The Land I Cannot Love

After going back to live with my parents were I grew up, I recently realized something that I did not like: inevitably, probably not in the too distant future, I will be forced to move away from here for good.

This scared me; the thought of packing up a U-haul with everything I own and going to live in a new place—although it sounds exciting—brought tears to my eyes. Tears not of joy, but of sadness. I, very much down to my deepest bone, want to love this place—to call it home. The problem is I cannot. Being gay is just too much of a burden.

On the rear bumper of my car is an HRC sticker. Back at school on the east coast—although I arguably was in a southern state—I felt completely safe. I did not worry about driving around and letting people seeing my pride. Sure I expected people to judge me, but that was all. I even rejoiced when I would see the same sticker on some else’s bumper.

Here, though, is exactly the opposite. No one here has THAT sticker on his or her car. And when I drive around, I am completely self-conscious of what the people here think of me having it. A part of me wonders, “Do they even know what this symbol means?” And then I think, “Probably not,” and I forget about it.

It comforts me when people ask me about the sticker. I blatantly tell them “it is for the Human Rights Campaign.” Afterwards they usually move on to something else, probably because they do not realize that HRC fights for equal rights in the United States for LGBT individuals. But at the same time, in the back of my mind, there is that slight possibility that they are not as sheltered and naïve as I think they are. And so my mind starts racing.

There is a quote in the film The Witnesses (2007) that essentially goes, 

“When a man approaches a woman, you know what you are going to get. But when a man approaches a man, you don’t know whether he will spit in your face or proclaim to everyone around that you’re a faggot.” 

(It’s a French film; you try to literally translate it!) When I watched the film, I was immediately struck by this quote. I could relate to it entirely—although I was not on the streets looking for casual hook-ups like this particular Parisian was talking about. 

For my first week back, I brought my handbag with me around wherever I went. I carried around that all too common I-don’t-care-what-you-think attitude. And I got looks, but I brushed it off; until I came to my senses…I am not in Virginia anymore.

Now, I fear it will tip me off so I keep it in my car as much as possible. And as much as I hate to admit it, I would not put it past most of these people to try and beat me up for being gay—it is that area of the country in which I live.

I walk down the street, and I look over my shoulder every step of the way, thinking at any moment a group of guys could come out of nowhere are “teach me a thing or two about being a man.” I walk outside and I half-expect to find the word “FAG” keyed into the side of my car.

In fact, I know (without any of the exact definitive proof) that being gay has cost me at least one if not more possible jobs that I would have gotten hands-down if they would not have known about it. (I put sexual orientation on my Facebook, and you know how employers can see whatever they want in there; is there any coincidence that this blog receives views directed from Facebook on the exact day I expect to receive a call from a possible employer who never does?)

The only jobs I know I really can apply for are the ones with companies which I know have inclusive policies. The problem is there are not too many of those around, so finding a job with any of those is even tougher.

This why I can never come back, there is simply no way I can last that long. I can never live here—until the federal government requires equal rights in all states (my state would never allow it any other way).