Everytime I hear about the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921, I feel sick, because Oklahoma and especially Tusla used to feel like home to me. The first time I visited, I felt like I’d always been there. 

Part of the reason I took so long coming out was because I knew it’d never be the same with my very deeply southern conservative family. I’d be losing a place I called home. I thought they’d never accept me as the boy I am, and, hey, I was right. 

I hear so many more bad things about Oklahoma than good. 

When I’m there, it doesn’t feel wrong. It just feels like wide open country, getting dirty, living in sub-par housing with furniture falling apart, good food, friendly people, stories and afternoons out on the lake.

But then there’s my “family” who prefer saying “that Mexican” to using someone’s name, people still throwing around the word “nigger”, and the knowledge that I’m not welcome as long as I’m not cisgender and Christian. 

I should just get over it, but it’s really sad for me.