On Queer Grief
Working Through Weariness
It’s not contentious to say that 2020 was a difficult year for many people. I found myself unemployed for several months and most of my friends and family were unable to attend my wedding. I lost my grandmother to COVID-19 and watched her funeral on a Zoom call. It was rough. I certainly wouldn’t want to repeat it.
That being said, there was one particular opportunity that fell into my lap in 2020—one that I wouldn’t have had if it hadn’t been for the pandemic. After drastically scaling back on our wedding and honeymoon plans, my wife and I found ourselves with unexpected extra savings. We decided that we would put the money towards a down payment on a house of our own, a goal that had felt unobtainable before. The universe seemed to be on our side, too, because during our very first weekend of showings, we found The One. It was the third place we looked at, and stood only two blocks south and east of the apartment we lived in at the time—staying in the neighborhood that we’d lived in for more than 5 years was high on our wishlist.
The moment I walked through the front door, I fell in love with the adorable little bungalow. Built in 1901 and accented with Craftsman-style molding, it felt simultaneously cozy and spacious. There were hardwood floors throughout, a gorgeous stone fireplace, and a lot more counter space than any previous kitchen we’d had. Even better, there was a fenced-in back yard with plenty of room for our GSD-mix to frolic to his heart’s content. We quickly put in an offer and, on September 26th, 2020, we closed on our first home.
I’ll admit, I didn’t initially think homeownership would be much different than my experience as a renter. Sure, we would be responsible for our own upkeep, and we would have to pay property taxes, but I didn’t expect my general attitude towards my living space to change. After all, the series of apartments I’d rented all across the state of Missouri had been my homes, too. But it turned out there was something quintessentially different about owning a house. I found myself taking joy in the fixing-up, whether that was painting an accent wall or cutting a hole in a hundred year-old door to install a cat flap. We played the record player a little louder, stayed up a little later, felt a little safer. It became home in a way that none of those apartments had every successfully done.
And now, just three years later, it’s all fallen apart. In June of 2022, Roe V. Wade was overturned by the Supreme Court and my wife and I began to wonder how long we had until Obergefell was on the chopping block. What would happen in Missouri, a state that still has statutes banning gay marriage on the books, despite being unenforceable since 2016? December’s Respect for Marriage Act attempted to address that concern, but the protections it offers seem dangerously open to interpretation, so there’s really no telling how things could play out.
As if that weren’t bad enough, 2023 has been a nightmare for transgender rights in the state, and across the country. According to the Trans Legislation Tracker, in less than 4 months, over 490 bills have been proposed that target trans Americans and attempt to limit our rights. Missouri alone has put forward a staggering forty bills targeting trans folks—everything from drag bans to limiting the medical care that we can receive. It’s terrifying, it’s disheartening, and it threatens that feeling of safety I’d finally started to feel.
Obviously, if these bills are enacted into law, it could present a lot of problems for my family. I work in entertainment and education—both fields that are being specifically targeted by legislators—and I worry that I could eventually lose work as a result of my gender identity or sexual orientation. But even if I don’t, the psychological toll of constant attacks on my community has been significant. It turns out that waking up every day in a state that wishes you didn’t exist is pretty bad for your mental health!
So my wife and I have made the difficult decision to move out of Missouri for our own safety. We’ll be going to Chicago, where protections for queer folks are a lot more robust. And though I’ve moved plenty in my life, it’s never been like this. I keep saying things like: “well, I’m sad we have to sell our house, but Chicago will be interesting, I guess.” I’m going through all the effort of packing up and moving 500 miles across state lines, leaving behind jobs and friends and a community that I love, and my heart’s not even in it. This tweet by Moira Donegan is more specifically about abortion, but it really effectively verbalizes how I feel:
Saying I’m indignant about being put into this position is huge understatement—I’m fucking furious. It’s so unfair to feel like I can’t flourish because of circumstances beyond my control. And more that, I’m grieving. When we bought our little bungalow, it was the first time I could see myself putting down permanent roots—even though we’d already lived in Kansas City for years. I really thought I would grow into middle-age here, and I was happy about it. Now I have to leave—to sell the house I’ve only gotten to enjoy for 3 years, to move out of the city that’s been home for nearly a decade, and the state I’ve spent the vast majority of my life as a resident of—because state representatives decided to use my life as a political football. (Despite plenty of evidence that it’s not even what their citizens want them to be doing!) I oscillate between raging and crying at the absurdity of it all.
This kind of grief is familiar to me; I’ve experienced it many times before as a queer person. In 2012, when my brother outed me to my entire family behind my back. In 2016, when my step-father jeered at me for expressing my fear over the presidential election results. And in 2019, when the same Granny I would lose to COVID sent me a letter calling me an abomination after receiving my wedding invitation. When a different brother voted in favor of anti-trans legislation in the Missouri House of Representatives in both 2022 and 2023. It’s a specific kind of grief, sharp with helplessness and heavy with the knowledge that there are people—including some of my own family members—who are offended by my very existence as a queer person. I’ve never managed to get used to it; every time it happens, the pain is as keen as if it were the first time.
So when I say “I’m sad about selling the house,” it’s really about much more than that. It’s about all sorts of indignities, big and small, that I’m subjected to just for being true to myself; for loving who I love, and for expressing myself in a way that makes me feel good. It’s queer grief that yet again I’m being let down by a society that doesn’t value me or my community.
I don’t know that I really have a satisfying conclusion to offer. If the tardiness of this newsletter and the ungodly number of em dashes haven’t clued you in, I’ve been struggling with this piece for a few days. Grief is a hard thing to talk about and when you’re in the thick of it, it’s difficult to see a point or a lesson in the pain. I’m so tired of being a grieving queer, and right now it’s hard to see a future where I’m not. The best I can do is give myself the opportunity to see a more joyous future, and moving out of state is part of that, however little it feels like it in this moment. As for the rest, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.
To any of my queer or trans siblings who are reading, and have been feeling similarly: I love you, I hope for joy in your future, and I am sending you strength. Thank you for letting me share my experiences here with you. <3
Update: Literally seconds before I posted this piece, the Missouri Attorney General signed an executive action to ban gender-affirming care for trans adults in the state. I’m still processing, so I’m going to post this as-is and go take a very long shower. More soon. Stay safe. -C