Sometimes, you need to be 3000 miles away from your past. Growing up in a small, Bible-belt, southern town was not my choice. No one gets to decide their initial home, but that place always felt inhospitable to me. I was always an outsider and couldn’t wait to get out. 

The truth is my environment was homogenous – white, Christian, and conservative. Yet, I was raised to think critically, be curious, and shape my own opinions. It seems simple and basic, but it was and still is really uncommon. Despite the sameness of my bubble, I emerged with empathy and equality in my heart rather then judgment or hate. I have my mom and grandparents to thank for this. 

At 18, I left that town for the city. But it was still a NC city. Eventually, I landed in Charlotte, the state’s largest city, which was diverse but also a place built on banks and bibles, two things that should never share a sentence. But they do, for this is a place where people use religion to justify their condemnation. You know, the “hate the sin, love the sinner” bullshit. It’s a simplistic response from those who know nothing of grace or compassion. They just want to justify their fear of those who don’t fit their primitive ideals. They “other” the fuck out of anyone who doesn’t fit the mold. 

Along with the zealots, there are also those clinging to the myth of the confederacy and heritage that makes them hold boldly to a flag whose only true symbolism is white supremacy. 

These are all part of why I found NC a place I could no longer call home. But there’s more to the story. 

For me, physical places hold trauma. I’ve felt it in locations where atrocities have occurred, from the library repository museum in Dallas to Mandalay Bay in Vegas. I can’t explain it exactly. But it’s a physical and emotional response. 

It’s even more intense in places where the trauma that happened involved me. I would never want to return to the house I grew up in or my father’s home. The gravity of pain from those places is too heavy. Not all memories from those places are bad. But the good does not erase these. They are simply part of the whole. 

When I used to visit where I grew up often, I would notice that the closer I got, the more elevated my heartbeat was, and my anxiety increased. My body, still digesting the horrors, was telling me it wasn’t safe there. 

While I lived a big city life, Charlotte was also the center point of tragedy. Going for checkups with my oncologist at the hospital required a mental prep. Living across the light rail tracks from a building where I was raped took a lot of compartmentalization. 

As much as I have healed from this trauma (and still am), I knew that to really and truly do so meant I had to leave. It wasn’t easy.

Moving across the country and starting over will bend you and devastate you in so many ways. These years were hard and lonely. There was sickness, heartbreak, and a very near suicide attempt. Yet, I’m still here, a fighter with much more grit than anyone should. 

From this came a renewed passion for telling my story, resistance, and hope. 

There remains love in my heart for NC, especially people who are now a country away. I’ll always think of it as a beautiful state, but its history and mine there are dark and shameful. 

Its politics twisted, its progression stalled, the state has much to learn still, even though it was an original colony. 

I’m unsure what my headspace would be if I were still there or if I’d even be here. It was one of the hardest decisions to make and execute, but I believe it saved my life.  

My grandfather was a tall and humble man. By the time I came along, he was retired from the postal service. This meant I got to see Pop a lot. He took me to dance class, taught me how to play Monopoly, and watched game shows with me. He was an amazing father figure, but I never got the chance to have adult conversations about his life.

I knew he was in the Army. There was a handsome photo of him in his uniform. I think he was drafted into World War II. Before serving, he played on a minor-league baseball team.

I also knew he’d been wounded and received a Purple Heart. He was shot in the hip, so it bothered him the rest of his days and ended his baseball days.

I wish I’d had the chance to ask him about all these experiences. He was a brave man with layers of life-lived. I could have learned so much more from him.

Later, I found some tokens from the war. There are several documents about his service. There was also a Nazi pin and a letter from the Army authorizing him to take this object. I don’t know why it was in his possession. Maybe it was common, or maybe it was something he needed to do.

What I do know is that my Pop was the only dad I ever had. He loved me with all his heart. I always felt safe when I was with him.

After the war, he worked for the postal service for many years. My grandmother, a teacher, continued to receive his pension benefits after he passed.

I will not let his sacrifice be in vain. He deserves better than that, as do so many veterans. If my grandfather was brave enough to fight Nazis literally, I can be, too.