Shithole President.

This week my friend and I attended a lecture at the local community college entitled “Concerning Democracy: How Systemic Bias in Services Strengthens White Nationalism.” The general description of the event went as follows:

This event will explore how the systems that we
rely on (including healthcare) create the
inequalities that we see every day as well as what
we can do locally to address this. We will explore
the exclusionary history of our state while looking
at the systems that dictate all of our lives.

Before the lecture began, however, the speaker—Eric K. Ward—had each table participate in an exercise. We were to go around in a circle (there were seven of us at my table) and take turns sharing our experience of discrimination; when we were discriminated against, when we witnessed discrimination, or when we ourselves discriminated against someone. While each person shared, we were not allowed to make any comments or have any reaction of any kind. We were merely supposed to listen. Silently.

Whenever I’m put in a situation like this and I’m forced to come up with a story, my mind usually wanders to the misogynistic comments I’ve experienced just from being a woman. The homophobic/biphobic slurs or microaggressions I’ve experienced as a queer woman. But for some reason, this time felt different.

As soon as I walked into the room that night I could tell this was going to be a time where I needed to allow myself to feel uncomfortable. To acknowledge my own shortcomings in terms of subconscious racial biases, and how I’ve largely benefited from a system of white supremacy simply by existing as a white person. It was not my time to be the center of attention.

I spoke second to my friend, and the story she told only solidified my earlier thoughts. She told a story about how as a child she had been given a gift from someone of a different race, took it home to her parents, only to be told that she needed to give it back because “we [the white people] don’t interact with them [the non-white person, the ‘other’].” As a small child she had not only witnessed blatant discrimination but, through no fault of her own, was also a participant.

I knew I had to tell a story I’d never told anyone before; and because of certain comments that were made today, I know I need to tell it to you.

In the summer of 2012 I worked driving combine for a wheatgrass farmer just north of my hometown. What I’ve realized having lived out of state for 5+ years is that a lot of people don’t realize that Oregon is not actually the progressive haven the media makes it out to be. Sure, Eugene and Portland are pretty much the hippie/hipster capitals of the world, but if I could explain Oregon’s dynamic in ten words or less, it would be as such: hippies/hipsters, and people who hate hippies/hipsters. Much of the state is rural conservative, so much so that you might as well be in the Deep South.

That being said, the community I worked for that summer easily fell into the “people who hate hippies/hipsters” category. But I knew that going in. I had “interviewed” for the position in my boss’s living room a few months prior, and as soon as I’d driven up to the house the first thing I saw was a Tea Party flag waving proudly just below the American flag. I walked into the living room and Fox News was flashing proudly on the television in the background. I knew right away I was coming into an environment of people who possessed opinions very different from my own; still, it was 2012 and I had yet to learn the more complex issues of race and politics. To me, you either agreed or disagreed on issues, and that didn’t necessarily make you a bad person. A very black and white point of view, if you will.

About halfway through the summer we combine drivers and a supervisor (our boss’s second-in-command) were taking a break, hanging out in the barn with our boss’s two English bulldogs. I was the only woman in the group, but all of us were white. When it came time to get back to work we needed to get the dogs back into the barn, but one of them did not want to follow directions. We tried for a while to get him to stay still, with no avail. That was when I heard it, straight from the mouth of my supervisor:

“He must be a n****r dog. He doesn’t listen to anybody.”

I froze, as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. I may not have learned all the complexities of race relations in the United States by that point in my life, but I knew enough to understand that you were never to use that word. Ever. Disgusting people used that word. Evil people used that word.

Supervisors did not use that word. Until they did.

I waited for the room to fall silent in shock, just as I had. Either that or become so outraged we risked a mutiny.

Neither of those scenarios happened.

Instead, everyone laughed along with him. Tossed it aside as if all the history, power, and violence behind that word were nothing compared to the 21st century white [male] privilege. I felt nauseous. I had never in my life heard someone use that word so casually, right in front of me, assuming I wouldn’t care. I felt sick that someone could look at me and assume that I would be okay with language like that.

Yet at the same time, I was scared. I felt words bubbling in the back of my throat:

“Do not ever say that word around me, or ever again!”

“If you use that word again I will walk out of here and be done.”

“Do you not understand how offensive your language is!?”

But I couldn’t say any of them. These men were bigger than me. They had power over me. And they all thought alike. And our boss had a temper. What would happen to me if I opened my mouth, and he found out? Intellectually I could hold my own, but physically, emotionally? I had nothing.

So I said nothing.

To this day I hold that regret. I chose my own comfort and security over confronting the racism and oppressive behaviors in my own backyard. I stood there and let them laugh, and let them assume I condoned it. The fact that there were no black people in the vicinity was neither here nor there; what mattered was that at the end of the day, because I chose to stay silent, that man went to bed at night believing he had an unquestionable right to use that racial slur, and with no consequence.

What mattered was that for all I knew, that man could live days, months, and years still believing that that language was okay. He could teach his friends that that language was okay. His church. His children. His words would spread like wildfire.

Then think about how many other people are out there in this country who think like him; who have never been held accountable. How many people are they influencing? And how many persons of color’s lives would be affected in real, tangible ways?

I had an opportunity to take a stand. To put a stop to injustice—no matter how small—and I made the choice not to.

So where am I going with this, you may ask?

On January 11, 2018 our so-called “President” went on national television and—Hold up. I know what you’re thinking; “I’ve heard this sentence-starter before!”—referred to places such as Haiti, El Salvador, and countries within Africa as “shithole countries,” and then suggested that the United States should “bring in” more people from countries like Norway (aka. more white people).

Setting aside the question of why the fucking hell would Norwegians want to move here when they already have universal healthcare, a living wage, and one-year guaranteed maternity leave, this statement is despicable.

Our so-called “President” is despicable.

We’ve all known Donald Trump is a racist, that much has been clear forever, let alone the past two years he’s been in the political spotlight. He has attempted to ban Muslims. He has called Mexicans rapists. The list goes on.

But I think this particular incident stands out to me so much because it was just hours ago I was sharing publicly—for the first time—that I had witnessed racial discrimination firsthand and done nothing. For years I hadn’t wanted to face the guilt head-on; I didn’t want to risk telling that story and having someone tell me how awful I was. How I wrong I was. How complicit I was.

Because look at where we are now, fellow white people. Being complicit in racism—or any -ism for that matter—is how it all begins. No matter how unintentional, I had given that supervisor the power this country has been feeding Donald Trump through an IV-bag for decades.

I don’t want to live in a world where rich and powerful white men can run off at the mouth with oppressive, hateful language and suffer no consequences.

So we, fellow white people, need to speak up. Right now.

Black lives matter more than your feelings.


Sending big waves into motion.

Exactly one year ago tonight I attended an Election Night watch party at a family friend’s house, and exactly one year ago from this very moment I was in the car, driving home in fear and absolute shock, unable to stay long enough to witness the result I so dreaded come to life.

The Electoral College numbers weren’t looking good. Nothing was making sense. Down was up, and up was down. We were supposed to be drinking champagne and crying while watching the first female president of these United States give her victory speech. Just the thought of what could have been brings me to tears, even while writing this.

Instead, the Presidency was stolen from Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Hillary Rodham Clinton who—despite rampant sexism and a smear campaign by Republicans and the far-left alike, and Russian email and data hacking—STILL won the popular vote by three million.

As I drove home that night, I felt numb. About an hour earlier, as the numbers began to look worse and worse, I left the group to call my best friend, feeling a panic attack building in my chest. I stepped outside into the chilly November air—ironically the Hillary-inspired pantsuit I had been wearing did little to keep me warm and comfortable—my fingers shaky as I typed her name into my contact list, and as soon as she picked up I burst into tears.

“I’m scared,” I cried. For my former students in LA, many of whom were undocumented and/or came from immigrant families. For my four-year-old nephew (and now niece who was just born last week), who had to wake up the next morning and learn that the voice of hatred had “won.” For our Muslim community. For my own LGBT+ community. For women everywhere. For Planned Parenthood. For everyone fighting for universal healthcare—hell, even just for Obamacare to survive. For everyone fighting for gun control. For everyone fighting for…anything worthwhile.

I knew how scared I was, but I couldn’t bear the thought of how scared the majority of our country felt. After all, I am a middle class feminine white woman. If this administration were going to harm me, they would have to harm a lot more people along the way. And that’s not fucking okay with me. It never will be.

I felt the weight of all the hurt that was happening—and would inevitably get worse—around me, and just wanted to collapse under its pressure.

When I got home shortly after 9:00pm, I immediately changed into my pajamas and buried myself under the covers of my bed, putting my phone on silent and vowing to ignore it for as long as possible. My parents had opted to stay at the party, so it was just my dog and me. I remember shortly after 11:00pm my mom coming into my dark bedroom and placing her hand on my back; I began to cry again. She tried to console me: “don’t worry. They haven’t called anything yet.”

I fell back into a fitful sleep, filled with stress dream after stress dream, and after each one I would wake up just enough to tell myself that I hadn’t officially checked the news, so no one had officially “won.” Still, my heart knew.

The following morning I awoke to a series of texts:

“Hopefully it’ll be a quick four years.”

“Don’t listen to _______ on Facebook.”

“I can’t believe it.”

From my German friend in Germany, at around 5:00am her time:

“I won’t give up hope! What the hell is happening over there???”

And finally:

“Are you okay?”

No, I wasn’t. I’m not. None of us should be, because none of this was normal. None of this made sense. How could someone who went on national television and openly mocked a disabled reporter, called Mexicans rapists, and bragged about sexually assaulting women suddenly be President of the United States? Such a stark contrast to the hope we had all felt eight years ago, and then again as 16-year-old me witnessed thousands of people cry tears of joy at Obama’s first inauguration.

Thankfully at that point in my life I had been working freelance, so I didn’t have to leave the house the next day. I opted to stay in my pajamas well into the afternoon, crying off and on all day. From Hillary’s speech that morning, to the afternoon when I had called my German friend on FaceTime to vent.

Hillary. God damn it. That woman. Just the sheer thought of how much pain she must have been in took my breath away. It still does. No matter how many times she told us that all of our phone calls, all of our canvassing, our begging and pleading for our friends and family to see reason, all of it mattered; at that point, it felt like it amounted to nothing. She did not fail us, we had failed her.

I’m sure this doesn’t come as a surprise, but I lost both friends and family after the 2016 election. People I had once been close to, I didn’t speak to for over six months. Old church friends deleted me from Facebook and blocked me on Twitter in the blink of an eye. A mother-figure who had been there for me during one of the darkest times of my life, whose warm smile I can still remember from backstage as I stood in the pool at church, waiting to be baptized; learning of her vote felt like a literal stab to the chest. “I will always vote for the pro-life candidate,” she told me. Excuse me, the PRO-LIFE???? How in the FUCK is this candidate or his snake of a VP PRO-LIFE???? How is cutting food stamps pro-life? Gutting healthcare for children? I identify as pro-life, and none of those things make sense to me. How could you claim to love me in all my queer glory, and cast your vote for someone who openly believed in electrocuting me straight? That to me is equivalent to looking me in the eye and saying “I don’t love you anymore.” A break up, if you will.

And then there’s the fact that no amount of love can even convince your family, your own flesh and blood, to cast their votes with care, or cast their votes at all. I mentioned this in a previous blog about the recent Las Vegas shooting—you cannot make anyone care about you. In the past, I didn’t take people’s vote, or lack thereof, personally—after all, I’ve voted Republican before—but this time, I did. I still do.

Because this wasn’t Democrat vs. Republican, this was humanity, love, and decency (also a motherflying SCOTUS seat!!!!) vs. racism, bigotry, xenophobia, islamophobia, and more. Personally, regardless of who the candidate was, I would 110 percent rather have a president in office I could push further left, than a president who is literally trying to undo everything I hold dear. Even if Hillary Clinton “wasn’t your favorite,” this was the time to hold your nose and fucking vote anyway. Still today the “there’s just something about her” argument makes me want to vomit.

You do know the “just something about her” point of view is rooted in right-wing lies and misogyny and bullshit, right? Well, if you didn’t, you do now. Don’t say no one ever told you.

Tonight was another Election Night. Small, but significant. Reading that the Democrats had pretty much swept Virginia and flipped New Jersey blue gave me the hope that I had so desperately needed a year ago. In Virginia, a transgender woman unseated a House Delegate who had previously authored a transphobic bathroom bill. A Democratic Socialist unseated the GOP House Majority Whip. The biggest issue for Virginia voters today was healthcare and guns, and they voted against the NRA-backed candidate and WON.

For the first time in a year, I am close to hoping that we can one day take our country back. From Trump, from Russia, from racism, bigotry, hatred, and more. And this is largely why I was able to write this post tonight.

Sometimes I think about how partisan our country has become—how partisan I’ve become—and still feel disheartened. Even if my candidate wins, or if love wins, or if progressive values win, or whatever, there are still people out there who hate us. Who feed off of fear and ignorance and brag about misinformation.

So what do we do to change that?

Earlier this year I joined a local resistance group called Indivisible. Non-partisan. Fighting Trump with everything we have. Despite wishing we could turn back the clock and do November 8, 2016 over again, I am so damn grateful for Indivisible. At this point it’s difficult to imagine my life without my resistance buddies.

Still, this past year has been fucking exhausting, infuriating, and debilitating. I for one know we can’t continue this way. I’m tired of being angry, I’m tired of feeling cheated, and heartbroken. So I hope that wherever Hillary is tonight she can go to sleep knowing that her message is the true message of America. And in a way, Bernie Sanders too.

We really are Stronger Together.




Thoughts and prayers.

“Since 1970 more Americans have died from guns than all the Americans who died in all the wars in American history.”

It makes me just as sick to see the countless “thoughts and prayers” immediately after a tragedy, as it does to think about the countless tragedies that happen in the United States every day because of guns.

We send “thoughts and prayers” in new directions every day, but rarely do they result in actions being done to prevent the tragedy at hand. Gun violence, hurricanes, earthquakes, health crises…the list goes on.

At 25 years old, there have been over a handful of “worst mass shootings in United States history” in my lifetime.


Virginia Tech.


Sandy Hook.


Las Vegas.

And because I’m from Oregon I won’t forget to list the 2015 shooting at Umpqua Community College, which killed nine people.

Frankly, I have had enough. I am tired. I am angry. I am confused.

And I am at a loss of what to do.

Clearly I am not in any position to dictate policy since I’m not in public office, calling my senators and congressman only gets me so far because I’m lucky enough to live in a place where they already agree with me, and fighting with people on the internet…well, I think you can finish that sentence for yourself. So right now I have chosen to shout into the void. Fight with me if you want. Call me an idiot libtard snowflake. Once you’ve lost friends and family and had to adjust your life significantly after an election result, or let’s be honest once you hit a certain number of Twitter followers, you stop caring about that shit anymore.

Honestly, getting called names doesn’t hurt half as much as the fact that these kinds of tragedies prove, without a shadow of a doubt, that you cannot make anyone care about you. Your humanity. What makes you special. Why you are worthy of love. You cannot force anyone to understand empathy.

2016’s PULSE Nightclub massacre in Orlando was particularly heartbreaking for me in that it was around the time I was toying with the idea of being more open with my bisexuality. Maybe it’s because I was living in the progressive haven that is Los Angeles. Maybe it was because our political climate hadn’t completely exploded yet. I don’t know. But as soon as I woke up one Sunday morning to the news that nearly 50 queer people had been killed–intentionally targeted–at a gay club the night before, I swan dived right back into the closet.

I was faced head on with the notion that there were people out there who wanted me dead just for being me. And not just me, hundreds of thousands of others. I began to notice people’s covert homophobia emerging as they sent out “thoughts and prayers” to the victims, then turned around and voted for political candidates who wanted to undo every LGBT+ right we’ve ever been given, then turned around again to tell me they loved me.

I had no idea who to trust, and I felt powerless, because no matter how many times I stood in front of someone (either literally or figuratively online) and screamed: THIS IS ME. I AM QUEER AS THE DAY IS LONG. THIS ATTACK WAS AGAINST PEOPLE LIKE ME. PEOPLE MORE MARGINALIZED THAN ME. THIS IS US. DO SOMETHING TO HELP US. LOVE US ENOUGH TO HELP US. WE MATTER TOO.

…here we are.

You cannot make anyone care about you. Or at least, understand how their political actions affect people like you, and and ultimately prove at a higher, more indirect level how much they care about you.

I wish that a human life could matter more the millions of dollars given to politicians by the National Rifle Association. I wish I could understand, even at the most minuscule of levels, how people can cling to their guns even harder after a tragedy like this, meanwhile I’d just assume throw mine into the depths of Mount Doom. How am I supposed to know that you’re the “good guy with a gun?” After all, isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work? A “good guy with a gun” would have been able to stop all these massacres from happening?

Where is the good guy, and why is he always too late?

In all honesty, I don’t give a flying fuck about your so-called “Second Amendment rights.” I care about human lives. Historically speaking, that amendment was written hundreds of years ago, when guns held one bullet at a time and shot about once every 20 seconds. The only reason that language is even relevant to today is because we allow it to be. The NRA wants to scare you into believing it has to be. If there were ever a politician running for office who called for the complete and total recall of all guns, of all types, I would vote for them in a heartbeat. Will that ever happen? Probably not. Will I abstain from voting entirely because a candidate supports “gun control” rather than the complete and total recall of all guns? No.

There is a lot going on in our country right now that upsets me. Like a grief-anger-fear combo in my chest that never goes away. Guns take the cake, because there is literally no reason this keeps happening other than power, money, and misplaced fear.

And the fact that you cannot make anyone care about you.

I want to end this with a few more things. First, here are a few photos:

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Each of these pictures are from trips to Las Vegas in 2014 and 2015. The top two are from my walks up and down the Strip, playing tourist while my friends slept in, recuperating from a night out. The bottom two are from a Walk the Moon concert at the Las Vegas House of Blues, and then from the Hakkasan Nightclub inside the MGM Grand Hotel.

Each a unique experience.

As a woman, I took precautions before each of those scenarios. Carry my purse over my shoulder and in front of me; stay away from sketchy side-streets; wear nylons under the mini-skirt (although ultimately, that had not stopped the man who decided to grope me against my will); don’t drink too much.

What I never thought about, was the idea that in any of those places, someone would come at me with a firearm, because honestly I have no idea how any of us would have gotten out of that nightclub alive if they did.

Maybe the good guy would have finally showed up. I now consider it by the grace of God that I didn’t have to find out.

Secondly, today, consider donating your money or your time. Here is a link with some suggestions:

Some of these include ways to donate blood, money, crisis counseling, and finally, calling your congressman and encouraging them to fight for some sensible gun control.

You make the choice to turn a blind eye to tragedy just because it doesn’t affect you.

Be better than that, because not all of us are afforded the privilege.



P.S. Please don’t forget about Puerto Rico as well: 

Bisexual Health Awareness Month [aka. love your fellow queers!]

March is Bisexual Health Awareness Month, so I thought I would celebrate by spreading a little bit more bisexual awareness! (Because y’all can never get enough of that, right…?) Right.

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[Instagram: @erinmckenziee]
Coming out is a process that every queer person experiences differently, especially in terms of support. Luckily for me, I don’t have a lot of people in my life who are not 100 percent supportive of me, or who do not value my whole self.

Even still, it’s impossible to go through life as an openly queer person—gay/lesbian, bisexual, transgender, etc.—and not experience, intentionally or not, some form of homophobia, transphobia, or even biphobia. What I’m here to talk more about, because I am a bisexual woman (and therefore can’t speak for lesbian women) and have already shared my coming out story with you, is biphobia, and my experience with various forms of biphobia.

So let’s get started!


First, the definition of bisexuality [via. UC San Diego LGBT Resource Centeris fairly simple:

  • Bisexuality (or the “B” in LGBTQIA) is the capacity for emotional, romantic, and/or physical attraction to more than one gender/sex. A person who identifies as bisexual affirms this complexity and acknowledges a reality beyond the either/or dualities of heterosexism.

But biphobia is a little different:

  • Biphobia is the dislike or prejudice against bisexual people, often due to fear or lack of understanding.

So what does biphobia look like?

Biphobia exists among straight people AND within the LGBT+ community, and can present itself in forms ranging from inappropriate or overly personal questions or comments (otherwise known as “microaggressions**”), to doubting or second-guessing the experience of bisexual people, and even to hurtful or aggressive comments or acts of physical violence against bisexual people.

  • **A microaggression is a subtle but offensive comment or action directed at a minority or other non-dominant group that is often unintentional or unconsciously reinforces a stereotype. [via.]

On a more personal note, I’ve listed below some questions, comments, and statements that have been directed at me since I came out a couple years ago:

“But how do you know…like really know?”

“I don’t trust bisexual people.”

“Wouldn’t your [insert gender] partner be afraid you’d cheat on them with a [insert gender]?”

“Wouldn’t your [insert gender] partner be afraid you’d leave them for a [insert gender]?”

“But if you married a [insert gender] you’d technically be straight/a lesbian.”

“How do you know you’re not just confused?”

“I don’t mind…so long as you’re not in my face about it.”

“I could never date a bi person because I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to satisfy them and they’d leave me for a [insert gender].”

“We’re all sinners.”

“You don’t look bi.”

“But how would you have kids if you marry a woman?”

“No thanks, I choose Jesus.” [said to me after I offered to explain what it means to attend an LGBT+ affirming church]

“So…does that mean you’d want to have a threesome?”

My reaction 99 percent of the time:


More examples of biphobia [via. UC San Diego LGBT Resource Center] include:

  • Assuming that everyone you meet is either heterosexual or homosexual.
  • Supporting and understanding a bisexual identity for young people because you identified “that way” before you came to your “real” lesbian/gay/heterosexual identity.
    Bisexual GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY
  • Expecting a bisexual person to identify as heterosexual when coupled with the “opposite” gender/sex.
  • Believing bisexual men spread HIV/AIDS and other STDs to heterosexuals.
  • Thinking bisexual people haven’t made up their minds.
  • Assuming a bisexual person would want to fill your sexual fantasies or curiosities.
  • Assuming bisexual people would be willing to “pass” as anything other than bisexual.
  • Feeling that bisexual people are too outspoken and pushy about their visibility and rights.tumblr_ndzoyi4ldk1qm3gr4o5_250
  • Automatically assuming romantic couplings of two women are lesbian, or two men are gay, or a man and a woman are heterosexual.
  • Expecting bisexual people to get services, information, and education from heterosexual service agencies for their “heterosexual side” (sic) and then go to gay and/or lesbian service agencies for their “homosexual side” (sic).
  • Feeling bisexual people just want to have their cake and eat it too.
  • Believing that bisexual women spread HIV/AIDS and other STDs to lesbians.
  • Using the terms “phase” or “stage” or “confused” or “fence-sitter” or “bisexual” or “AC/DC” or “switch hitter” as slurs or in an accusatory way.
  • Thinking bisexual people only have committed relationships with “opposite” gender/sex partners.
  • Looking at a bisexual person and automatically thinking of their sexuality rather than seeing them as a whole, complete person.
  • Believing bisexual people are confused about their sexuality.
  • Assuming that bisexual people, if given the choice, would prefer to be within an “opposite” gender/sex coupling to reap the social benefits of a heterosexual pairing.
  • Not confronting a biphobic remark or joke for fear of being identified as bisexual.
  • Assuming “bisexual” means “available.”
  • Thinking that bisexual people will have their rights when lesbian and gay people win theirs.
  • Being gay or lesbian and asking your bisexual friend about their lover only when that lover is the same gender/sex.
  • Feeling that you can’t trust a bisexual person because they aren’t really gay or lesbian, or aren’t really heterosexual.
    Love GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

    Love GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

  • Thinking that people identify as bisexual because it’s “trendy.”
  • Expecting a bisexual person to identify as gay or lesbian when coupled with the “same” gender/sex.
  • Expecting bisexual activists and organizers to minimize bisexual issues (i.e. HIV/AIDS, violence, basic civil rights, fighting the Right, military, same sex marriage, child custody, adoption, etc.) and to prioritize the visibility of “lesbian and/or gay” issues.
  • Avoid messaging to friends that you are involved with a bisexual person or working with a bisexual group because you are afraid they will think you are bisexual.

Anyway! I hope this blog was at least somewhat informative for you all. Especially considering that it’s coming from someone who is in no way an expert. I guess if I could end with a piece—or pieces—of advice, I would say to please just check yourself before making comments or asking queer people questions about their sexuality. For example:

  • Is it your business? (Most likely not, but if a queer person is choosing to engage in or initiated conversation with you about their sexuality then, arguably, it’s probably fine).
  • Is it something you could easily find out through a Google search?
  • Is it judgmental?
  • Are you making an assumption?

Also, please do your best to stand up for your queer brothers and sisters (and non-binary siblings) when you hear biphobic (or trans/homophobic) comments being made. Challenge yourself and your fear of speaking out. Challenge yourself to move away from the mindset that “both sides deserve a platform,” because hate speech and free speech are not the same thing. Trans/bi/homophobic language is dangerous, and can result in physical violence against queer people, and so no, both sides do not deserve a platform. Hate speech does not deserve a platform.

I will say it again: hate speech does not deserve a platform.

I have been lucky in that the majority of comments made toward me, or questions I’ve been asked could be classified as, at worst, microaggressions, especially considering I am also a white “feminine” woman. But I know there are others out there who have not been so lucky, and as humans it is our duty to fight for them, and love them no matter what.

And so, finally, let me just narrow down this entire message:

Go forth and love your fellow queers!


I am rainbow, hear me roar.

Photo by: Dallas Clayton

Six years ago at the start of my freshman year of college I met a girl living a few dorms down from me who identified as “bi-curious.” I had no idea what it meant but I was intrigued.

“It means I’m straight but also interested in women,” she said.

Okay, I thought to myself. At that point in my life I had never dated…anyone. Sure I had crushes on boys throughout middle and high school, but once I hit high school I wasn’t exactly what you would call “dating material.” I was 25+ pounds overweight, hiding my body and my extremely low self-esteem behind baggy clothes and jackets and a “straight-A-student/know-it-all” persona in the classroom. I wasn’t an outcast but I wasn’t really popular either, I was just kind of there.

Needless to say, no one was really knocking down my door.

For my entire life (leading up to that conversation in September of 2010), I had always assumed that gender and sexuality were black and white. You were either gay or straight, male or female, etc etc. There was no in-between. After all, everyone in my family and circle of friends was cisgendered, and either gay or straight (although mostly straight). “Bi-curious” or “bisexual” were terms that lived in the far-off undiscovered territory of my brain, and despite my lack of exploration in the dating department I had always assumed that I would like boys.

I believed that being straight was “the norm” and what everyone expected me to be, despite my mom telling me more than once that she would “be fine with it” if I weren’t.

In middle school I had crushed on this one particular guy hard, and for about two years. My first kiss was with a guy. I had an easier time talking to girls and felt self-conscious around guys, which had to be a sign, right?

But then there would be moments when I was 16 and my friends would go on about so-and-so hot male celebrity and I found that I had to force myself to feel “attracted” to him, and pretend to be all gaga over a picture or movie. Even still today, it’s rare that I see a picture of someone and feel an immediate “connection” or whatever (unless it’s Tina Fey, but I digress). I had dreams where I would be in a relationship with a guy, but then the next night with a girl. The first relationship I was ever in was with a guy, at 19 years old, and I started second-guessing it about a month in. I felt jealous of people in relationships who seemed to have their sexuality “all figured out.”

I was confused, but I didn’t realize it.

Needless to say that conversation my freshman year of college blasted me off into reflection, self-education, and a new way of thinking; that it was entirely possible that I could be attracted to two genders (and that the first guy I dated just…wasn’t the right guy).

Five years ago, I realized I was bi. 


Since then the journey to figure out who I “really am” has been both liberating and exhausting at the same time; liberating in the sense that I’ve become aware that sexuality is fluid, and just because society wants to place me in a box does not mean that a box is where I belong, but exhausting in that…

…I’ve realized, for me, coming out is not and will never be a “one and done” type of deal. Adopting the identity of a bisexual woman will affect me one way or another for the rest of my life. 

In my dating life. In the way people perceive me once they learn this information (and it then becomes my “obligation” to explain it to them). In my family life. In my religious life.

This year, I think, has been the most defining for me as a member of the LGBT+ community. I came out to all of my closest friends, and to my parents. I began to feel comfortable texting my best friend not only every time I saw an attractive guy, but girl too. I changed my Facebook information to publicly say that I was into both men and women (minor, I know, but nonetheless a step forward). I referred to myself as bi in my online writing.

Then the PULSE night club shooting happened in Orlando last June. Guns in general have always frightened me, and I have never wanted to be near one or in possession of one, but this time, after hearing that a man with a gun deliberately attacked people because of who they were and who they loved scared the hell out of me. Because for the first time I realized it could have been my two gay relatives. It could have been one of my former students. It could have been me.

I no longer felt liberated; instead, I wanted desperately to erase all of the progress I had made in my journey of coming out. I felt like there was this part of me that, no matter how much I loved and embraced it, would never be safe in this world. I have only ever (publicly) dated men—three men total—and never once felt afraid to hold their hand in public; at dinner, on the beach, at church. But what if that partner had been a woman? Would we have felt just as comfortable with PDA, or would we ignite a rage so intense that someone would feel justified in killing us? I don’t know. I will never know, and that terrifies me.

After Orlando, I had a family member to whom I am not out say to me:

“I don’t care if someone is gay, just don’t do it in front of me. They shove it in your face. I don’t like that.”

In that moment I felt like I could never trust them with who I really was, and wondered if they said that to all of their straight friends and family too.

I have identified as a Christian long before I ever identified as bi. I was baptized into the Churches of Christ at age 15, without any family with me or ever having gone as a child. Technically, it was “my choice.” It never occurred to me that I would or should have to choose between my sexuality or being part of a church community. But in the nine years since then I’ve had people ask me:

“Why did you join the church if you knew they believe marriage is only between a man and a woman?” (I didn’t necessarily “know” this but let’s also remember that at 15 I’d barely explored my sexuality and assumed I’d be straight. Also a good number of Christians support same-sex marriage, accept that it’s not a choice, etc.).

[Insert question from church here that presumes I can speak for all LGBT+ people]

Did this mean my place at the table with Jesus suddenly became conditional because of who I might love?

Conversely, I’ve had LGBT+ people ask me how I can identify as Christian when [all] Christians are so “hateful,” meanwhile I know that’s not true. It’s a constant “one foot in one door one foot in another” situation that really came to light four months ago, and I will admit I’m still struggling to reconcile.

Like I said, coming out as bisexual has not been a “one and done” type of deal for me. There are so many steps forward that I feel like I made this year, only to be shoved halfway back down the mountain. But it’s a process, and if I could have only one goal it would be to make sure that every single person going through this process knows how brave they are.


It’s not a phase, and it’s not a choice. You are who you are; beautiful, and brave, and a motherf***ing warrior.

And for all of you lovely non-LGBT+ people out there, my advice to you: be a positive, supportive, and safe presence in our lives. Accept and love us for who we are, unconditionally. Create spaces that empower. We appreciate it, more than you know.

We are rainbows, hear us roar.

Love your neighbor as yourself. There is no greater commandment than this. – Mark 12:31

We exist all around you.

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I’ve been thinking long and hard about how I wanted to address Orlando. I don’t know if any of this makes sense, but this is all I got.

**trigger warning**
homophobia, gun violence.

I remember the last time I had a major panic attack, openly, in a public space. It was last December, and a friend and I were eating dinner at the Culver City In-N-Out when suddenly, the restaurant (and a few neighboring buildings) lost power. It was clear right away that no one, including the employees, had any idea what was going on, or why it had happened. There hadn’t been an earthquake, and let’s be real, when was the last time weather made the power go out in Los Angeles?

At first, after the building darkened and the whirr of potato peelers and deep fryers quieted, I felt little elementary school Erin come out, thinking “how fun this is! We can all take out our phone flashlights and play one big game of hide and seek!”

Unfortunately that feeling only lasted about ten seconds. I looked around me: people were muttering concernedly, employees were struggling to unlock the side door (which had automatically locked us in when the power went out), the block was dark. My heart began to race; it’s beginning to race thinking about it now. My palms began to sweat. Tears stung the backs of my eyes. This was no longer fun for me, and not just because of my Generalized Anxiety Disorder and intimate relationship with panic attacks.

This was no longer fun for me because this is the United States of America, the only First World country where there are more mass shootings in a year than there are days.

History has proven time and time again that no place is safe, no place is exempt from these tragedies, and thus we have all been taught—however unconsciously—to always be prepared for the worst. Lockdown drills at school. Safety drills at work in case someone walks into our writing lab with a gun. Think twice before attending a large-scale event. Don’t walk alone at night, or during the day for that matter. This is our reality.

“We have to get out of here,” I said to my friend that night at dinner. “I have to get out of here.”

Poor guy. I could tell he knew I was about to spin out, but didn’t know how to comfort me. There was no calming me down, no telling me that NO ONE in that restaurant had a gun and was about to open fire.

Lucky for us, no one did. But that’s just it. We were lucky. Anything could have happened that night, and it was lucky that all it was was an electricity fluke down the block. And now I sit here tonight, heartbroken because 20 hours ago, 103 people at PULSE nightclub in Orlando, Florida could not be so lucky.

As President Obama said a few years—and probably a couple hundred shootings—ago, “we don’t have to live this way,” and I for one am tired of living this way. I am f**king tired of watching my fellow Americans take these tragedies with a grain of salt, furious but helpless, immediately resigning to the idea that this will just keep happening and there’s nothing we can do about it. That our government—the very people who are supposed to protect us—will never do anything about it, because there are people out there in positions of power who value their guns and an out-of-context Second Amendment more than an actual human life.

As a member of the LGBTQ community, my heart is in pieces. What a beautiful and resilient community, where all anyone wants is to be seen and heard, and to love each other. Although I am bisexual, I recognize my privilege in that I haven’t been on the receiving end of an extreme amount of direct hatred, “merely” microaggressions; still, I ache for those who have. I ache that there’s not more I can do to stop it. I ache that there are people out there who would actively want my friends (or, hell, even me) dead just because of who they (or I) love, and arguably could have an “easy” means to make that happen.

This was NOT an isolated tragedy. This happened in a space that is ~supposed~ to be inclusive and safe for us. This is the direct result of the homophobic statements, comments, and “jokes” that go by unchallenged, and create a mentality of “otherness” or “us vs. them” between queer folks and non. Exhibit A: “no homo.”

So when you’re sending out your ‪#‎ThoughtsAndPrayers‬ to Orlando, Florida, you make for damn sure you know WHO you’re sending them out to and say it OUT LOUD, because we’re here. We exist all around you. We work with you. We’re sitting in your pews at church. By ignoring us, and the profound effect this has had on us, you invalidate us, and perpetuate this cycle of hatred.

Don’t be that person. Think twice before you speak, think twice before you act, and think twice before you hop to your computer screen to tell me your Second Amendment rights trump my right to live freely. THEIR right to live freely.

I stand in complete solidarity with you, Orlando. Much love. SO much love.



Recently, I was told that transparency can be a good thing, so here goes.

For me, learning to have patience is, I think, the toughest aspect of living with anxiety, because that learning process forces me to evaluate a lot of things aka. issues aka. problems in my life that I’d rather ignore. For example this evening I left work with the worst dizzy-spell-turned-tension-headache not because I had had a bad day, but because I spend SO much time staring at a computer screen both in my work and home life. Then on the drive home I started thinking about WHY I spend so much time staring at electronic screens (especially during my free time), and I realized it’s because I get home and don’t have the energy to do much else.

Here’s where the lack of patience (paired with a touch of anger and self-loathing) comes in. Depression sucks the life out of you, and the will to BE or DO just about anything:

Finish that puzzle you started a month ago.

Go on a hike.

Text your best friends.

Read a chapter in your bible daily like you promised to do on January 1st.

Eat dinner.

Eat anything period.

And these are just a few examples. Meanwhile anxiety is over there in the corner like HELLO why aren’t you excelling at all of these things when a) you said you would do them and b) some of these things are completely necessary to begin with.

I want to feel the way I feel at 3 in the afternoon when I’m laughing at a funny joke at the office.

I want to come home and cook a three course meal.

I want to feel like I have energy, and stop beating myself up when I don’t.

So many “wants.” It’s a constant battle between wanting to have patience, and not wanting to think about any of those “bad” things at all, because then you’re forced to admit that you STILL don’t have it all together. There’s so much tragedy in the world that we can’t control, so why can’t we control the one thing we’d think would be obvious–our own bodies? One day we WILL look at ourselves and say we feel GOOD, and mean it. Sometimes it’s just like man, why can’t that day be today?

But we got this, peeps.

Finding my way back.


As soon as I read this quote, it struck a cord because honestly, today was a really, really bad anxiety day. Extreme emotional highs, and then extreme emotional lows (like, “crying to Mom over the phone that I’m just so TIRED of feeling this way ALL the time” “I THOUGHT 2016 WAS SUPPOSED TO BE BETTER LOL #newyearnewme” emotional lows. It happens, folks).

Sometimes when I’m feeling particularly low, I find myself trying to remember what my life was like before I could put a definition to why I acted the way I acted, or felt the way I felt. Was I happier? Was I a better problem solver? Was I less lonely? Was I less afraid to drive a car? I don’t know. All I know is that–today especially–it’s exhausting to overanalyze why you overanalyze.

But that’s okay, because we get through it. Nothing is permanent. I may feel like my depression and anxiety threw me so far away from who I am, but maybe that means I get to find myself all over again.

2016: Love myself.


2015 was a year full of lessons and learning the true meaning of trust.

However, dealing with rough emotional situations, as well as a difficult mental health diagnosis did not give me much space to love myself this year. More often than not I felt UNloveable, and even worse, like I was unable to give love the way I wanted, to those people in my life who I felt truly deserved it. I equated loving myself with being “selfish,” when really I was just in the process of learning that if I didn’t recognize my own self worth, if I hated myself, it’s (near) impossible to really love anyone else.

These are my #newyearsresolutions: to get to know myself a little bit more. To value others but put my own wants and needs first, to listen to my body and stop fighting my anxiety.

To fully trust God and His plan for me. To look for the blessings in disguise–for example, 2015 blessed me with some of the best kiddos a 6th grade tutor/teacher/mentor could have asked for–and to not set my expectations too high but still focus on the good.

Happy 2016, everyone! 🎉

Keep breathing;

**trigger warning**


A few months ago I told myself (and the world…) that I would make it a priority to talk about my experience living with depression and generalized anxiety disorder. Well, what I quickly realized is that that is a lot harder than it sounds.

Last October when I had the tattoo of the sun my mom drew put on my lower back, I also had this phrase drawn on my upper left arm. I just haven’t been ready to share it until now (I’m still not 100% sure I am, actually, but if there’s one thing I’ve felt over the past couple of months it’s been God pushing me to confront the things I’m most afraid of). Inspired by my favorite Ingrid Michaelson song, these lyrics have kept me afloat many, many times over the past eight years since I first heard them.

Keep breathing.

It seems like the simplest of tasks, really. But there have been times when, deep in my depression and in my own head, “keep breathing” was something I had to constantly remind myself to do. And I’m certain I’m not alone in that experience.

1 in 5 women engage–or have engaged–in self-injurious behavior as a result of depression, anxiety, PTSD, eating disorders, the list goes on. A statistic so devastatingly common yet rarely discussed. I was, off-and-on for six years, one of those women.

This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever shared with anyone, let alone the internet. When a favorite author of mine documented in a book her experience coming out as bisexual, the two words that stuck with me the most were: “tell someone.” Still, several panic attacks ensued and prayers were sent up while drafting this post. Am I posting this for the right reasons? Will this really help anyone? In the midst of it all I realized I could learn to do it “afraid;” this is so much bigger than fear, and bigger than myself. People will ALWAYS think or feel differently than you now matter how hard you try to make them see your point of view. Society wants you to think that mental illness is either a “childhood phase,” or “the life of an adult,” but it’s not. It’s so not, and you don’t have to accept that. People say hurtful things because they don’t understand. And it’s up to me to remember that, and just keep doing what I can to spread awareness. I’m not proud of all the things I’ve said and done because of my illness, but I’ve decided not to be ashamed anymore either, because I’m not broken.

Time and time again I’ve been too afraid to ask for help, which is why I got this tattoo the way that I did. Each letter was contributed by someone who has either knowingly or unknowingly helped me through my darkest times; a gentle reminder that help is always there even when you can’t see it. The semicolon at the end is in my own writing–thanks to Project Semicolon–because my story isn’t over yet, and even if you have to do it “afraid,” yours shouldn’t be either.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
Isaiah 41:10