I’ve been a liberal all my life. I have not been encouraged to be a liberal all my life. I was raised in a conservative family. My father was a Baptist preacher. Everyone around me was conservative. They hated gays. They hated government assistance, even when half of them were on it. They hated pregnant teens, single mothers, and divorced parents. I don’t keep in contact with much of any of them anymore, but I’d bet my last dollar that 99.9% of them voted for Donald Trump. I was a black sheep. I didn’t care. Even as a child, I knew I was different, and I knew I was right.

Even when I wasn’t allowed to have a voice, and even when my views and beliefs were always being compared to those around me, I stuck to my guns. I never faltered. I was never encouraged either. I was hushed. I was frowned upon and preached at in the hopes that I wouldn’t turn into the dirty liberal that I became. I was told how wrong I was. I was lectured. I was pointed at. I was shunned. As I got older, people wouldn’t let their kids hang out with me because of the “way I was.” I needed Jesus, so therefore I didn’t need any friends. I was a disappointment to my father and his congregation. I was an embarrassment. I gave zero fucks.

I knew that I would be different than my parents when it came to raising any children I might have. I would never put them in a position where they had to wonder which side was the right side. I would never make them feel like they were wrong or shameful for showing compassion and understanding. I would never let them feel like an embarrassment to the family. Instead, I would encourage their fire and passion. I wanted to give them the platform that I never had, so they could be loud, proud, and open with what they believed.

I now have a four year old daughter. I’ve strived to raise her as a free-thinking, compassionate individual. We have frequent discussions about loving one another, about treating every human being equally. I encourage her at every opportunity to think for herself; to form her own thoughts and opinions on the things around her. I’ve raised her to be strong-willed and stubborn, and to never back down from something that she believes in, even if that’s caused me to pull my own hair out once or twice.

These have always been the normal lessons in my household. It’s simply the path which we chose to raise her on. But on inauguration day, I was forced to stop and really consider what all of this meant. I was left with no choice but to sit down and really decide how I was going to raise this child. What beliefs would I instill in her?

You’re taught that the president deserves the utmost of respect, yet how could I encourage her to respect and revere someone that stood for the exact opposite of what I’ve been trying to teach her these last four years? How could I possibly tell her that while SHE should ALWAYS love and respect all of her fellow humans, our president was somehow exempt from this rule?

Now, more than ever, it was crucial that I pushed that strong will; that I encouraged that hardheadedness and unwillingness to back down. It was now that I had to teach her that sometimes, power does not always equate respect. That even when the world is stacked against you, you stand for what is right, and you stand against anyone that is trying to take that from you—even if that person is the president of the United States.

That’s a hard pill to swallow. That’s a difficult lesson to teach your child. You want your kids to play in the dirt. You want them to learn their ABC’s and their shapes and colors. You want their biggest worry to be keeping their bedroom clean so they can have a friend over Friday night. But the world doesn’t allow that.

There’s never a good time to tell your child that the world is brimming with hate. There’s never a good time to explain to them that people are being shot because of the color of their skin, to tell them that grown ass adults are holding Nazi rallies, or even what a fucking Nazi is. There’s never a good time, but now is the right time. Now is the right time more than ever before. Now— right now, while everything is in a complete and utter shitstorm. Now is when we teach them.

So I teach her. Even when it breaks my heart, and my words leave a bad taste in my mouth, I teach her. I tell her what’s happening in the news. I tell her that hateful people are rallying against those that are different than them and we don’t know why. I tell her that people of color are facing violence everyday of their lives, because people think that a different skin tone means a lesser quality of human being. I tell her that our friends are facing oppression because of who they love.

I tell her that hurricanes and natural disasters are wracking our country and our world, because people don’t care enough to take care of the Earth. I tell her about the effects of global warming and I tell her about all of the people that are suffering tremendous loss because the human race is too lazy to take care of its own fucking trash.

I take her to Wal-Mart and have her pick out things to send to Hurricane Harvey victims in Texas. I tell her why. I tell her that they’re without a home, and their clothes and toys are gone now. I make her understand, and I instill a desire to help. I take her to marches and fundraisers. I let her see a bit of the ugliness, and I teach her.

I teach her because she is our future. I teach her because it is up to her to try to make this world a better place to be, to stand against the oppression and the bigotry, and use her privilege for the betterment of human kind. It’s up to her to accept nothing less than equality and basic human rights for everyone. It’s up to her to march and fight, and kick and scream, and never back down. I teach her because my child, her generation, will be the ones tearing down the fucking walls.

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Andrea is a freelance writer based out of Kentucky. She is the mother to a 3 year old little girl and step-mother to a 6 year old boy. She’s been married to her husband and best friend for 5 years. She enjoys fishing, camping, hiking and the occasional glass of wine by a bonfire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last month the “singing doctor,” Brandon Rogers, was killed in a car crash. Rogers was a wonderful, avid singer as well as a dedicated doctor. He was well known across social media for donning a lab coat and stethoscope while performing videos. He was given the opportunity to perform with Boyz II Men after one of his performances of their song went viral. Rogers also auditioned with the popular show, America’s Got Talent. Unfortunately, Rogers never got the chance to get past that first audition or even see his performance aired on television.

On June 11^th, Brandon Rogers passed away after the car he was riding in crashed into a tree. The driver, a fellow medical professional, fell asleep at the wheel on the way home from a long shift. The driver sustained minor injuries, Rogers lost his life.

Whether we realize it or not, this is becoming an epidemic across this country. All too often I see social media posts making light of doctors and nurses falling asleep in unusual, funny places. Some have fallen asleep underneath their desk, others on empty gurneys in hallways. Some are asleep on top of a pile of paperwork, some with their heads leaned against lockers in the breakroom floor. People find it funny. Where will the next one pass out? How funny will their predicament be the next time?

It’s not funny. It’s a problem. These people in “silly” positions are often times sleeping in places and positions that a normal person would never consider; dirty floors and cramped chairs and questionable gurneys. But what most people don’t think about as they scroll through that comical article is the fact that these people are sleeping there because their bodies have given out on them. Their brains are shutting down and their legs are giving up. They haven’t slept in 16, 20, 36 hours. They’re sleeping under a desk in the ER because they’re exhausted beyond comprehension. They’re literally no longer able to function.

I’ve been there. I spent five years in that industry. I’ve worked everywhere from nursing homes to hospitals to small town clinics. Believe me, the “sleeping in a funny pose” situation is not cute. I’ve worked upwards of 18 hours shifts with barely even a lunch break; often times sneaking bites of snacks under the desk while filling out charts. I watched a fellow employee pass out cold in the floor on a long shift because she’d worked over 12 hours without anything to eat and very little to drink. Her blood sugar levels were at a startling 42. She could have lost her life.

I’ve been on the inside as those ER doctors hide beneath their desk, trying to sleep for just 15 minutes; the hospital bustling around them, patients becoming irritable and impatient.  But he’s going on hour 36, and his eyelids are heavy as lead and he can’t concentrate. I’ve been the one to come home after an 18 hour shift and literally fall asleep on my living room floor, still in my scrubs, covered in God only knows what, because I knew I’d never stand a chance at making it to the shower.

I have worked a 15 hour pull, only to turn around and have to be right back less than 6 hours later the next morning. You walk in the door facing the decision of whether to shower, eat, or sleep. Usually sleep will win out, whether you want it to or not. You go back to work, hungry and exhausted and barely showered, just to do it all over again. It is not so glamorous and giggle-worthy when you’re the one doing it.

As healthcare workers, we’re expected to put our lives on hold. We’re responsible for your health and well-being and often times even your life. We’re the ones that save you. We’re the ones that hold your hand as you’re losing your family member. We’re the ones making sure that you’re safe and as comfortable as possible, whether it be a minor car accident or the end of your life. We’re there. We’re invested.

We’re giving you CPR for four hours. We’re making sure your mother dies as peacefully and comfortably as humanly possible. We’re the ones rushing your seven year old daughter in for an emergency appendectomy, or the ones doing 20 hour long surgery on your father’s brain cancer. We are your life line, so to speak.

So why are we being forced to suffer? Why are we worked to death for laughable wages? Why are we being treated like your slave instead of someone whose only concern is to help you?

The healthcare industry has a problem; one that can potentially be deadly. Not only is the health and safety of the employees at risk, yours is too. There’s no possible way for a surgeon to perform competently when he hasn’t slept in 36 hours. It’s impossible for your ER physician to treat you properly when his hands are shaking and his vision is blurry because he hasn’t been able to eat in 18 hours. It’s not always the doctor or nurse’s fault, but your care and health may be in jeopardy.

We all scream that our healthcare team works for us and they should put our care as their top-most priority no matter how much time it takes. Then we’re angry and suing when something goes wrong as a direct result of their treatment and work environment. I don’t blame them for suing. If a sponge were left in me after surgery I’d be fighting mad too. But when do we take a step back and realize where we should lay the blame? Could you work under the conditions they do? Should anybody have to?

These people are busting their asses for you. Everyone seems to think that a career in healthcare is a get rich quick scheme. The truth is, most of us are coming home to shitty apartments, with student loan bills covering our table. In most small towns, like where I worked, we’re getting paid half of the average wages for the same job, and working double the time because our healthcare system is too cheap to hire any more hands than what’s absolutely necessary. We’re losing time with our families, and our health, both physical and mental, is in shambles more often than not. All so we can take care of you.

Being a nurse or even a doctor isn’t about the money. If it were, there wouldn’t be any. It’s about dedication, and a betterment of the greater good. We hold your hand as your four year old son slips away from leukemia, and we come home and slide our backs down our closed front door, and cry and punch the floor until we can’t fucking breathe. We rejoice with you when you finally receive that cancer free bill of health. We take you home with us every night. Our heads and hearts are full of you, no matter where we are. We miss our children and our family, and we miss Christmas and birthdays, all in an effort to do our best for you. We deserve a decent standard of living. We deserve a fucking break.

Healthcare as a whole needs to be turned upside down and have the hell shaken out of it. Better laws need to be in place to ensure that those who are taking care of you are allowed to take care of themselves. We need to eat. We need to sleep. We need a better solution to this cheapskate, money hungry industry before someone else loses their goddamn life. We need to make sure that Brandon Rogers didn’t die in vain. We need a change.

 

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Andrea is a freelance writer based out of Kentucky. She is the mother to a 3 year old little girl and step-mother to a 6 year old boy. She’s been married to her husband and best friend for 5 years. She enjoys fishing, camping, hiking and the occasional glass of wine by a bonfire.

I’m young. Twenty-three to be exact. And I’m white, skinny, and even confident enough to go so far as to say that I’m cute. I’m married with a kid. I have a good job doing something I love, and all with the extra perk of being able to do it from my comfy home. I make decent money. We’re not rich, by any means, but we’re certainly comfortable; definitely not left needing for anything, and usually not wanting for much.

I live in a safe town with very little crime, in a decent apartment that may not be my favorite, but definitely surpasses a lot of other options. My child is well behaved and happy. We’re all generally healthy with the exception of the occasional colds, some allergies, and asthma in my daughter. I have a lot to be grateful and happy about. Yet, I also struggle with anxiety and depression every day of my life.

Evidently, according to some friends and family, as well as several medical professionals, based on my circumstances in life I just don’t have a right to be depressed. I have it too good in life. My life is not exploding in front of my face. I’m not completely broke and jobless. I’m not a single mother and I “don’t have a lot to worry about.” This is bullshit.

I remember sitting on the exam table in my doctor’s office, tears streaming down my face as I tried to tell her how miserable I was. I couldn’t sleep. I was having trouble eating and concentrating and all of this was causing a serious rift in my household. I was lashing out at my husband, and while I’ve always taken good care of my daughter, I wasn’t showing her the attention and support that I felt I should be.

I was doing just what I had to do to get by. I had stopped getting on the floor to color with her, or playing dress up and dolls. It’s not that I didn’t want to, because I so desperately wanted to. I just couldn’t. It was taking every ounce of everything in me just to get through the day. I spent as much time as I could get away with lying in my bed. Yet, I could never sleep.

My house went to shit because I couldn’t get up and clean it. I don’t mean that I didn’t want to. No one ever wants to clean house. I mean I couldn’t. I mean, the moment I thought about all of the things I needed to do, I felt my chest caving in. My legs wouldn’t cooperate to drag my ass out of bed and accomplish anything. I wanted my house clean. I wanted to play with my kid. I wanted to be happy. But I couldn’t.

It took everything I had to haul my ass to the doctor and confess this to her. I knew what the problem was, because I’d struggled with it most of my life. But that didn’t lessen the embarrassment. That didn’t take away that sinking feeling of inadequacy. It didn’t change the nagging voice in the back of my head saying that I was a shitty mother. Just because I knew the problem, I recognized that end-all feeling, it didn’t make it any easier to sit in front of another human being and confess what I felt were my downfalls: to admit defeat and ask for help. No matter how long I’ve battled depression, that never gets any easier.

So I sat on that table and between the sobs, laid everything out as quickly as I could, resisting the urge to run like hell. I expected her to do what the other doctors had done when I was a child and teenager; set me up with some therapy, send me home with a prescription for anti-depressants and a follow-up appointment in two weeks. Instead, she looked at me and said, “Andrea, I don’t understand why you’re having this problem.” I glared back at her with the stupidest, most confused expression on my face. What the fuck does she mean, she doesn’t understand? How in the hell can she not understand? My records show that this has been a life-long struggle for me. I’ve relapsed, so to speak. I have depression, and it’s running me into the damn ground. What is there to not understand?

She proceeded to lay out for me everything I just laid out for you. I was young. I was white and married. I was thin and pretty. I had a nice place to live and a good job and a happy, healthy kid. Yes, my childhood was shitty at best, and she knew that. Yes, I lost my father to suicide after a long, harrowing battle with depression and addiction. But all of that was over now. I had a good life. What did I have to be depressed out?

Instead of leaving the office with a treatment plan, I left and was told to get some sunshine and exercise; try some yoga and calm breathing. This would all pass soon. No medication. No therapy. No treatment plan. According to her, I was being a selfish crybaby, because so many people out there have it so much worse than I do.

I went through this with two more doctors before I finally found someone that would take me seriously. Someone who finally treated me rather than scoff at me and tell me I needed to suck it up. Someone who listened and absorbed what I had to say and tried to help me. It took four months. Four extra, unnecessary months of misery and bullshit, and all because I was too pretty to be upset.

Now you’re damn right, there are millions of people on this earth that have it “worse” than I do. There are people starving to death. There are people that have no home, that are suffering abuse. There are people that have lost their jobs or their children. There is always someone out there who has it worse. That doesn’t matter. Because depression gives zero fucks where you’re at in life. Depression doesn’t care where you live or how much money you have in the bank. Depression doesn’t give a damn if you’re skinny and pretty. Depression does not discriminate. It creeps in like a parasite and feeds off of your happiness until you have nothing left to give. It crawls through the folds of your brain and leaves behind a broken self-worth; a shell of the person that once was. No matter how much you have in life, it convinces you that you don’t deserve it. Depression doesn’t care what you have or don’t have. It will take you for what you’re worth, without prejudice.

So what is depression supposed to look like? What are the standards of depression? Just how shitty does your life have to look before you’re allowed to have this disease? At what level of shambles do people start to take you seriously?

Depression is a disease. It is a disease the same way that cancer is a disease. And without proper treatment, it can kill you just the same. No one would ever look at you and say, “You’re too pretty to have cancer. You have too much money and your home is too nice. People like you don’t get cancer.” So why does depression get its own special set of requirements?

Mental illness already has this huge stigma around it as it is. Approximately 121 Americans commit suicide every day. That’s one person roughly every 11 minutes. Someone takes their own life every ten fucking minutes in this country and we have medical professionals out here telling people that they’re too fucking pretty to be depressed.

If we ever want to get past this stigma, we have to stop pretending that depression is some kind of dirty issue that can be solved with a better attitude and a walk through the park. We have to stop pretending like there are standards and qualifications for being depressed. We have to get rid of the mentality that depression doesn’t strike the pretty folks. We have to understand that depression doesn’t have a “look.” It strikes the best and the worst of people. It’s strong and it’s deadly. Depression and mental illness is killing almost 50,000 people, just in America, every year. And it doesn’t give a damn if they’re pretty or not.

If you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts please call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255 or seek immediate emergency medical attention.

 

 

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Andrea is a freelance writer based out of Kentucky. She is the mother to a 3 year old little girl and step-mother to a 6 year old boy. She’s been married to her husband and best friend for 5 years. She enjoys fishing, camping, hiking and the occasional glass of wine by a bonfire.

 

Snowflakes. That’s what they call us now. In any given day, with just a quick browse through social media, someone has been referred to as a snowflake at least a dozen times. And that’s just at a glance. So, what is a snowflake exactly?

According to the dictionary, it’s a “flake of snow, especially a feathery ice crystal, displaying six fold symmetry.” As an insult it is supposed to “encompass not just the young but liberals of all ages; it became the epithet of choice for right-wingers to fling at anyone who could be accused of being too easily offended, too in need of  “safe spaces,” too fragile.” In their opinion, we’re weak, whiny, and useless. But to someone like me, being a snowflake means so much more.

Being a snowflake means that you’re standing up against the utter uproar of a shit storm that is our country and our politics these days. Being a snowflake means you want nothing more than to see EVERY human being in this country and on this earth have the same basic human rights as everyone else. It means you’re getting really fucking tired of watching the news, only to see people shot and killed for the color of their skin.

You’re beyond over watching your friends fight tooth and nail, just to marry the person they love, and then someone arbitrarily telling them that their love is not the same or as valuable as the rest of ours just because they happen to have been born with the same genitalia. You’re sick of having to fight for rights to your own body simply because you’re a woman.

Your opinions don’t matter, your body doesn’t matter, and you’re not even worthy of an equal wage. You’re tired of walking down the street at dark, terrified, because someone thinks they’re more entitled to your body, your very skin, than you are.

As a snowflake your heart aches for the thousands that are facing losing their healthcare with nothing to replace it. Your stomach is sick at the thought of all the refugees with nowhere to go, their children confused and scared, fleeing a country that we’re shooting missiles at. And you’re damn right we’re fucking fed up with drowning in student debt, only to work unpaid internships and laughable minimum wage jobs; trying to keep our heads above water in this economy that the “not-millennials” so kindly threw down the fucking toilet for us.

We’re the ones participating in women’s marches across the country. We’re the ones celebrating pride month with parades, and wearing out that Facebook pride reaction for as long as we can. We’re the ones building and shaping our children to love and respect human beings—  ALL human beings. We’re raising our children to be warriors for those who need a voice. We’re fund-raising for Planned Parenthood and protesting the bullshit at every given opportunity. We’re raising our voices when we see our “president” committing treason in broad daylight, only to have it brushed under the rug and defended with some sort of ridiculous excuse.

We’re throwing a fit when we see that his inept, unqualified daughter is sitting in for him at the G20 summit meeting; something that the Republicans would have crucified Obama for if he had done it. We’re tired of watching our “president” play golf. We’re gathering at airports, and clinics and government buildings, and in the damn streets if we have to, because we’re pissed. We’re tired, we’re fed up, and we’re fucking angry.

Now, insults are going to happen. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been called a “libtard” or a “lazy millennial.” I’ve been called a redneck and a hick. I’ve been called worse than that more than once. I don’t take it to heart anymore. And while snowflake never really offended me on a personal level any more so than all the others did, I have to say it did stump me a bit. I had to wonder— have these people ever spent much time around snow before? Because I have.

Kentucky is a strange state when it comes to our weather. We like to say that we get the best of both worlds. We’re far enough south that our summers are sweltering at times, but our winters can be mean with snow and ice for months. Snow and ice that knocks out power and shuts down all the major roadways. Snow that has people running to the store in a panic to buy milk, bread, and eggs. Snow that shuts down schools and businesses for days or even weeks at a time. Snow that has you hiding in your house, afraid or even unable to go out, hoping that it ends soon, because you’re running out of food and heat. Snow that all started with a few snowflakes falling from the sky.

So, if snowflake is the new insult these days, I’ll take that. I’ll be a snowflake, and I’ll be a proud one. Because one snowflake, all on its own, is fairly powerless. It can give its best shot, but once it hits the warm pavement all alone, it’s doomed to melt. But have you ever seen what hundreds of thousands of snowflakes can do together? You get a fucking snowstorm.

 

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Andrea is a freelance writer based out of Kentucky. She is the mother to a 3 year old little girl and step-mother to a 6 year old boy. She’s been married to her husband and best friend for 5 years. She enjoys fishing, camping, hiking and the occasional glass of wine by a bonfire.

 

If you’re anything like me and most of the rest of the world, you keep up with the news on a regular basis. If you have a phone, are on social media, or own a TV, it’s hard to miss. So you may have seen a few headlines in regards to Trump’s new pick for healthcare advisor, Katy Talento.

At first glance, Katy Talento seems promising. She holds a Master’s in Science from Harvard University, and has spent a lot of time in the field in the US and Africa working on disease control programs. She volunteers at the Leadership Institute as a faculty member and previously worked as senate staff for Senator Thom Tillis and the Health, Education, Labors and Pensions Committee. She sounds like a ray of hope in the dreary days of Trump, right? Someone that may have a bit of common sense. Wrong.

However hopeful we may have been, this woman is just as nutty as the rest of them. Talento fought to have HIV/AIDS funding cut by millions because she is under the belief that the funds are being used to profit Russian prostitution rings. As far back as 2003, during her time on the Senate health committee, she was part of a group pushing to defund and blacklist more than 150 HIV/AIDS research grants; grants that were set to be used for anything ranging from educational programs to transmission rate studies among sex workers and IV drug users.

If passed, this would have shut off over $100 million in grant funds. This group claimed that the funds were being used to promote legalized prostitution and to print materials that would be distributed to schools, orphanages, and institutes to encourage young girls to pursue prostitution as a viable career choice.

This uproar forced Russian officials to spend months researching grants and funding, and produce tons of paperwork to disprove the bogus claim. The truth was that the grants were being used exactly the way they were supposed to be; funding educational programs, studying infection and transmission rates, and developing curriculum used to teach young people ways to avoid contracting the diseases.

The bill was blocked, but not without a serious shaking to the science community. They were left feeling as though their research, hard work, and dedication would be overshadowed by senseless investigations to push them into a right-winged agenda.

The scientific community are not the only toes that Talento has stepped on. She’s also ruffled the feathers of women’s healthcare groups by stating, on more than one occasion, that oral contraceptives cause abortions—even though this has been thoroughly research and has been found to be completely untrue. As if women as a whole aren’t already facing serious disturbances in their access to affordable and effective birth control, we now have to deal with a pro-life, right-winged health advisor that swears up and down that birth control kills babies. Not that they care at all what happens to that baby after you give birth to it. Don’t ask for healthcare, food, or assistance for that kid, because it’s not their problem. But you damn well better give birth to it anyway. But that’s another story for another day.

The fact of the matter is, the women’s healthcare community is up against enough as it is. We’re looking at losing basic rights to our own bodies and losing access to affordable basic care. The last thing we need is a woman pushing a right-wing agenda down our throats, because she doesn’t understand how science works.

If all of the above isn’t enough to make you shiver yet, this is the same woman who has pushed less than effective recommendations for avoiding the Zika virus. Zika is a mosquito borne virus that is transmitted through a mosquito bite or sexual contact with an infected individual. For a generally healthy adult it will cause flu-like symptoms, such as fever, headache, and joint pain, but is mostly harmless. However, if contracted by a pregnant woman, it poses a serious risk for birth defects in the unborn child, including microcephaly, severe brain defects, and an increased risk of Guillain-Barr Syndrome.

This past January, Talento published a list of recommendations to help avoid contracting the growing disease. A lot of her tips are standard, such as avoiding travel to high risk areas and using bug repellents. But she also suggested that women sleep with their husbands, with the woman snug tight under the blankets and the husband sleeping on top of the covers so that the infected mosquitos will hopefully go for the “easier target.”

Basically, you’re supposed to cocoon yourself under tons of blankets while your husband lies uncovered and offers himself up as some kind of human mosquito sacrifice. There’s no mention of what you’re supposed to do with your vulnerable, uncovered face (because you HAVE to breathe), what to do if you don’t have a husband to offer as a sacrifice, or the fact that Zika is sexually transmitted. She also doesn’t say what you’re supposed to do to avoid transmission once your husband has succumbed to the Zika mosquito gods.

Healthcare is in the middle of facing a serious shit-storm. Millions of people are facing the loss of their healthcare and access to life-saving treatments. A slew of ridiculous crap is about to be considered “pre-existing” conditions, and funding cuts are being proposed left and right. To say the least, a lot of people are already on edge. The very last thing we need is a healthcare advisor spouting inaccurate bullshit at every corner. Unfortunately, education doesn’t always fix stupid.

 

 

 

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Andrea is a freelance writer based out of Kentucky. She is the mother to a 3 year old little girl and step-mother to a 6 year old boy. She’s been married to her husband and best friend for 5 years. She enjoys fishing, camping, hiking and the occasional glass of wine by a bonfire.

Everyone knows that the south is pretty much synonymous with the Republican Party. Most folks south of the Mason Dixon are proud supporters of God, guns, and Donald Trump. Racism is still rampant, and LGBTQ rights are something no one wants to talk about. People hold tight to their rifles and their “freedom.”

The southern states have pretty much voted Republican since the late 1960’s, and virtually everywhere south of Indiana voted for Trump. The same Trump that’s determined to cut funding for everything from Medicaid and food stamps to Meals on Wheels. To say the least, southerners hold tight to their Republican beliefs. They holler and fuss about folks “working the system,” and bitch and moan about their tax dollars going to Medicaid. Yet, these are the same people that rely the most on assistance.

[Read more…]

I come from a small town in Kentucky, and in a lot of ways I fit the stereotype of a typical Kentuckian. I love to fish, camp, and ride through the mud on a 4-wheeler. I’m also a force to be reckoned with in an old, fast car. I like bonfires and love beer, and at least a quarter of my wardrobe is camo. I’m far more comfortable in coveralls and Muck boots than I’ll ever be in a pair of heels. I’m also a liberal.

I’ve never really had the urge to up and move away. The south is my home, and for many reasons I love it here. It’s beautiful and quiet and can be a great place to find peace. My family is here and you just can’t find this type of close-knit community in a big city. I live for a warm Kentucky summer. Saturday nights at the drag strip is where my heart belongs. I grew up like most kids around here. Surrounded by farms and taught the value of hard work.

I don’t have a big, spectacular story about how I came to be a liberal. No epiphany, no awe-inspiring moments, no sudden trauma that made me realize the error of my ways. I’ve always been like this. Even before I understood politics I knew that I wasn’t like most people around here. At 12 years old my opinions were starkly different than those around me.

For most of my childhood I was raised in the Baptist church. I would sit and listen to the conversations as the congregation would disperse and wonder what brought these people to think this way. I was often surprised at the hatefulness they harbored. I knew that I never wanted to be that way. It wasn’t even a decision for me; it was far simpler than that. The liberal way of life was the only thing that ever made sense to me. The rest is history.

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Generally speaking, we think of poor people as unhappy. Isn’t it natural that poverty coincides with a lesser quality of life? How can you be happy and lead a fulfilled life if you’re not even certain you can pay your rent this month?

The truth is, 14.5% of all Americans are living below the poverty level. I’m just not convinced that all 45 million of those people are living an unhappy life.

I have personally lived below the poverty level. And I did so with two children. We were BROKE. Not like, glamorously broke – where you have all your bills paid comfortably but you don’t have vacation money. I mean broke broke. Broke as in, we lived in Section 8 housing, drew food stamps and Medicaid, and still didn’t know how we were going to make it from month to month. It didn’t last forever. And we always did manage to make it somehow, but it was certainly one of the “lowest” points of my life.

Obviously, I worried a lot, and I can certainly say my stress level was much higher than it is now. But I wouldn’t say that I was ever truly unhappy. I knew this was a temporary moment in our lives, and I knew that we were working towards a better situation. It would take some time, but while my situation was less than ideal, there was always someone who had it worse. So, instead of being angry at the world for the crap cards I was handed, I was thankful for the things I did have and did what I could to improve things.

While we couldn’t afford a vacation or even a trip to the zoo at the time, I still made sure that my kiddos had the best quality of life I could give them. We couldn’t afford the expensive childrens museum a few towns over, but I still filled their days with fun and a touch of education. We would take walks to the park in town. Instead of going out and buying ice cream, we would make our own in my grandma’s old hand cranked machine. (They had more fun that way anyway.)

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The usual stereotype goes; if you live in the south, you’re a racist. If you happen to spend your days in a South Atlantic state, then it’s automatically assumed that you love rebel flags, the KKK, and Donald Trump. If you don’t love these things, why are you here? How could a person possibly be proud of where they come from if where they come from is known for racism and hate group sightings? Why not pack your bags and move to Cali, where there’s a liberal on every corner and the population as a whole is “enlightened”?

I am from the south and I’m proud of it. Now, before you grab your pitch forks and torches, give me a chance. There’s a difference between southern heritage and confederate heritage. I’ll say it again for those in the back; southern pride and confederate pride are not the same thing.

I’m proud of where I come from. The south is a beautiful place, full of blooming wildflower fields and cool creeks to dip your toes in through the hot summer. I’ve spent more days than I can count, snapping green beans on my mamaw’s back porch. And believe me, I’ve seen my fair share of tobacco fields.

I was raised to understand the value of hard work, and was taught at a very young age that you only get out of life what you put into it. You want something? Work for it. I live within 15 minutes of virtually all of my close family. My child has the opportunity to grow up much the same way I did; close to those that love her and learning the worth of what she has around her.

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