What I Have Become

When we moved into the house that I now pay for but cannot live in because of the bigots and bullies, we had a long list of things we wanted in a home. We were young. Ambitious. Idealistic. We wanted to live in a multicultural community near a metro stop so that we could go into the city for dinners and museums. We wanted a great yard for the dogs. A place with light and space. We wanted a place where we could imagine happiness.

I just talked with a realtor on the distant hope that we might pay a mortgage on a home we can actually live in someday. The realtor, like all realtors, was lovely. She wanted to assess who we are and what our lifestyle is so that she could find the perfect community for us. She asked me what we like to do when we are not working. (All I could think of was the dowager countess: what is a weekend? This made me giggle.)

She asked if we were planning to spend a lot of time at the beach. (Yes, we have destination in mind, but I am not yet revealing publicly to where we are moving.) She asked what kinds of homes we liked. I felt peevish and without the wherewithal to answer these questions. Finally, I told her: All I want in our next house is a big piece of property where I can walk my dogs, carrying my gun, never leaving my land. And if someone comes up to me while I am walking my dogs, if someone approaches me, threatens me, harasses me, threatens my dog, I can shoot’em. That is what I want in my next house.