What MAGA Took From Me

The woman in this photo never cared who her little boy was.

The man looking at his tiny self tonight hates every time he ever stood out.

My mom and I spoke on the phone tonight.

We talked about how afraid I am.

How afraid she is.

And for a brief moment I hated myself.

That deep hate.

You know the one.

Or maybe you don’t.

It’s not the hate that comes from some misstep in character or some disappointment from your actions.

It lives in the dark.

At the bottom of your you.

It grumbles when your mother says,

“I’m sorry you’re so afraid.”

So you get quiet and cry while you finish the conversation.

Because it’s my fault she’s sorry.

It’s my fault I’m afraid.

If I could just be normal.

For even an hour.

Quiet.

Simple.

Straight.

That’s what this is doing to me.

It’s making me hate everything about me.

Everything that makes me James.

Because somewhere in the last four years I’ve watched as people around me stopped speaking out for people like me.

And I’ve been too busy speaking out for people who I think are in more danger than me.

We may win tomorrow.

But I’m going to bed knowing I’ve lost something in this.

I’ve lost my sense of family.

I’ve lost my sense of community.

I’ve lost my sense of safety.