The next few years were a series of mishaps, as he lived near our parents in an uneasy truce. I suppose I should give them credit for not cutting him off entirely, but that’s a pretty low bar. He went through several episodes of depression, requiring medication. He had lived in Texas again, then spiraled through depression and despair. After getting treatment, he wrote me a lovely hand-written letter, explaining his situation, and how he was managing. He had been on his way to the naval intelligence academy after scoring high on entrance exams. But then that fell through because he hadn’t completed his degree. It was a terrible blow for a guy who hadn’t caught a break in a long time. He lived with our parents for the next few years, and then met his life partner and moved in with his family.

If I’m being completely honest, I was never a big fan of Romel. He was (still is) a Filipino diva. But once James and Romel came together, they never split. Over the next decade plus, they made a family. James, for the first time, experienced what a supportive family looked like. These was the sister, the nephews, and a cousin or two. For the first few years, there was the mother-in-law, and there was a large extended family. I would see James occasionally – he and Romel visited from time to time; he came out for my first child’s birth; we would call from time to time. Because he never quite caught up on his finances, I would get the occasional call from a collector. But his life seemed relatively peaceful for the first time in his life. Unfortunately, his health suffered, as he grew from 200 to 350 pounds over the span of 10 years, and nobody knew why. We all joked that it was too much lumpia.

Every now and then, James would call. He eventually moved to a location closer to our parents, which I always thought was a bad idea. James was the only person in the world who experienced the same craziness as me. He was the only one who was there that I could talk to. When I needed someone to vouch for the absolute insanity of our childhood, he would confirm my suspicions. “Wasn’t that crazy?” “Yes, quite.” We never talked about his abuse of me. That was a thing of the past. We would, however, talk about our parents’ hijinks. For example, I remember asking why they never planned or saved money. Or why they decided to buy a house and get a mortgage through an individual friend, and not a bank. His answer was pretty direct and matter of fact: “I think they were so convinced that the rapture was around the corner, that they didn’t see a need for any planning. They thought they wouldn’t have to worry about it.” James was very determined to keep a connection to our weird, dysfunctional family. I had grown further away, but James was the reason for me to come back.

In spring of 2014, our parents finally decided to visit James and Romel at their home. This was a first. I was surprised and a little elated. I remember thinking that maybe everything was going to be ok after all. Maybe our parents would actually grow up and become decent people. Observing from afar, over Facebook, I saw smiling faces, lots of food, and something that approached hope. Unfortunately, this would prove to be the last carefree moment of joy. One day, in August of that year, I saw a post from James on Facebook. He wrote that he most likely had cancer and would need help covering medical bills. I called him immediately and chastised him for making me find out on facebook instead of calling. He mentioned that they were still waiting for final results, but it was most likely cancer, and it was very likely late stage. The next four months were a blur. His cancer progressed rapidly, and he was already stage 4+ at diagnosis. His health was declining, and we didn’t know how long he would last. We – my family, our parents – all went to visit for Thanksgiving. James had lost his hair and had developed a cough that grew progressively worse. He couldn’t sleep at night. Despite that, I have fond memories of that visit. Smoked turkey. More food than the countertops would hold. Our kids were playing with their kids. Karaoke.

I came back after Christmas, and in that month, James’ situation had grown far worse. Romel brought him to the hospital on Christmas day, and he didn’t seem likely to leave. I remember talking to our mother before visiting him. She talked about how frail he looked and how she was worried that if they operated on him to attempt a last-ditch surgery, he wouldn’t be able to withstand the procedure. Even hearing her description, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw when I made it to James’ hospital room. There lay a shell of the man I knew. A 46-year-old appearing in a 65-year-old’s costume. In between morphine-induced sleep and impaired cognition, he would have a few hours of lucid thought, and we took the opportunity to talk, as people often do when the end is near. He knew he was fading fast. He talked about how he needed me to take care of his affairs after he was gone. Originally, I was going to go back home before new year’s eve, but I had a feeling I would need to stay for a few days more, so I changed my return flight. Because it was the week between Christmas and New Year’s, it was difficult to find a doctor to talk to and get any definitive information. When I finally did talk to a docter, he took me in the hallway and assured me it would be a matter of hours or days, but not weeks. James’ liver and other organs were starting to fail. It would not be much longer. James wanted to fight until the end, even though it was fruitless. He was requesting information on emergency surgery, to cut out more tissue and possibly entire organs. He wanted to know more about new chemotherapy techniques based in DNA sequencing. On New Years Day, 2015, a doctor called all family members into the room with James for a meeting. As James went through an exhaustive list of things they could try, the doctor held his hand and firmly told him, no, he would soon be dead, and it would be pointless to try invasive procedures at this point. There was no going back now. This was the last call, the final hours. There was nothing they could do, and they weren’t going to try. Ever the arrogant know-it-all, even until the end, James protested and still demanded to hear other options, but to no avail.

Soon after that, the doctor left, and James and I were alone again in his room. Our parents had decided to drive back home, which was an hour away. James and I talked again, for the last time. He was heartbroken. Not just because he was dying, but because his greatest desire – to experience selfless love from our parents, and to be accepted for who he was – was never going to happen. All of his attempts to reconcile with them were in vain. It wasn’t going to happen. To watch someone come to that realization on their literal death bed, that their life’s central was not going to be fulfilled, is the most heartbreaking moment I have ever witnessed. I remember that conversation well. James talked about how our father’s visits over the past year were a nice start in a better direction, but they never came to a mutual understanding, and he never approved of James’ “lifestyle”. And then I said, “but there’s always mom.” He sighed, “She’s just as bad. She just puts a prettier face on it.” Up until that moment, I had always conceived of our parents in very simple terms: dad was the “bad one” and mom was the “good one”. Dad was the one who yelled and screamed. Mom was the one who softened the blows and evened things out. As soon as he said this – “she’s just as bad” – my entire worldview changed. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it, but once I saw, I couldn’t unsee. He was absolutely right. There was no “good one” and “bad one” – they were a team. Each enabled the other. It took me 41 years, but I eventually faced the truth. From that moment on, nothing would ever be the same.

Later that night, James’ blood oxygen level dipped below 80%, and they wheeled him into the ICU. That was the last time I saw him conscious, as he lay in his bed, gasping for air as they placed the oxygen mask across his face and wheeled him out of the room. We got a call early in the morning. They had tried to intubate James, but fluid came gushing out, he coded, and they brought him back, but he was unconscious. Romel and I went to the ICU. He was very peaceful. We each took a moment with him, told him we loved him, and that it was ok for him to move on. Soon after, he coded again, and we instructed the nurses not to resuscitate. And that was it.

James’ story is one of conflict, pain, and loss, but also survival and, ultimately, some joy. He was exasperating at times, like when he criticized my gumbo for not being “authentic”. Or when he would talk down to me because he was jealous. Sometimes he was just mean. But in the end, I forgave him. He had many faults, but he was always there, struggling to maintain a connection, to build family, even where one didn’t exist. Our relationship was complicated, but he was my connection to the family. Without him, there is no family to connect with. I always thought he was foolish to keep trying to maintain a relationship with our parents, but I can’t fault him for that. It meant more to him than anything else, and yet ultimately, his own flesh and blood, his biological family, failed him. They weren’t there when he needed them most. They never were.

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Screenshot of some jerk's twitter account with a photo of a tombstone inscribed with "DEI RIP"

I read earlier today that the Thanksgiving post is not about Thanksgiving. It’s “a hook for the hack to hang a grievance on, and you can make a home bingo game of it.” And so with that, I’m going to write a “Thanksgiving post” and talk about what has been on my mind lately, which happens to be what I’m most grateful for: Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion or “DEI”.

Imagine going to work and seeing the image from the top of this post plastered on the Xitter account of your employer’s board chair. It’s clear to me that the sort of person who complains about DEI doesn’t know what it actually means, so I think it’s time we explained it to them.

I Am a Product of DEI

Close your eyes and picture in your minds your first mental image of a beneficiary of DEI. Now open them. Did they look like this picture?

Photo of person in yellow blazer
Photo by alex starnes on Unsplash

Ok, what about this guy?

Photo of a man with straw hat
Photo by PoloX Hernandez on Unsplash

Ok, now what about this one?

Photo of some guy (the author)
Me, myself, and DEI

What? That’s not your mental image of someone who benefits from DEI? Well prepare your collective minds to be blown. When I was 17 years old, I was a poor white kid in a rural Arkansas high school. At that point, I assumed I would be spending my next years at an Arkansas college or university. That in itself is a form of privilege, but it didn’t compare to what was to come. That summer, I received a packet in the mail from Yale University tell me that “you, too, can go to Yale University!” which I found mildly amusing. I had good test scores (33 ACT) and good grades (top 10% of my class) but I wasn’t the most brilliant student in the world. I hadn’t won any competitions, although I did place 2nd in the Northeast Arkansas regional math contest. I wasn’t valedictorian or even salutatorian. The point is, I was good but not “generational talent” amazing, and it never even crossed my mind to try for an Ivy League college. Thinking nothing of it, I figured “why not?” and mailed my application. To my amazement, I received a congratulatory letter in December announcing that I had received an offer of admission. I decided I wanted to go, found out that the financial aid packages were actually quite generous, and started making plans to move to New Haven, CT, a place I had never seen before setting foot on campus in September of 1991. I learned later on that the admissions rates for someone like me – poor and rural – were a lot higher than kids from wealthier suburbs and urban areas.

I have to admit that I have wrestled with this over the years. Did I take someone else’s more deserving spot? Someone who had better test scores, better grades, and possibly better tutors? I recently found my college essay and had a good chuckle. The prompt was to write about something I was passionate about, and I chose to write about pop music and how modern music didn’t compare well to earlier eras (ha! I was a curmudgeon even then!) Did that separate me? Did I really get in only based on my identity, a poor, southern white kid from the rural Mississippi Delta region? Over the years, I’ve managed to quiet those doubts, but they still linger.

My point is that no one looks at me and screams, “DEI!” When anyone says they want to “end DEI” and “DEI is dead!” I highly doubt they have my image in mind. Why is that? I think we know, but we just don’t want to say it outloud. The fact is, nobody is demanding I give up my DEI card because I am a white, heterosexual, cis-gendered man. In their view, I deserve what I got because of whiteness of it all. They’re perfectly fine with someone like me benefiting from quotas and set-asides, as long as those privileges are not extended to Other people. I don’t have to explain who the others are, right?

It’s impossible to know exactly how I would have turned out if not for my Yale degree – I suspect I would have been fine. But I have no doubts that my Yale education changed my life’s trajectory and was an inflection point. I have no doubt that it opened doors that would have otherwise been closed. I benefited immensely from this experience in so many ways – academically of course, but also culturally. It’s important to reiterate this point: I, a white person, benefited from a DEI program.

DEI Critics Are Lying, Hypocritical Bastards

How is it that those most vociferously opposed to DEI – the ones who scream “DEI!” like some kind of epithet – are simultaneously the most incompetent and least qualified people we’ve ever seen? It’s almost like opposing DEI isn’t at all about finding the most qualified people – perhaps it’s because they don’t want to compete against competent, qualified people. Because when I think about diversity, equity, and inclusion, I think about ways to ensure that the most qualified people are taken into consideration, when they otherwise would be passed over. So next time you find yourself questioning why we need DEI, you may want to ask yourself why you feel that way. And then ask yourself about my story: did I deserve my place? Why or why not?

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Coates and Klein debate over civility and violence

I was as shocked as anyone when I heard that Charlie Kirk was murdered. I’m not going to lie – I didn’t mourn his passing. Neither did I celebrate. I was in shock. I, like many many others out there, have been numbed by the political violence of recent years. But I was equal parts surprised, disappointed, and exasperated by the response to what can only be described as a senseless killing. Flags at half-mast. Calls for civility. Calls for anyone to the left of Attila the Hun to “denounce the violence”. The immediate response was angry, full of fear, and only slightly less than terrifying. I could only watch in wonder as Charlie Kirk was elevated as some national hero or someone we should admire. I saw lots of calls for calm, for deescalation in rhetoric, for civil discourse, and to go along to get along and can’t we give peace a chance? I also saw vicious criticism of anyone that didn’t venerate Mr. Kirk, and oh yes, what’s that word again? Can…cel…ing? Jimmy Kimmel. Tens or even hundreds of educators at the high school and college level were fired. The fallout was immediate and in one direction, and I was trying my best not to think of the words “Reichstag fire”, because boy howdy were those recriminations fast and furious. It was as if the entirety of magaville had been lying in wait for this moment, to open the gates of fury. This was their chance to finally exact their performative revenge, to give voice to the grievances they had been nursing for such a long time. Whenever I’m confronted with the fury of MAGA vengeance and grievance, the question I’ve had that has never been satisfactorily answered is thus: what are they so angry about? What, exactly, do they want revenge for? And now that they’ve won every branch and level of the federal government, why are they still angry and in search of revenge? Revenge for what? And now that they’ve won, shouldn’t they be happy?

My mind wandered back to another episode of violence seared in the memory of those of us of a certain age, during the LA riots in 1992. Reporters asked Rodney King, whose brutal beating instigated grievances over long-standing injustice, about his thoughts on the riots. His famous response: “Can’t we all just get along?” One could be forgiven for longing for peaceful coexistence. One could be forgiven for wanting to end the violence as quickly as possible and go back to some semblance of “normal” where we can go about our lives and not have to worry about more spilling of blood. Wouldn’t that be grand? Wouldn’t it be nice if we could simply turn off our brains, click on the TV, and not have to worry about more outbreaks of violence? More killing? And what do we need to do in order to bring about this peace, order, and civility? Not talk about politics? Not call out injustice? Not raise our voices when our neighbors, families, and friends are erased, hauled off to gulags, or deported?

It came as no surprise to me that the alleged Charlie Kirk shooter turned out not to be some leftist agitator or member of any political group, but rather a non-political member of a conservative family who nursed a person grievance on behalf of his friend (I’m still not sure if they were in a relationship and I honestly don’t care enough to dig into it). No one should be shocked by this revelation, as this is the exact profile we have come to expect from so many of our violent mass shooters. Whether shootings in schools, churches, or other public gatherings, it’s the same story told numerous times from a thousand different vantage points: single protagonist, usually male, acting alone, often with no guiding political philosophy, and turning to violence to quell some agitated part of their mind, whether in a simple act of vengeance (Luigi Mangione), in defiance of their self-described persecution, to “teach women a lesson”, to act out their personal racist fantasies, or any number of other personal grievances that led to them committing heinous acts of violence. The question is why? Why do so many young men act out their personal revenge fantasies in the most shocking ways? Why are so many young men incited by hateful messages and rhetoric such that they put their violent thoughts into motion? I think we know why, but we’re not willing to address the reasons directly.

Let’s Be Frenemies and Save America

I have an old friend from college, a traditional non-MAGA conservative, who wrote a post on Medium with the above title, and it did not sit well with me. I was angered by it. He was another in a long list of people calling for civility of discourse. Let’s air out our differences and respect each other’s viewpoints. Let’s have a meeting of the minds and come away with fresh perspectives. It was almost a mirror image, from a conservative point of view, of the Ezra Klein opinion piece in the New York Times written 2 days prior. In both cases, the authors desired to paper over our differences and let bygones be bygones. Who can argue with calls for peace? It’s a stirring call that promises to assuage our innermost fears. It’s so appealing to simply let it go and move on. But see, I can’t do that, because there’s this nagging part of me that can’t dismiss the asymmetrical nature of our violence nor the asymmetrical nature of our politics. If we agree that the violence occurring right now is fueled by rhetoric, why is that happening? Who is escalating the rhetoric?

This leads us directly to the question that forces us to address the elephant in the room: who benefits from civility? Who gains the most from a deescalation of rhetoric? I read a fantastic essay earlier today by A. R. Moxon (no idea who that is), “Eventually You’re Going to Have to Stand for Something.” He included an analogy that speaks to our current predicament – it was about a cruel king who persecuted innocents and took them as slaves and his handlers who enabled him. Some of those handlers were extremists, and some were more thoughtful and tried to blunt his worst impulses. So the story goes, there’s some unrest from subjects who are unhappy with the cruelty and start speaking out against the king, who responds with violence. The thoughtful advisors try to intervene and tell the public that they will have to get along with the king, so stop making a public outcry. The punch line is this:

So the people began to speak out against the king, and the king would respond. Some he would imprison, others he would torture, others he would kill. And a great despair grew in the hearts of some people, while in the hearts of others, hatred blossomed.

One day the king’s party was ambushed, and the king barely escaped, while two of his soldiers and one of his favorite princes lost their lives. Anticipating reprisal, the restless people gathered in a mob outside the castle walls. The moderate princes and advisors became frightened to see that their kingdom had at last descended into violence. “We are going to have to find ourselves some loyal soldiers willing to kill and imprison citizens,” they murmured to one another.

If we think back to our first interaction with a bully, usually in grade school, it’s good to recall what happens when you hand over your lunch money: the bully comes back. And every time he comes back, it gets harder to resist, because you’ve already established ground rules. My problem with the calls for civility is that, at the risk of making light of a dire situation, we’re setting ourselves up to pay a lifetime’s worth of lunch money. But of course, this is not about lunch money, this is about people’s existence; our very existence. Our equivalent of giving up lunch money is watching people get maimed, tortured, persecuted, exiled, and killed. A few years ago, I wrote an essay about how evangelicals will kill us all, and that was before the pandemic. I argued then that they were unwilling to compromise with those they thought were evil and “against God”, and in such a conflict, how can we possibly expect a peaceful resolution? Will they someday wake up and decide, oh my bad, I was so wrong to kill your sisters, mothers, children, and millions of other people. Silly me – I’m so sorry! We’re going to stop being such hateful bigots and learn to live with you. And this is the ultimate problem I have with calls for civility: they’re all asking for us to conveniently forget the past, present, and future acts of violence, and they’re asking us to forgive and forget. By framing the exercise as everyone coming together, they’re putting the onus, the responsibility, on the non-MAGAs to be better. Ezra Klein, as well as my college friend, accepted that framing and willingly obliged so he can go back to… whatever it is that he does. Ta-Nehisi Coates rightfully called out Klein’s behavior, noting that his deescalation only serves to reinforce a status quo that is wholly unfair and serves to erase and condemn entire groups of people to a lifetime of persecution and violence against them. The bargain seems to be this: just go away, liberals, just STFU about our little persecutions against people that nobody cares about. Why do you care so much? We’re not talking about you. And Ezra Klein said, oh of course, and slinked away.

There has been an escalation of rhetoric that has inspired many to commit acts of violence, and despite the efforts of people like my college friend to pretend that this goes both ways, it should be pretty clear that the violence is coming from a single source. It’s the same source that fueled violence against abortion clinics. It’s the same source that fueled violence against Asian people post-COVID; violence against women in the form of rape, assault, and even mass shootings; violence against targeted races and classes, usually black and Latin American; violence against politicians in the form of assassinations and home invasions; and violence in the form of 2nd amendment rhetoric about trees of liberty and the blood of tyrants. The violent rhetoric has centered, in no particular order, on Democrats, women, blacks, Latin Americans, refugees, immigrants of all stripes, gay people, trans people, and really anyone that white supremacists can call out publicly without catching too much flak. It used to be that such language would lead to such a loud response that no one would dare try it. And yet here we are – a movement built entirely on the birth certificate of a former president is now pushing for the extrajudicial persecution and removal of any immigrant, anywhere in the United States. Not enough violent immigrants to catch? We’ll just make them up and detain them anyway. And then we’ll put military boots on the ground in our cities just to instill the proper amount of fear from those “other people”. This is the definition of asymmetrical stochastic terrorism.

Such is the swirl of violence surrounding our radical right-wing reactionaries, that it has now come for their own – witness Charlie Kirk. We’re now seeing 4chan kids, immersed in violent fantasies and coming from right-wing families, choosing the path of violence against their own, because it’s what they’ve learned from their elders as the best way to address an egregious offense. If you grow up believing that the best way to deal with evil is to shoot it, guess what happens when you see someone you love suffer at the hands of a perpetrator? You’re going to think about revenge, and if you are angry enough, you just might act on it. Revenge begets revenge; violence leads to violence. And in our case, the violence rests at the feet of a belligerent movement that has plagued our politics since at least the 1950s, when McCarthy ran amok, segregation was a national crisis, and the reactionaries of the day were just waiting for Barry Goldwater to unite them under the Republican flag.

First truth, then reconciliation

The nagging part of my brain cannot let go of the truth, or rather the lack thereof. To reconcile without truth is just capitulation. Before we can ever reconcile or come to any mutual agreement, we must be able to acknowledge the truth. And the truth is, radical reactionaries have been angling for revenge since before the ink on the voting rights act was dry. This is why MAGA is still angry, despite winning every branch of government and holding complete power. They’re angry because they want others to suffer in an attempt to stanch their own pain stemming from the emptiness of their hearts. And their anger will never be satiated – it is now core to their identity, and this is why they must be defeated. They will not compromise. They want only domination. We cannot reconcile with a bully that still wants our lunch money, or in this case, the death of our nation and the continuing suffering of whoever they deem to be other. Who knows who will be next? It’s the usual targets, but as we’ve already seen, the blowback will affect many more than that.

MAGA must be defeated. Those are the terms – truth and the defeat of the MAGA movement. Without truth, there can be no reconciliation, because those who bear the responsibility must be the ones to acknowledge the pain and suffering they have caused. Reconciliation has to start with them. They bear the responsibility.

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Content warning: the following post contains racial slurs and frank depictions of racist hate speech

I’ve spent weeks trying to figure out my approach to writing down my memory of this event. I considered writing a dramatic reenactment as a screenplay. I might still, but after much thought, I think I shouldn’t hide behind anything less than a direct retelling of the story as I remember it. Or, as the other person who was there put it, “wasn’t it dramatic enough?” lolol I couldn’t agree more. I guess I was still afraid of putting this incident to “paper”, even though it took place almot 30 years ago. So…. direct and to the point I shall be. All names have been changed to protect the innocent… and guilty.

Setting the stage: I had just graduated from Yale in the spring of 1995. Sort of. I was 1 credit shy (don’t ask) so I had to stay over the summer and take 1 remaining course to graduate. I stayed in an apartment with a few classmates and also worked as custodial staff for the Special Olympics, which was held that year on the Yale campus. It was at the Special Olympics job that I met Liz, and we started dating. Because of a series of unfortunate events, she needed to crash at our apartment for the last few weeks in August. At the end of the month, my parents were driving over from Arkansas to pick me up, and we had the brilliant idea to have dinner with them before we all went back to our respective homes. I feel the urge to tell this story because it demonstrates how little I understood about racism at the time, how deeply brainwashed I was by white nationalist evangelical culture, and how we subject those we care about to needless harm and trauma when we don’t stand up to racism and misogyny when we encounter it. The one thing I wish I understood about racism at the time is that there’s no such thing as an innocent bystander. If you’re a passive bystander witnessing someone else’s racism, you are allowing them to inflict harm on others, effectively aiding and abetting them in the process.

In hindsight, I should have known how this was going to turn out, but at the time I was naive (22) and still not far enough removed from my evangelical Christian upbringing to understand how toxic and hurtful my family was to others. This was long before I was aware of the famous Maya Angelou line, “When they tell you who they are, believe them.” In this case, when they (my father) used the word “coon” in his first phone conversation with Liz just to see how she would react, that was probably a good clue. See, she was of mixed heritage with a Puerto Rican mother and a mostly nordic father. And since my father knew nothing about Puerto Ricans other than what he saw on TV, he was, uh… “curious” about her ethnicity. And since he was the only father I had ever known, it didn’t seem the least bit weird to me when he asked to speak to her during one of our phone calls once he learned of her existence. He was my father, and I did as I was told. Once on the phone with her, my dad proceeded to interrogate her, including the question, “what do you call black people?” I don’t know exactly how Liz answered that question or how the conversation unfolded afterwards, but somehow my dad thought it pertinent to cheerily volunteer that “out here, we call ’em coons.” He hadn’t yet even seen a picture of Liz, but what he *really* wanted to know, without stating it, was, “does she look black” and “how black is she.” Because I was a product of his tutelage and hadn’t yet addressed my own racism and misogyny, I thought I was being helpful when I said, “No, no – she doesn’t look Puerto Rican (black) at all.” I don’t remember if this all happened during the same phone conversation or a different one, but it doesn’t really matter. This was all a prelude to the main event – my parents were picking me up from college, and I was leaving New Haven to go back to Arkansas, until I could put together a plan for San Francisco, where I wanted to relocate.

I am painfully aware of how terrible this all sounds. All of it. Casually dropping a racial slur in conversation. The inappropriate line of questioning. The bizarre interest in skin color and ethnicity. The idea that it was acceptable to interrogate someone you’ve never met about their ethnicity and personal family history. To this day, Liz maintains that she wasn’t particularly offended, because for her it was an “anthropological experiment” and she knew she would never have to see these people (my parents) again. That said, it definitely alarmed her at the time that someone could be so brazenly racist. She had not encountered that before. For me, it seemed all too normal. I wish I could say I learned my lesson from this incident, but… I did not, at least not completely. That may have to wait for another post.

On the fateful day that we were expecting my parents to arrive, we were not exactly calm. Liz had spoken to my father a few days earlier for the first time, and now she would be meeting him in person. Liz decided to make arroz con pollo, because she wanted to make something authentically Puerto Rican. I don’t remember much from that day before they arrived; I just recall a slow-burning and ceaseless state of elevated anxiety while trying to relax. And then came the phone call – they were here! Time to swing into action. The food was mostly prepped, but it would take an hour or so to cook. In the meantime, we would chat and, ya know, get to know each other. Liz felt like she was viewing another species of human – it was a real-life anthropology lab. At some point, my mom smelled the pot of chicken and remarked, “that smells very…” searching for just the right word and then looking at Liz before finding it: “ethnic”. One of Liz’s great qualities is that she’s able to put people at ease because she’s very talkative and can easily draw people into conversation. At some point, she started talking to my mom about social workers and the difficult job they have. She mentioned a family with a young boy who took care of his mother, who was disabled, and that the overworked social worker assigned to them was in a bit of an ethical quandary. My mother helpfully jumped to the conclusion that the mother must have been on drugs, and Liz paused to explain that no, the ethical dilemma was about not reporting the family because the likely outcome would be foster care and the mother would be without her caregiver. I don’t believe that race or ethnicity were ever mentioned in this story, but I’m pretty sure that my mother assumed the family was black. I remember being shocked at how little my mother understood of the world.

It just kept getting better from there. At some point, we finally finished cooking and sat down to eat. The rest of the evening is pretty much a blur, but 2 things stand out. For one, my father decided that one racial slur wasn’t enough. No no, he had to say it again – for the same reason as before: to make Liz as uncomfortable as possible. And the 2nd thing that still stands out is Liz and I decided to go to the rooftop of the apartment building to be alone, because frankly, it was a lot. I mean, imagine being in a summer fling, your last chance at carefree fun before being forced to deal with the realities of post-college life, and you are subjected to… <waves hands around> all of *this*. It was… a lot. For our sanity’s sake, we needed 15 minutes alone on the rooftop in order to keep it together. I didn’t fully appreciate just how bad it was at the time, but I certainly do now. Reliving this evening to write it down is equal parts catharsis and relived trauma.

As the evening wound down, Liz’s father picked her up to take her home, and I was alone. My parents were there, but I never felt more alone than in that moment. They stayed for the night, and in the morning we packed up my things, and I left New Haven forever. To me, this evening will forever live on as the moment where, for the first time, I saw the stark relief of a clash of civilizations. Up until that moment, I could live in the self-delusion that we all lived in the same universe, obeying the same laws and social mores. From that moment on, it became increasingly clear to me that this simply wasn’t the case. We did not, in fact, obey the same laws and abide by the same moral code. I felt trapped between both – desperately wanting to escape my family, but never quite accepted by the prep school kids who dominated college life. It was a long drive from Connecticut to Northeast Arkansas, and for most of the trip, Simon and Garfunkel’s “Homeward Bound” rang through my head as tears threatened to well up at any moment.

When we finally got back home, there were a few conversations about Liz. One was my father telling me that he “approved” of her. Uh… thanks? But the other was when I overheard him talking to someone else about Liz, about how she was some “Puerto Rican girl” as if she just fell out of a West Side Story production into my life. I protested with the “defense” of how she “looked white” to which my dad responded, “oh yeah, with dark eyes and dark hair.” At the time, I didn’t understand how deeply racist my response was, but I still remember being very confused by his response. Dark hair and dark eyes? Would this description not equally apply to my own mother? I’m pretty sure I had not heard of the “1 drop rule” at the time, but this was the first time I came face to face with it. Unlike stories of Sally Hemmings or other “white-passing” slaves from the 19th century, this was an actual event I lived through toward the end of the 20th century, involving someone I cared about. It brought home how deeply ingrained white supremacy is in American culture in a way that no history textbook ever could. As white people, we too easily dismiss the harms of racism as something in the distant past, something we have evolved beyond. That is simply not the case.

Some years later, I married an immigrant from Hong Kong. I wish I could say I was smarter and had learned from my previous experience. I had not. There were the same suspicions; the same interrogations; the same dismissiveness of her experience; and the feeling that she never quite belonged and was not “one of us”. It took some years, almost 2 decades in fact, until she decided enough was enough, and it was either me or my parents, but not both. It was only at that point that I finally understood and came to terms with my own tacit approval of and participation in white supremacy. It was then and only then that I understood how I had to turn the page on my own family and choose to move forward with my spouse. But not before years of trauma and harm were visited on people that I love. It was a hard lesson, but the takeaway is thus: there are no innocent bystanders to bigotry. When you “stand back and stand by” while bigotry is perpetrated on others, you are silently sanctioning the harm done to them. You are aiding and abetting the willful commission of white supremacist hate on your neighbors, friends, lovers, and yes, family. We are all children of Jim Crow, although we only apply that term to the black communities who suffered under its persecution – and prosecution. We seem reluctant to apply that term to white communities and families even though they were very much influenced by the Jim Crow era, segregation, desegregation, and bussing.

We are all children of Jim Crow. We just lived on different sides of it, and its legacy is very much with us today, no matter how much we would like to dismiss it and pretend otherwise.

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1985: Rural Northeastern Arkansas

When I was 12, I had an… well, I don’t know quite what to call it, but I think of it as an existential crisis. It started as an overwhelming sense of dread whenever we would drive in to our place of work. We ran a crafts business, and I was one of the employees – me, my older brother (17), and our parents. It was just us. We had moved to my mother’s small, rural hometown in northeast Arkansas to launch a business and capitalize on her family’s help in the form of free or cheap housing and office space, not to mention sweat equity partners like my aunt and uncle.

Anyway, every morning we would make the short drive to the shop, and every morning I would feel a sense of overwhelming dread. A sense of neverending doom and dispair that this is it. This is my life. It’s never going to evolve from this into something better. Such was my mental state that when I somehow heard about Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am” in response to the philosophical question of whether or not we are real or merely living in someone else’s dream, my brain went absolutely wild. I went from an overwhelming sense of gloom to a full-on panic. Every day, I would question whether my world was real or imagined by someone else, and every day I would come to the unsettling conclusion that I didn’t know. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach, and it wouldn’t budge. It was at this point that I started to wonder, “Is this what it feels like to go insane?” Cue another panic attack, but now, instead of thinking about the uncertainty of existence, I was dogged by the uncertainty of my sanity. Naturally, I dealth with these issues by… never telling anyone.

At some point, after some months of mental anguish, I decided that if this is a dream, then I may as well make it a good dream and have fun with it. And that’s how I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t crazy. No crazy person could make such a logical deduction! Looking back, I like to think that it couldn’t have been that bad if I came up with a way to cope with it. But there’s a reason why that particular time period was scary for us and why it led to the summer of panic in 1985 – and also explains why this blog/newsletter is called “son of a preacher man”. 1984-1985 was a period of great uncertainty for us, much of it self-inflicted by my parents, and specifically my father.

Flashback: Southwestern Missouri and the Ministry

Before launching our business, we were a church-leading family in the Southern Baptist denomination. We were “in the ministry”, and my father had been a music leader, youth pastor, and associate pastor in Northwestern Arkansas, and then became a head pastor in 1980 in Southwestern Missouri. After being voted out of his first church after his first year (I’ll come back to this episode in a future installment) he and his followers decided they were going to start a new church, Victory Baptist Church. My father developed some rather strident views: The Southern Baptist Convention was “too liberal” and was insufficiently unkind to those in queer communities. He also was not fond of recent trends to ordain women. He was extremely bigoted against blacks and immigrants, as was our mother. As with most southern moms, she held the same views but was highly skilled in hiding it with a veneer of niceness and civility. They would never admit it, but they were functionally segregationists.

Victory Baptist was where we were free to be us, shedding the official ties to the “liberal” SBC and putting all of our fundamentalist beliefs out in the open: scientific evidence of creation theory, avoiding the path to damnation paved with the gay agenda, abortion is murder, and the end times and the rapture were just around the corner. The rapture scared the shit out of me. I lived much of my childhood convinced that at any given moment, my mom would disappear and I would be left behind. Cue a number of moments where I would desparately try to find my mother out of fear that she had been taken away. Underneath that anxiety was the dual fear that I had been left behind because I didn’t pass muster as a Christian. So we created a small school to avoid the herecy rampant in our government schools and teach our kids the values of homophobic, racist, fundamentalist Christianity.

Over time, my father grew increasingly frustrated with this ambitious project. I’ve honestly never quite understood why. From a career perspective, he probably felt that he could never achieve greatness as a politico-spiritual leader. One of the themes I’ll return to in this blog is my father’s narcissism – and my grandmother’s. But there was also undiagnosed mental illness and severe bouts with depression. He certainly didn’t have any changes in belief – his core beliefs are the same now, several decades on. Whatever the reason(s), by the summer of 1984, he was done, and he quit, throwing the family into chaos. We were unable to make mortgage payments, and we lost our house by that fall. This precipitated one of the most unsettling incidents I’ve ever witnessed. While we were moving out of our foreclosed house, my father suffered what I believe was a nervous breakdown and blacked out over a period of several hours. He started acting weirdly, eg. while loading a moving truck, placing furniture in a position on the edge where it would certainly fall off onto the road. When someone pointed this out, he shrugged it off and walked away. I’ll never forget walking into our house looking for my parents, and seeing my dad with his head buried in his hands. He kept repeating, “I can’t do it. I can’t do it” with my mom assuring him, “Yes, you can.” By this point, we had frantically begun to look for others to help us with the move move, and thankfully, they showed up to do the thankless job of making sure my dad didn’t place himself or others in harm’s way. When it came time to make the first delivery to our new rental home, a 30-mile drive on rural roads, they convinced him to get on the truck but would not let him drive – he was clearly too incapacitated to trust behind the wheel. He was characterized as “off” and not really present. At some point during this drive, he “work up” and wondered where he was. He had completely blacked out and had no recall of the preceding events.

What It All Means

It would be all too easy to look at these events and say, aha, that was some real trauma, and believe that this was the extent of it. But the fact is that our lives in the evangelical community prepped us for a lifetime of trauma and abuse. The irony is that the difficulties I outlined above are part and parcel of a lifetime spent moving from one traumatic moment to the next. The trauma of never knowing if you were good enough to get into heaven. The trauma of believing in a literal hell that awaits you if you don’t measure up. The trauma that stems from a continuous fear of being “left behind” by the better Christians. The trauma of believing we were heading into the “end times” and preparing for the 2nd coming of Christ. The trauma of living in a household with a Father who saw himself as the anointed head of household and head of the church, our “Christian flock”, coupled with the stress and paranoia that stemmed from all of the above. And then, ultimately, how it all fell apart when we could no longer maintain that veneer that we had strived for so long to present to the outside world.

I tell this story, because, while my personal crisis the following year pales in comparison to my father’s, it shows a direct link between a traumatic period of our family’s life and my inability as a child to process all of the prior trauma. This period of time, during my most formative years, had a profound effect on who I am today. As an adult, looking backwards, I often return to that traumatic time, haunted by its many ramifications: a brother who later came out as gay, whom I would describe as “psychologically broken” by my fundamentalist parents; a father and mother who never evolved emotionally, choosing to remain steadfast in their awfulness; and a strong desire to seek a replacement for the certainty of fundamentalist Christianity, as abusive as it was, which meant I have often been vulnerable to charismatic grifters with good storytelling skills.

In many ways, our family’s story of the past 40 years is America’s story of the past 40 years, especially evangelical Christian America. Abusive relationships with authoritarian Christian leaders, hateful bigotry, an ambition to purge America of its sinful waywardness, a desire for the freedom to dominate others that we deem to be lesser, and most of all, political striving – it’s all there in our family. I don’t think most Americans truly understand evangelicals and the dangers of their beliefs. In this blog series, I plan to peel back the layers that we wanted everyone to see and show the seedy underbelly of how this culture functions – or, rather, doesn’t. I will lay bare our unapologetic racism. I will expose our suspicion of democratic principles and our cavalier dismantling of them. And I will hopefully show that there is no compromise with those who sincerely believe that they are liberating America from Satan. But I’m not going to create boring academic lectures; I’m going to pull examples from our family’s history to *show* these principles in action, laying bare the subtext and speaking the unspoken. I continue to be disappointed with how most of our media cover the evangelical movement. I hope that by putting a human face on this movement, I can help others to understand this world more fully.

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You may have noticed the name of this blog and wondered what this is all about. Am I going to scream at you that abortion is murder and stopping the baby killers? No. Well… unless the subject is infant and maternal mortality in the United States, in which case I will tell you that our terrible racist healthcare “system” and lack of reproductive rights does in fact put babies, and their mamas, at risk. The United States leads the industrialized world in infant and maternal mortality, and not in a good way.

There are a number of reasons why this is the case:

  • Lack of comprehensive health care – the US leads the world in bankruptcies from illness
  • Rampant poverty, especially among younger women of color of childbearing age
  • High rates of unwanted pregnancies (for a number of reasons – will go into detail in a future blog post)
  • Relatively poor health: high rates of diabetes and other chronic debilitating health issues as well as lowest life expectancy of industrialized countries
  • Lack of prenatal care (will address this in the future – know that this is connected to the US’ overall rejection of reproductive rights for women)

In every point made above, there is a readily available solution. In fact, every other industrialized nation has solved this problem, and it would be relatively easy for the US to address these issues. The irony is that those most opposed to abortion – those with the gall to call themselves “pro-life” – have resisted every opportunity to address any of the above issues. Every. Single. Time. In fact, they are the ones most vehemently opposed to addressing these problems. Sickening, no? Isn’t it odd that those who call themselves “pro-life” are actually ensuring that more women and children die?

One of the reasons I started this blog and named it “We Are Pro-Life” is because we, those of us who actually care about people in our communities, we are the real pro-life advocates. We are the ones who advocate for trans lives. We are the ones who defend black lives. We are the ones with the core belief that everyone is equal in the eyes of our creator.

We. Are. Pro. Life.

Not those other clowns.