Why did you come to New York just to be homeless?

This really should have been the first clue that the people who are supposed to help people like those in my family didn’t want to waste their time on someone like us. It’s the same everywhere you go though I suppose, especially now with the political climate. The word outsider has never been more foul of a word when you’re desperate and looking for a light among the darkness of your life. An outsider is someone else, not one of the community and needs to be pushed as far away as possible. An outsider can be left to fend for themselves, even to die, it doesn’t matter, they aren’t from “around here”.

This is the path that fear, ignorance, isolation, and bigotry has lead us down this path. The path that in fact leads to far more deaths and far more pain than anyone realizes. In one breath we proclaim that we love our neighbors, and care for one another. Then in the next we curse those who are not like ourselves. We exile those who need the help to most into an abyss of desperation and destitution that leave them wondering if their lives even matter…

Does my life even matter?

I am, after all no one.

I am an outsider, and I always have been. I watch the world pass by me as if I was nothing more than a ghost in the mists of time. I’m just a bystander in my own life, watching it move by me slowly with a sense of lost despondency stuck in my chest like a rock that’s ever crushing the life from me.

I pretend well.

I do a good job of making people think I’m something when I need to be, but at the end of the day I’m alone, empty and lost.

I started writing this post to speak out against the way outsiders are treated, but now I’ve gone off on a different tangent. I’m so damned tired of fighting, of being nothing, being just another tranny freak that is so inept at dealing with the world that I should just go kill myself…

But that’s really what it comes down to in the end. Should I or shouldn’t I? I can name hundreds of reasons why I should just do it. Most of which are selfish, but some not so much. I mean, seriously, if I’m dead my family will actually get the help that they need. Because, you know, gender stereotypes and all, the “man” should take care of the family or he’s a worthless piece of shit. Isn’t that how it goes? Of course you have the ideal that a family with a man in it shouldn’t need help in the first place.

On the other hand, my reasons are selfish. I am tired of fighting. I am tired of hurting. I’m tired of watching people laugh, smile, talk, enjoy being together and only be able to fake those emotions. I’m a fraud really, I don’t understand it. I portray them because it’s expected of me. I’m -supposed- to care if someone is hurt, I’m supposed to display these facial features, or those words. It’s all an act. Someone like me could never find a place to belong. I’m too broken to fit into the picture of society.

Wasn’t high school enough for me…all the acting, all the pretend games that I cared about the meat suits that walked around me, it was all for nothing in the end. I haven’t talked to any of them in years. I’ve only talked to two since graduating, one of which is now dead. Why shouldn’t I join him? He was the nicest one of the bunch…

I tell the truth about what goes on in my fucked up head and I’m told I’m a hypochondriac and that no one with my level of IQ could possibly have as many problems that I do. Once more, they rely on stereotypes to try to make sense of me, and ignore everything else. My own pain, perhaps the only tangible emotion I feel means nothing to them. They simply don’t care, and why should they? I don’t neatly fit into their molds.

They slapped the label of bi-polar on me, but I never abused any substances like so many other people that are bi-polar, after all they don’t count an adrenaline junkie as a real junkie. I was just a kid that liked to do “stupid kid things” like street racing. The faster, the better, but there was always that voice of caution in the back of my mind. “Best not get caught. They’ll lock you up.”

That’s been the motivation for anything really. Not to get caught. Because in the end, even death is better than some cell surrounded by other people stupid enough to get caught.

The next label was depressed…well fucking duh. I’ve been depressed since I was a teenager. I even told my mother about it once, her answer “Oh you know we don’t believe in killing yourself.” So I started cutting. It felt good, it felt as good as the high I would get from speed. But once more that tiny voice would whisper, “regulate yourself. Best not get caught, they’ll lock you up.”
My reason for never getting beyond control was simply not wanting to be locked up. The thought of the smell of those kinds of places is enough to make my stomach turn. I hate it. Of course they wouldn’t understand anything about me, and they wouldn’t care. That’s been made perfectly clear by the last time I was “locked up”.

And why was I locked up? That’s a story for another time, if there is in fact another time.

The point is, people don’t give a fuck about each other, on average. Even those holier-than-thou asshats that are PAID to help people, they don’t care.

Their family isn’t struggling to find food for the rest of the week. Their family isn’t going outside in freezing weather without shoes because they have sensory issues and their ONLY FUCKING PAIR OF SHOES won’t work for the day, but they still have to leave the house to run errands. Their children aren’t DENIED the RIGHT to public education even though they are McKinney Vento students (homeless).
They don’t care because they aren’t an outsider…

#depression, #discrimination, #outsider, #society, #suicide

Greyhound Ride from Hell

Tuesday, (October 17th)  morning at 1:55am I was supposed to leave Fayetteville, AR headed for Richmond, VA via greyhound bus. The bus didn’t arrive until after 2:00am and I was left waiting with a person that was clearly under the influence of drugs, alcohol or both, and a homeless guy that was using the bench for a place to sleep. There was no one at the station for greyhound or the affiliate line called Jefferson. The bus didn’t leave this station until around 2:10am, nearly 15 minutes after the time it was supposed to leave. While there were a good amount of people on the bus, it wasn’t completely packed and I was able to sit close to the front where I had some leg room. After standing for over an hour and a half, my knees, one of which has arthritis, were in excruciating pain and it was nice to be off my feet.

That bus took me to Fort Smith, AR where I was left to wait once more for a late bus. This bus left me packed into a seat like a sardine. There was no legroom, the seat was painful and after spending the trip from Fort Smith, AR to Memphis, TN I was left in major pain from this ride. There were no outlets accessible to me to charge my mobile devices, like Greyhound had advertised for all of their buses. In addition to this, the back of the bus was so hot that I was sweating in my seat, and I wasn’t the only one. Several other people riding the bus also complained about this yet nothing was done.

When I arrived at Memphis I had high hopes that I would be able to get a seat that had a charging port for my phone and Chromebook, yet those hopes were dashes on the rocks when  was ushered to a long line in the back of the boarding section while others were ushered to the front. I ended up stuck in the back of the bus once again without a charging port and sandwiched into my seat for the first leg of the ride.

It wasn’t until the stop at Nashville, when everyone had to leave the bus then later reboard, that I actually got a seat with an outlet where I could charge my cell phone and Chromebook. However, once again the lack of legroom made it nearly impossible to use my Chromebook to work on anything during the ride. If the bus had not been completely packed I would have been able to turn sideways in my seat perhaps and get some work done.

As we progressed towards Richmond, I began to  dislike of our driver. First, our driver threw a fit when a fellow passenger sat in one of the two seats in the front of the bus that the driver had declared as his own. He refused to leave the station until the passenger was seated in a different seat, which meant demeaning the Hispanic families on the bus that didn’t speak English and making them hold children on their laps in a bus that was already full. Only one time was there any effort for the staff of Greyhound to have a translator help these families and that was only with the aid of a fellow passenger. When that passenger switched buses there was zero help offered.

The second incident involving this driver was in Lynchburg, Virginia where the driver held the bus hostage because he wasn’t leaving the station until the young woman that had been sitting behind him for most of the trip coughed and he wanted her moved. There was literally no where on the bus for this young woman to move without changing places with another passenger.The station attendant even came on the bus to explain the driver refused to leave the station until the woman was moved to a different seat. He explained that he could force the driver to leave the station with the woman sitting where she was, but that once the driver left he had no control over what the driver did.

This was honestly terrifying for me. This driver has already ignored the rights of  the passenger that allowed her to choose her own vacant seat when she was boarding, and now I was told that the driver didn’t have to abide by the rules set forth by his company while on the road.

The guy that was sitting next to me offered to trade places with the woman and we were finally able to leave, but I was left feeling like I was in a hostage situation. The thing worth noting is both of the people that the driver had issues with were what most people would consider caucasian, while the driver was not, the driver was  African-American. (I really dislike the use of that word, because I feel it further separates Americans from one another, but I dislike the use of the word “black” or “colored” even more.)

What bothered me aside from feeling like a hostage, is the fact the guy sitting next to me was the same “color” as the driver, and had been coughing since he took his seat next to me some 400 miles prior. Not once did the driver say anything to this passenger or make him move when he started coughing.

Needless to say, I will never board a greyhound bus again. If I have to travel somewhere and I can’t drive my own vehicle, I’ll fly or rent a car. I refuse to be held hostage ever again by someone on a powertrip with a dislike of passengers based on their skin tone.

#discrimination, #greyhound-bus, #public-transportation, #road-trips, #travel

A New Start for the Summer

I’m headed back to Arkansas, it’s really the only place that I have to go if I want to keep my sanity and not kill myself. Over the past two years, I’ve come to realize what a horrible, unwelcoming place that parts of Virginia are or have become.

When it comes to community, it doesn’t exist here unless you’re picture perfect or as close to it as anyone can get. If you’re not skinny enough, slutty enough or willing to sacrifice everything that you stand for just to fit in, you’re not welcome. To me, that isn’t a community, that is the same old high school drama that I’ve fought so hard to get past since I graduated fourteen years ago.

Since I moving to Virginia I have been: threatened with a gun, been refused assistance when I had to break down and ask for it because I am transgender, had my vehicle vandalized after appearing on television to talk about how my coming out has impacted my relationship with my birth family, profiled by police officers in my county that now proudly bare “In GOD we trust” across their police cruisers, my children have been denied the services they need in school to thrive to the point where I have to homeschool my youngest who as ASD, my eldest is being discriminated against by a teacher at school and neither the principal nor the vice-principal will do anything about it. In short, life for us LGBT Pagans is hell in Virginia.

The state motto shouldn’t be “Virginia is for lovers” it should be “Virginia is for heterosexual, cis-gender, Christian sheep”.

So we are headed back to Arkansas with the hopes that we can start over again work towards a better life. We have an uphill battle, as usual, the deck is stacked against us as it is for most Pagan or LGBT people. Doctors don’t want to touch the “offensive tranny”, therapists don’t want to deal with the drama of someone “mentally ill”. There is so much hatred towards people like it, it’s no wonder that the suicide rate is still climbing.

I can hope for a change, for a better future for my children, but that’s all it is…hope.

There is so much anger and violence in the United States today, I don’t see a positive change happening with the spilling of blood. Another civil war…


#arkansas, #community, #discrimination, #healthcare-discrimination, #lgbt, #lgbt-discrimination, #pagan, #pagan-discrimination, #religious-discrimination, #starting-over, #tg-community, #transgender, #transgender-discrimination, #virginia

Out of Ignorance and Into my Pants: Bathroom Laws Against the Transgender Community

With the passing of North Carolina’s Bill HB2 into law, the war against the transgender community reached an all-time high, or rather low. The bill designates that no one shall be allowed to use a public restroom or gender specific facilities that does not match the biological gender on their birth certificate. The aim of this bill was to prevent transgender women from using the women’s restroom, but it has done so much more than that. It has elevated the risk of men actually using the woman’s restroom and defeat the equal protection clauses in the United States constitution.

Being a transgender I know all too well the outrageous costs of transitioning from one sex to another so that your mind and body can be at peace with one another. Basic chest reconstruction surgery for  female-to-male transsexuals start at around $5,000 and the price goes up depending on the quality of surgery. Gender confirming surgery, or as most people call it “bottom surgery” costs even more than that, and has less than desirable results for those transition to male.

Due to the extremely expensive costs of surgery, and the fact that there are more states than not that allow discrimination based on gender orientation, affording these surgeries (which are rarely covered by any type of insurance policy) is often an unobtainable goal. It is effectively a pipe dream for a lot of transgender men and even transgender women who seek their own gender-confirming surgeries.

This often results in many transgender men or women unable to have complete gender confirming operations. In effect, many of us are only able to partially transition due to financial reasons. A simple google search of transgender unemployment rates will give anyone a good idea of why.

The rallying cry behind HB2 was without it women were vulnerable and needed protections to keep men out of their restroom, by men the backers meant anyone that was not born with a vagina. As happens far too often, they most likely forgot that this would put transgender men in the women’s restroom simply because they were born with a vagina.

Most transgender men look just like their cis-male counterparts after several years of hormone replacement therapy, and often before. I have yet to have chest reconstruction surgery because my family cannot afford it and I do not bind my chest, yet I have not been perceived as female since I began HRT a little over three years ago. Most people that meet me on the street have absolutely no idea that I am not a cis-gendered male unless I tell them otherwise.

This means that anyone that is male or perceived as a male could walk into the woman’s restroom and promptly announce that they were a transman or that they had a vagina, regardless of the truth. This bill has now allowed the predators that it sought to keep out of the women’s restroom to stroll right in, since demanding to see one’s genitals could be construed as sexual harassment or sexual assault.

This bill has also set the grounds for cis-gendered women who appear butch or gender nonconforming to be assaulted by overly zealous bystanders for daring to use the restroom that matches their sex and gender. It puts lesbians at an extremely high risk for assault as well.

HB2 has also forced transgender women to use the men’s room where they are more likely to be beaten, raped or worse, have their lives taken.

When someone that is transgender goes into the restroom, it is not to trick anyone or assault someone, it is to urinate or defecate. There is no master plan to molest anybody, in fact, 95% of the reported cases of molestation are perpetrated by someone the family or child personally knows, not a stranger in the restroom.
Banning transgender people from using the restroom of their perceived gender does nothing but denies them a right to privacy (it purposely outs them to anyone paying attention when they are forced to use a public restroom), it puts them at a high risk of sexual assault, physical assault, or being murdered. Most of all it furthers fear, hate-mongering, and ignorance that has the power to ruin innocent lives.

#bathroom-bans, #bathroom-discrimination, #discrimination, #hb2, #lgbt, #lgbt-discrimination, #nc-bathroom-ban, #nc-discrimination-against-tg-community, #nc-discrimination-against-transgender-people, #north-carolina-bathroom-ban, #trans, #transgender, #transgender-bathroom-ban, #transgender-bathroom-laws, #transgender-discrimination


The evening before last I had fully intended to kill myself. I was, and frankly still am, tired of the
struggle. I’m tired of nothing ever seeming to get better no matter how hard I fight. I’m tired of
seeing facebook post after facebook post of states in the US making laws that blatantly
descriminate against LGBT people, especially transgender people.

Monday was hell. I’m sure anyone that read my blog figured that out, and yet here I am. I cried
myself to sleep. I had planned to wait until my wife when to bed and then do the deed, but I was
so exhausted after my total meltdown that I cried myself to sleep and couldn’t find the strength to
pull myself from bed until well after 10:00am the next morning. Something that I odd for me
considering I’m usually up and moving about between 5:00 and 6:00am every morning.

So here I am.

I’ve been waiting for a decision on disability for months now, I applied in July of 2015 and still
have heard nothing. It took Social Security six months to decide to send me to a doctor, and
three more to acutally do it. My wife called Social Security on Monday to update my information (I
have a new cell phone number since I lost my Verizon account) and to get an update on my

When I first applied back in July of last year, I submitted paperwork that give my wife permission
to call social security and speak on my behalf because of my telephone issues. My initial
telephone interview that was conducted in September of 2015 was done by my wife, and the only
other update that we’ve recieved (December of 2015) was also made via telephone conversation
with my wife.

After a thirty minute hold time, my wife tried to talk to “Matt” about my case. She was sitting on
our front porch with the phone on speaker so that I could hear everything that was being said.
This Matt fellow refused to talk to my wife and said that I had never turned in paperwork giving
her authorization to speak on my behalf and he needed to speak to me. My wife explained that I
was unable to, and that this was part of my disability.

I find it funny that my wife can make the decision to end my life if I am on life support, but these
asshole companies refuse to allow her to speak on my behalf even after I’ve given authorization
and signed paperwork stating so.

I lost it. I started crying, and I couldn’t stop. I’ve been under too much stress and had too much
happen to me in the past 14 days to be able to keep myself from going into a complete
meltdown. When I started crying and telling my wife that the people on the other end of the phone
didn’t give a damn about my disabilities, Matt stated he didn’t have to listen to “this” and hung up.

Half an hour she had waited, and for nothing because of some cocky kid that wanted me to
speak on the phone so damned badly but didn’t want to hear me crying because I couldn’t handle
all the stress of what has been going on.

When he hung up and I realized we had wasted all that time, I lost it. I broke everything that I
could get my hands on, and when there was nothing more I could break I started to hurt myself.

All I could think about was the fact that we had wasted so much time on trying to get an update
because the social security administration is so incompetent that they can’t keep their website
information up to date. If they had kept their records up to date on their servers, then I wouldn’t
have gotten a message demanding that I call them. Then of course I can’t call them, so I have to
have my wife call them instead and now they wouldn’t even talke to her. It didn’t matter if I had
signed papers allowing it, these bastards didn’t care. They don’t care because it’s not them that
has to suffer. They get to go home to their warm little beds at night and have their electricity and
running water. They don’t have to wake up every damned morning and draw water from a well,
live with a mother-­in-­law that likes to pretend they don’t exist and is nothing but a burder. They
don’t know my life and they don’t give a fuck because it isn’t them.

In that moment I hated myself more than anything else. I was the one that’s failed, I’m the broken
one that can’t take care of his family. I’m the one that doesn’t have any friends that live nearby to
hang out with. I’m the worthles waste of space that needs to die. If I died than maybe my family
would have a better shot at getting out of where they are.
In that moment, I needed to die.

As always my champion, (my wife) stepped in and stopped me, she held me while I screamed,
wailed, and cried. She held me until I was sobbing so hard that I couldn’t breathe, and had screamed myself hoarse. When I was so tired I couldn’t do anything else, my wife called my
lawyer, who understands I can’t speak on the phone, and explained what happened and asked
for them to request an update. The social security administration will speak with a lawyer, but not
my wife…

My wife thought I was calmer after a bit, and I was, but truth be told I was still planning to die. I
remembered how much attention that other people’s deaths had gotten, and thought if I did the
same maybe, just maybe, the outcome would bring light to people like me.

On Monday night as I laid in bed after writing my goodbye letter, I just started crying. I couldn’t
help it, and even now I keep crying on and off. I’m tired, I’m only thirty-­one years old and I feel like
I’ve lived three times that long.

I have faced discrimination since my teenage years, I have gone through things that no one
should have to go through. I have been abused several times, by several people. I have been
homeless many times, some with children, sometimes without. I have been shunned and
ignored by people that were suposed to be my friends and my support group. I have had my
vehicle vandalized for speaking out about being transgender and the effect it had on my birth
family. I have been told that I’m an abomination, that I’m unnatural and a predator. All this
negative overwhelms what little positive that I have.

I cried when I had a hot shower for the first time in two months. I overdrew my bank account for
that, and now I have to figure out how I’m going to pay it off.

I worry about losing my children
every single day because I have no where to go. We have our animals to care for, and on top of
that I wouldn’t be welcome in any homeless shelter where we would have running water and

It all builds up to the point where you can’t take it.

I just want to all to end.

I don’t understand why people are filed with so much hatred towards
each other.
I can’t understand why people pretend to be your friend, but only when you can give
them something.

The last two years have been really hard for me. I’ve lost nearly every person that I considered to
be my friend. I love my wife, she means the world to me and she is my best friend, but it would
still be nice to have someone else that I could spend time with and share my interests with.

As I laid there crying in bed, my phone started making the message tone. I was honestly

Three people from my Facebook list had written me to make sure that I was okay, or to tell me
that I was loved and cared for. It made me cry even harder.

These three people and my wife, cared enough to write me and check on me.
I still haven’t written back and I’m sure I’ve worried them, and for that I am truly sorry and I hope
that they can forgive me. This morning I received another message from a friend on twitter.

I’ve learned something from my breakdown though. I have a handful of people that care about
me, while I can’t go see them or spend time with them, they are my friends and I love each and
every one of them, and I am greatful to have them.

When I woke up on Tuesday morning, and no long had the pressing urge to end my own life I
was surprised to see how much traffic my blog got from what would be my final post. I’m not
sure if that was good, bad, or just something that was neither but it rekindled the fact that I love to
write and I love having people read my writing.

This evening I spent several hours sitting with a horde of over twenty baby bunnies ranging in
age from five to eight weeks taking pictures of them as they ran around me in their enclosure
that I built out repurposed pallets. My goal was to cheer myself up, because I love rabbits.

worked somewhat, especially after cuddling several of them over the course of the day. (Miyagi,
Mr. Mustache, Dionysus, and Captain Adorable)

I also spent all day yesterday wearing a shirt that was a special gift from a fellow SPN fan, and
mother, trying to remind myself to Always Keep Fighting.

While I am still depressed, there is a
light at the end of the tunnel. I just hope that I can make it to the end of the tunnel and not feel so
empty anymore.

#autistic-suicide, #death, #depressed, #depression, #disability, #disabled-people, #discrimination, #helpless, #hopelessness, #mental-illness, #suicide, #transgender-suicide

Doctors + Being Transgender = Not Good Bedfellows

I hate visiting the doctor, I hate it to the point where I have to pretty much be on the verge of death before I’ll visit a doctor. Part of the reason is the usual lack of punctuality for almost any doctor that I’ve been to, and part of it is because I am transgender. Today I was in so much pain that I forced myself to see what my wife refers to as a “Doc in a Box”, basically it’s a quickie clinic that is normally filled with kids sick from school or people looking to avoid a large co-pay from their insurance companies. They are still, however, a doctor and can do any of the doctorly things a general practitioner would do.

So I went into Patient First in Richmond, VA as I was already in town shopping for groceries for the house. The wait was fairly short, as was the visit with the doctor. I explained why I was there and what the problem was. For those of you reading that are curious I have a lump in my throat on my right side, and really have no effing clue what it is…still.  It’s painful to swallow, turn my head and even breath at times if there is pressure on that side of my neck at all.

The first thing that the medical assistant did was do a swab test for strep, which I expected because let’s be honest, a lot of people don’t know strep from just a sore throat. When that came back negative, the doctor finally saw me. His examination consisted of looking in my ears and shining a light in my throat, all the while keeping as much distance from me as he could.

He asked me if I was taking any medications, I told him that I was taking testosterone. It was then that he demanded to know “what for”. I told him that I was transgender and it was for hormone replacement therapy. He nearly sneered at me and took a step back. I then had to tell him more than five times the list of medications that I am allergic to. (Such a huge list at only three items). The doctor never told me what he thought was wrong with me and instead said he was going to give me some antibiotics to deal with “that thing” and gestured towards me.

He printed about seven sheets off from the printer in the room, thrust them at me and then left the room as quickly as possible.

It is times like these that make me detest going to see a doctor. I absolutely refuse to see any doctor in an emergency room. I would rather die than go to the ER while conscious. The sad thing is the way I was treated is not the exception but rather the rule for anyone that is transgender and reveals their status to a medical professional.

I once met a transwoman that was harassed and mistreated by hospital staff so badly that there was a discrimination case opened on the matter. They refused to treat her, and instead only referred to her with derogatory terms before discharging her from the ER. She had broken her foot and went untreated until visiting another hospital.
This is the common type of treatment we get, and from so-called professionals. When you are a medical professional or any professional for that matter, you need to be able to put your own personal biases aside so that you are able to fairly treat each and every patient you treat equally. You never know, when your biases result in the death of someone…

#discrimination, #discrimination-in-healthcare, #f2m, #ftm, #healthcare-2, #lgbt-discrimination, #lgbt-heathcare, #patient-first, #richmond, #transgender, #transgender-discrimination, #transgender-health-2, #transgender-healthcare, #transmen, #virginia


1. Intense, sharp, overmastering fear
2. An instance or cause of intense fear or anxiety; quality of causing terror

1. To fill or overcome with terror
2. To dominate or coerce by intimidation
3. To produce widespread fear by acts of violence

1. The use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce, especially for political purposes
2. The state of fear and submission produced by terrorism or terrorization
3. A terroristic method of governing or of resisting government

1. A person, usually a member of a group, who uses or advocates terrorism
2. A person who terrorizes or frightens others
Looking at the definitions of terror, terrorize, terrorism and terrorist it becomes clear to see that despite being tagged the land of the free and home of the brave, America is actually ruled by terrorists who use fear as a measure of ruling. If you really break it down to a basic principle, Christians in general are terrorists. They use the fear of eternal damnation to coerce people into following their beliefs and craft laws on the basis of their religion.

I realize that this idea is a huge change from what a lot of the masses think, but it is time that we are honest with ourselves and with each other. This is especially the case when you can’t go for a week in America without the news of a mass shooting occurring.

In one breath people are condemning the refugees from Syria and congress is fighting to refuse them admission into a nation that was founded by refugees of one sort or another. Then in the next breath they are all but congratulating an individual that perpetrated an act of terrorism in Colorado because it wasn’t in line with what they believe.

Masses of people are condemned to the label of terrorist simply because of what faith they follow, while you have the good old gun loving white American murdering countless innocent children and they are labeled “sick” or “mentally ill”. Let’s name them what they are, and that is terrorists.

Groups like the NRA are terrorist organizations, and their members are terrorists.

When you camp out in front of a place of worship with firearms, you are not protesting. You are terrorizing a group of people that have done nothing but contribute to the community that they live in. What is worse is the fact that if there were a group of Muslim, Wiccan, Pagan, Buddhist, etc. people camped outside of a Christian church, they would be arrested.

This has to stop.

We need to take a stand against terrorism, no matter who perpetrates it. We need to call it what it is and stop blaming a group of innocent people for the crimes of radicals. Claiming that a group of people should be judged on the actions of the few would condemn the entire world on the basis of their so-called leaders. It is unjust, it is detrimental and it is discriminatory. Unless you want your faith judged on the basis of the radicals, maybe it’s time to take a stand.

#american-terrorism, #american-terrorists, #buddhist, #christian, #discrimination, #faith, #muslim, #pagan, #religions, #take-a-stand, #terror, #terrorism, #terrorist, #wiccan