Futrell Studio Portfolio

Author: sfutrell

  • On the “Shithole Country” Fallacy

    Destabilize, Exploit, Repeat: How U.S. Hegemony Creates the Immigration Crisis

    The U.S. broke their countries—then blamed them for it.

    For decades, American foreign policy has systematically destabilized nations across Latin America and beyond, propping up dictators, funding violent regimes, and plunging entire economies into chaos in service of its own political and economic interests. The narrative pushed in the U.S. tells a different story. It insists that these nations were always doomed, their poverty and violence inherent, their people desperate to escape so they can take advantage of “the land of opportunity.” This lie erases the role the U.S. played in creating these crises in the first place. The truth is that these countries were rich in resources, culture, and promise until American intervention ensured otherwise.

    When somebody points out one of the flaws of the United States: its staggering wealth inequality, its failing healthcare system, its crumbling infrastructure, its violent policing, and you respond with, “Then why do people leave their ‘shithole’ countries to come here?” consider this: U.S. intervention has strategically destabilized those very countries, forcing people to flee and become an exploited under-the-table labor force in the U.S. The CIA-backed coup in Guatemala (1954) overthrew a democratically elected government to protect U.S. corporate interests, leading to decades of civil war and genocide. In Chile (1973), the U.S. orchestrated the overthrow of Salvador Allende, replacing him with the brutal dictatorship of Pinochet. In El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua, the U.S. funneled billions into arming right-wing death squads and paramilitary groups, fueling massacres, mass displacement, and instability. The U.S. continues to deepen the war on drugs, which has empowered cartels in Mexico and Central America, and economic policies like NAFTA, which decimated local agriculture in Mexico, pushing farmers into poverty and migration. When the people of these countries are left with no choice but to flee in search of safety and opportunity, they are met with scorn, accused of leeching off a system that deliberately ensured they would have nowhere else to go.

    People throw out the “shithole country” question in response to valid criticism as if it is some kind of rhetorical knockout. But before you drop the mic, pass it over; if you are suddenly interested in geopolitics, you are about to get a real answer. Consider this your introduction to global power dynamics and the carefully maintained machinery of the New World Order.

    Reality is far more complex than the American narrative suggests. People do not leave their homelands out of choice but out of necessity, displaced by economic ruin, political instability, and violence set in motion by U.S. interference. Once here, they spend decades working to build better lives for their families. Because their immediate conditions in the U.S. are better than where they fled, it is not apparent to them that they become part of a system that both sustains the destruction of their home countries and fuels an exploitative labor economy. This phenomenon is conveniently framed as “fulfilling the American Dream.”

    However, nobody can ignore the realities faced by these immigrants, nor should blame be placed on them for any part of this process. They recognized that their countries were unsafe. The United States was portrayed as the place to find refuge, and they endured hellish conditions to get here. They work tirelessly in dangerous environments to build lives more stable than what they left behind. They embody the concept of the American Dream in its purest form.

    What I want to emphasize is that both realities can coexist: these immigrants achieved the American Dream through genuine determination, unyielding grit, fierce loyalty to their families, and a refusal to give up. But we must also recognize that the American Dream is not just a beacon of opportunity; it is a predatory system disguised as salvation. It is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, thriving on the labor, sweat, and sacrifice of those same immigrants, giving power to a structure that not only benefits domestically but continues to sink its fangs into the very countries they fled.

    What they have sacrificed and achieved for their families is nothing short of miraculous. They view their wins and losses as collective, bound by a deep sense of solidarity that refuses to leave anyone behind. They reject the individualism that is so ingrained in the American psyche, and in doing so, they hold onto the communal spirit that is a cornerstone of Latin American culture, something that remains lost in American society where personal achievement is typically prioritized over shared success. They have fought for their survival and success against odds that many will never understand. We cannot, under any circumstances, deny or diminish these experiences.

    Yet, despite their journeys laced with hardship and the warmth, kindness, language, art, music, dance, and thought they bring to our country (not to mention the delicious food), along with their tireless work ethic that powers our nation, their contributions are overshadowed or minimized completely by the system that depends on their sacrifice. This same system not only benefits from their labor but goes on to effectively “other” them, scapegoating them as the cause of white plight while evading accountability for the larger, systemic issues that actually shape the challenges faced by working-class White Americans.

    The system goes to great lengths to reinforce its narrative, deliberately keeping immigrants in the dark about how U.S. hegemony has shaped their circumstances, manufacturing what we now call the immigration crisis. The modern asylum process has been intentionally gutted, with policies like Title 42 barring legitimate refugees from seeking safety under the guise of pandemic response. Meanwhile, border militarization funnels migrants into deadlier crossing routes, ensuring thousands perish while politicians use their deaths as talking points. By doing so, the U.S. maintains the illusion that these issues are personal failures of Latin America and its people, rather than the result of a carefully orchestrated global power structure working exactly as it was designed. Whether by orchestrating coups, bankrolling cartels, or engaging in kidnappings and assassinations, such as the U.S.-backed Operation Condor which saw thousands of leftist dissidents disappeared across South America, the U.S. machine will go to any length to manufacture the conditions needed to sustain its exploitative system.

    In many ways, this system has begun to backfire on the U.S. machine, as seen in the relentless protests by and in favor of Latin American immigrants. For decades, the U.S. government has forced them to become unbreakable; hardening themselves, shedding fear, crossing rivers, deserts, and walls, all in the name of love and family. These are people who have always been willing to risk everything for what they hold dear. And now, that same resilience, the very thing that allowed them to survive, is being wielded in defiance of the system that they recognize has sought to exploit them.

    Those who have walked thousands of miles, survived near-starvation, and endured grueling, exploitative labor have gone on to raise doctors, lawyers, architects, and engineers. But they have also raised the mailman who delivers your letters, the fast-food worker who flips your burgers, the bus driver who gets you where you need to go. They raised your next-door neighbor, your child’s teacher, the nurse who cares for you in the hospital. Their contributions are not just found in the extraordinary, but in the everyday, as the backbone of the society that refuses to acknowledge their worth.

    Born into a harsh reality that demanded resilience, they have spent their entire lives fighting to survive. Yet, despite everything, you’ll find them with a smile, full of love and laughter on any given day of the week. This makes them rich in ways that no soulless bastard running this country with millions to spare could ever understand.

    The U.S. has forced them to fight since before they were even born, so why would they back down now?

    Sources & Further Reading

    Chomsky, Noam. Hegemony or Survival: America’s Quest for Global Dominance. Metropolitan Books, 2003.

    In this book, Chomsky explains how U.S. foreign policy has been driven by the need to maintain global hegemony, often at the expense of Latin American countries.

    Petras, James, and Henry Veltmeyer. The New Imperialism: Crisis and Resistance in the 21st Century. Zed Books, 2005.

    A detailed analysis of U.S. interventionist policies in Latin America and their role in creating instability and fostering exploitation.

    Johnson, Chalmers. Blowback: The Costs and Consequences of American Empire. Henry Holt and Co., 2000.

    A thorough exploration of how U.S. foreign policies have created long-term negative consequences, both abroad and domestically.

    “U.S. Role in Latin America: A History of Political Interference.” BBC News, January 19, 2019.

    A concise article providing an overview of U.S. interventions in Latin America, including support for dictatorships and covert operations like the overthrow of Chile’s Allende in 1973.

    Grandin, Greg. The Last Colonial Massacre: Latin America in the Cold War. University of Chicago Press, 2004.

    This book examines the United States’ involvement in Latin American military coups, focusing on its role in the Guatemalan Civil War and the broader geopolitical implications.

    “The U.S. Has a Long History of Interfering in Latin America—Here’s Why.” The Guardian, October 21, 2020.

    An informative article on the history of U.S. interventions in Latin America and how they have fueled migration crises and social instability in the region.

    Hedges, Chris. Death of the Liberal Class. Nation Books, 2010.

    While focused on the decay of liberal institutions in the U.S., Hedges’ analysis provides insight into how American capitalism exploits labor both domestically and abroad.

    “The Myth of the ‘American Dream’.” The Atlantic, May 6, 2019.

    This article critiques the concept of the American Dream and how it’s often presented as an ideal without acknowledging the exploitation that makes it possible.

    “America’s Role in the Mexican Drug War.” Al Jazeera, March 10, 2016.

    An examination of U.S. drug policies and their role in fueling violence in Mexico, which has contributed to forced migration from the region.

    “The Dark History of U.S. Interventions in Latin America.” Al Jazeera English, September 7, 2017.

    A journalistic piece that highlights key moments of U.S. intervention in Latin America, from the Cold War era to more recent developments, and the lasting impact on the region.

  • On the elephant in the room

    I take pride in being the family member who disrupts the silence. It is a role that has cost me relationships with some of my relatives, but I have never prioritized “keeping the peace” over addressing the elephant in the room.

    Growing up, I found myself challenging conversations during Thanksgiving and Christmas, injecting a little too much truth into gatherings that thrived on avoidance. That same instinct fuels my love for disruptive activism today. It has never been about stirring up conflict for conflict’s sake; it is about refusing to let ignorance go unchecked. And while my relatives may have preferred I stayed quiet, I never felt like silence was an option.

    Children should be encouraged to express their thoughts freely. Raising a child who questions authority should be a source of pride; it indicates you are nurturing an intelligent individual willing to challenge the status quo and offer a different perspective. It is certainly not a sign of disrespect. When we silence the questions and comments of children, we lose a vital aspect of what makes humans beautiful: their inherent curiosity and zest for life.

    Imagine rooms filled with future astronauts, marine biologists, presidents, and doctors, where glass ceilings do not exist, and everybody has the potential to be the next Einstein. You can find that sense of curiosity in any kindergarten classroom, but unfortunately, it tends to disappear by the time kids grow up. The system is structured to produce the future working class, where any deviation from the norm is typically punished unless it can be financially exploited.

    If the system has not managed to beat you into full submission, you likely have beef with certain family members. It might be for having interests they dismiss as silly, for coming across as too intense or eccentric, for pursuing your passions without their support, or simply for making choices that challenge their beliefs; stirring up fear and, in turn, hostility.

    This was exactly how it felt with many in my family. What began as me asking “why” about simple, everyday choices (something that merely annoyed them) eventually turned into a deeper need for them to explain why they felt so at ease making choices that harmed the most vulnerable people in our society.

    I frequently reflect on when one of my extended family members told me she had saved my contact name as “Black Sheep.” I see it as the highest compliment, even though she meant it derogatorily. When she showed me, I could not stop laughing. The fact that I loved it seemed to infuriate her even more. The truth has never been popular, but those willing to speak it, despite the backlash, are the ones making space for those who cannot.

    Sometimes I feel like I do not quite belong anywhere because I am not able to look the other way. But here is what I do know: I am building a life that reflects my values, and I would never subject my future partner or children to the ignorance I separated myself from. If the people I build my life with are part of a marginalized group, I will not be the reason they have to justify their existence at a dinner table. That is why I left, why I do not visit, why I would never introduce the family I walked away from to the one I create. And I do not feel obligated to explain that to anyone who refuses to understand.

    I will always encourage people to embrace discomfort in the name of speaking up for what is right. But more importantly, I support walking away when the environment no longer feels safe. The truth is, my worst days outside of that toxic space have been better than my best days within it.

    Going no-contact is never anybody’s first choice, but it is sometimes the healthiest one. Our family members know why we have chosen distance, and yet, they continue choosing not to change. That is on them. Life is too short to stay tethered to anything that drains your energy, dims your light, or asks you to shrink to make others comfortable.

  • On recovery and my father

    From a young age, I was aware of my father’s absence; not the one who adopted me, but the one whose blood I carry. It started while living in the care of my aunt, watching my oldest cousin, Walker, pack for weekends at his dad’s house.

    At barely three years old, I watched teenage Walker pack up our gaming consoles, his favorite clothes, books, and most of his life into bags for a world I knew nothing about. The concept blew my mind. He had been going every weekend since I was born, but one day object permanence kicked in, and with it, a simple, burning question: why did he keep leaving?

    “Where are you going?”

    “I’m going to my dad’s house. I’ll see you after school on Monday. You know how it goes.”

    Except I didn’t. I didn’t know how “it” went. I didn’t know what “it” was. I didn’t know a damn thing. I was still fresh out of the oven, really.

    When your earliest memories are shaped by the absence of a father without any clear explanation, it distorts your perception of the world. My uncle, the father of my younger two cousins, became the closest thing I had to a male figure. But once I understood that Walker had a different dad, I started to question where my own father fit into this puzzle. As the youngest of all four of us, it felt like a mystery that everyone else somehow knew the answer to. I turned to my mom and aunt for clarity, asking questions that had silently burdened them for a long time: “Do I have a dad? What does he look like? Where does he live?” In response, they gave the bare minimum:

    “Yes, you do. Everybody has a dad.”

    “He has blonde hair and blue eyes.”

    “He lives in Florida.”

    I had no idea they sought therapy after I asked those questions. They did not know how to explain my father’s situation, and I do not blame them for that. What stuck with me was hearing the word “Florida” and thinking, “Why is he in Florida? I’m not in Florida. Where is Florida?”

    I was too scared to ask why he was not here. I was too young to admit that, deep down, I feared his absence might somehow be my fault.

    My uncle, being in the army, spent much of my early years deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan, and when home split his time between North Carolina and Texas, leaving me in a strange space: missing him while also thinking about another person I only knew from other peoples’ descriptions and my dreams.

    As I grew older, my mom and aunt became more prepared to talk to me about my father. It was during this time, just before my mother met my adoptive father, whom I’ll call “David” for simplicity, that I got my first real answers. David, as life would have it, prohibited any talk about my biological father once he came into our lives, making the earlier conversation with my mom and aunt a special gift. So, by the age of five, I understood something most kids could not fathom: the PG version of alcoholism. My father was sick, drinking to the point where his actions became dangerous. Because of this, my mom never felt it was safe to leave me with him. She, along with my aunt and their closest friends, went before a judge who decided it was best for my mom and aunt to raise me.

    Everybody, from my mother to my aunts and even my cousins tried to reassure me that my father loved me. Yet, from the very beginning, I dismissed that notion. It was a flawed coping mechanism, but children often internalize blame. I tuned out the comforting words my family offered and replaced them with a single mantra: “If he loved me, he would be here.” This belief felt straightforward, and in a way, I took pride in arriving at that conclusion so early; I thought I had conquered the most formidable enemy in my life thus far: confusion. Although it was damaging, my mantra left no room for doubt, and I clung to it for years.

    Dealing with David only added to my challenges. Without a safe space to share my feelings, I became a very secretive person when I reached middle school. To cope with mistreatment from David, I nurtured a growing desire to better understand why my biological father was not around. So, I began reading more about alcoholism and piecing together the facts. I then knew deep down that alcoholism was a disease, one that could engulf a person, yet I continued to shift the blame onto my father.

    In high school, my behavior began to spiral out of control. The last two years became a blur of reckless behaviors that included excessive use of alcohol, the same substance that had destroyed my father. Yet, the first time I sipped alcohol and hit a blunt, I thought I had finally discovered what had been missing from my life. The things David put me through did not feel nearly as painful anymore, and when I came home messed up and he was not able to tell, it provided a gratifying sense of control over him.

    Deep down, I understood that I was floundering. I was unable to bring myself to be honest with my mother about my choices, especially in the wake of my aunt’s recent passing. That loss still weighed heavily on us and I did not want to add to her burden. So, I navigated this tumultuous time alone. My recklessness surged after my mom and I finally moved out of David’s house and I severed ties with him completely. With his shadow no longer looming over me, sinning wove its way into the fabric of my daily life, becoming something I no longer questioned or felt guilt over. 

    I had just turned twenty when I met a girl at a mutual friend’s party, both of us a bit tipsy. We had a fantastic time, and a few days later my friend called to say that the girl from the party wanted to see me again.

    It felt ironic how we crossed paths in such a chaotic environment, especially considering how our relationship ended. What began as an attempt to navigate my troubles and alleviate social anxiety (especially around girls) transformed into a strain on a connection where it felt like our souls briefly intertwined each night, mine yearning to escape my body and hers determined to anchor me to the earth. I turned to drinking and smoking to help manage my nerves with girls because I found interacting with boys to be much simpler. Girls brought a whirlwind of emotions I struggled to handle.

    This girl was no exception. She was older and, for whatever reason, actively sought me out. I genuinely wanted to treat her well— it was my sincere desire— but I continued to stumble along the way.

    To be loved by a girl is to be seen in a way that strips you bare, revealing parts of yourself you may have never dared to confront. It is unlike any heterosexual relationship. They say a girl is a gun, and with her, I felt completely disarmed. I had not fully realized how out of control my life had become until this time. Quarantine had been suffocating, and my partying had skyrocketed, which meant I drank more and more.

    One late afternoon, she showed up at my door earlier than planned. We were kissing when she suddenly pulled back and stared at me with an unreadable expression. When she finally spoke, my heart sank:

    “You taste like alcohol.”

    “What?”

    “It’s 3 in the afternoon.”

    She was right. I had just been caught day drinking for the first time.

    She walked past me into my townhouse and shut the door behind her. I felt so awful. What was I doing drinking liquor so early in the afternoon? I knew the answer: I was anxious about her visit. But if I admitted that, would she understand that I drank to calm not just the nerves she stirred but all the other burdens weighing me down?

    The answer was a resounding yes. But she did not enable my destructive behaviors like others I had previously surrounded myself with. I felt like I could only be myself when using substances, while she urged me not to. It was as if, just when I felt like I had found myself, she felt like she was losing me. Each time I reached for a drink, it served as a painful reminder of how my desire to escape jeopardized our connection. This heartbreaking cycle pushed her further away, even as we both yearned for support and understanding.

    But my world was unraveling, and I felt resigned to go down with it, like a captain sinking with her ship in a sea of liquor.

    There was one pivotal day where I had pushed my body to its limits, where she said something that led me to make one of the greatest realizations of my life:

    “You wouldn’t do this if you loved me.”

    Those words cut through everything— through the alcohol, through the haze, straight to my heart, because I did love her. And in that moment, everything clicked for me, and the most painful truth struck me like a freight train:

    This must have been how my father felt about me. I had spent my whole life telling myself that if he really loved me, he would be here. But now I understood that the depth of love did not always equate to the strength to overcome addiction. My father had probably loved me as much as I loved my partner, and yet, he was trapped, just as I was. For the first time I saw him not as somone who abandoned me but as someone who, like me, did not have the resources to better themselves.

    So, what do you do when your own chaos threatens the well-being of others, when you know staying will only cause more harm? Besides stepping back and letting them find peace, what choice is left? As I would learn later, that was what my father chose to do. He removed himself, believing it was the only way to shield me from the damage he could not control. My grandfather went with him to Florida, hoping he could get the help he so desperately needed—hoping that I could have stability and, maybe one day, he could return to my life. But six months after they arrived in Florida, my grandfather passed away, and my father’s behavior became so erratic and unsettling that my mother went back to court to have his parental rights terminated completely.

    Now I found myself walking the same path my father had, straight toward ruin. So I followed one more of his choices: I made the painful decision to end a relationship I held dear. 

    This is where my view of recovery diverges from others: I believe we do owe the people we have hurt an unpayable debt for the pain we have inflicted. They owe us nothing in return, not their forgiveness, not their loyalty, and certainly not the sacrifice of their own well-being. And despite the depth of our own pain as addicts, we can never fully comprehend how it felt to be on their side. The heartbreak, the fear, and the helplessness they endured; these are burdens we can never truly understand.

    She was angry at me, and I do not blame her. To think her effort fell short must have been deeply upsetting. But that was never my intention, because she never fell short. My choice came from a place of deeper understanding. There was never a lack of love, there was a need to protect her from the pain I could no longer keep from spilling over. I could live with being hated for that.

    I knew that she would meet someone who would give her what she needed. It was me I needed to focus on, because my future was far less certain. I had to get real with myself and work toward healing, understanding that only by focusing on my own growth could I ever become the kind of person worthy of love, both for myself and for someone else down the line.

    The timing of my realization about my father felt almost like fate. Just as I was truly on my own again, he sent me a Facebook message, as if the universe was offering me a chance to face the very shadows I had struggled with for so long. The message brought with it a chance to finally understand the man who had remained a silent specter throughout my life.

    I took a few days to gather my thoughts before responding. When I did, he expressed his gratitude for the chance I was giving him, and we arranged a time to talk on the phone. When I finally heard his voice on the phone, it felt unreal. His absence had made me notice little things I had never expected: his Northern accent (my family is deeply southern), and the soft rasp in his voice that reminded me of a Looney Tunes character.

    Over the next few months, we spent time getting to know each other, navigating both highs and lows. When my father was sober, he was one of the coolest people  I had ever spoken to, with an endless trove of stories full of humor and insight. He talked about his time as an armorer in the Marine Corps and how he struggled to find stability after his discharge. He was part of the last group offered the military as an alternative to incarceration, with a long record to show for it. To try and stay clean once he was on his own, he traveled frequently, sharing stories about his childhood home in Cleveland and his time spent in cities on the West Coast before attempting to settle back down again in Florida.

    I found out that he was the first person to hold me after I was born, and he shared his feelings during those first quiet moments while I slept. He recalled how surprised everyone was when I opened my eyes and they were clear, not the murky blue/brown eye color everyone expects to see in newborn babies. I had already heard this story a million times from my mother, but I guess I never thought about the fact that he would have been there, too. I know that sounds crazy.

    Genetics have a way of revealing connections that run deep, even between people who have never met. We shared the same taste in music, movies, TV shows, food, and even the same favorite clothing brands when he was my age. We both loved to read, and we talked about how as children we would both be grounded for getting caught staying up late to read. Our sense of humor matched perfectly, as if we were always connected in ways we could not see. He was, is, truly a brilliant guy. And in the months we were in contact, I was told how loved I was, how deserving of happiness and stability I am, more than at any other point in my life.

    I also saw photos of him for the first time. The physical resemblance was striking. Dirty blonde hair and the same blue eyes he was so surprised to see that day at the hospital. I realized then that the eyes my mom cherishes in me, the ones she gushes over, are simultaneously a constant reminder of what she lost. I began to understand how painful it must have been for her to lose not only the father of her child, but her lover.

    When I shared this with her, she told me everything. From the way I scratched my head to how I walked, from the way I liked my coffee to my major Napoleon complex that required taming as a child, all were things I had seemingly inherited from him. It all made sense now. Every glance at me must have been like seeing him again. And in that moment, she confessed what I had never known: if my father had gotten sober, they would still be married today. It was truly a tragedy of the times.

    Now for the more major downside: I was still drinking, and so was my father. In the beginning, he had managed to stay sober for the first time in years, feeling successful and finally ready to reach out to me. It was the furthest he had gotten since I was born. He confided that he had relapsed every year around the same time. Things took a turn for the worse when, after trying to get back in contact my mom while I was in elementary school, he learned from a family friend that I had been adopted and had a different last name. This revelation caused him immense pain, but he was in no shape to be in contact with me at that time.

    He shared these things not to make me feel guilty but because he was brutally honest, even when it reflected terribly on him. Regarding it all, he said “life doesn’t stop for shit. It’s not an airport or a train station. If you miss your ride, you will be left behind.” I thought a lot about these words from him while I was in rehab, and I still carry them with me today.

    But then he relapsed again, and he said things to me while impaired that hurt me profoundly, providing a stark glimpse into the pain I had discussed earlier: the pain our loved ones endure during our active addiction. The way he treated me during that time is the closest I have come to experiencing it. But he was a person navigating his own healing journey, and his pain pulled him back to his vices. I cannot imagine the intensity of emotion he battled during the time we were in contact. He is very strong for saying sober as long as he did. I wish he could have hung on a bit longer, but I am still so proud of him. 

    As someone in recovery, I understand his struggle all too well. Many people say that drunk words are sober thoughts, but that is not always the case. Instead, drunk words emerge from sober hurt. What we say does not necessarily reflect our true feelings toward others; it is a manifestation of the inner turmoil we carry. In my most difficult moments, I felt like a wounded child backed into a corner. I lashed out with hurtful words, driven by fear and an intense need to shield myself from perceived threats. This does not justify my past actions or my father’s, but it does allow me a better understanding of our struggles, and I forgive him.

    I stopped communicating with him regularly because I was literally dying. After my overdose and entry into treatment, I began to understand the generational weight of my journey. If I could get sober, I would achieve what my father and grandfather never could. This was not just about my own recovery; it was about breaking the cycle for all of us. My grandfather could not save my father, and I couldn’t save him either, but I could save myself and finally end this painful inheritance. The burden of alcoholism and addiction loomed over several members of our family, and many legacies depended on my choice to get sober.

    The last time I reached out to my father, I left him a voicemail to let him know I had just completed rehab. After that, I blocked his number, changed mine, and began the process of rebuilding my life from the ground up. I cut ties with most of my then-friends, deleted my social media, and went off the map for awhile, but not before having a conversation that I never expected but am eternally grateful for. 

    The day before I changed my phone number, I was in the park smoking a cigarette and feeling thoroughly sorry for myself when my phone rang. I answered without checking who the caller was. I still remember my “Hello” and how unwelcoming it sounded.

    “Hi, Skyler.”

    I nearly dropped my phone when I heard this. It was my former partner. I had deleted her number, but never blocked it, and she was calling because our friends had told her I had gone to rehab. I immediately apologized, telling her I never wanted her to hear about it, that I was not looking for sympathy and did not want any trouble. But when she cut me off, her voice was very calm. She was not angry.

    “I’m not mad, and I wasn’t mad when they told me.”

    “You weren’t?”

    “Not at all. I was waiting for that call for months, but I thought it would be to find out you were dead. I was just so grateful that you were alive.”

    Before I knew it we were crying together on the phone.

    “I’m so happy you’re sober. Please stay this way.”

    She told me she loved me. I told her I loved her too. Then we said goodbye. As the call ended and the line went dead, I sat there, overwhelmed knowing that I had a whole new life ahead of me to figure out.

    Now, it has been three years, I am almost 24, and I am back on the grid. I am about to finish school, still healthy, and chilling in bed right now instead of looking for trouble. My life could not be more different. I focus on slowness, kindness, self-care, my health, personal growth, and my mental well-being in ways I never could before. I do catch myself longing for love again, thinking about what I would and wouldn’t do if it ever came back into my life. Until then, I am practicing showing myself the love I hope to give my lover. It has been a great way to prepare to become the person who truly deserves them.

    I know some people probably get tired of hearing me talk about my sobriety, but if they truly understood the battle against the monster that nearly took my life and has haunted my family for generations, they would see why I am committed to maintaining this hard-won victory.

    I refuse to be the one who leaves others trying to convince themselves that I loved them. I will not become the hazy figure in a child’s dream or the lost lover who can only be glimpsed through the eyes of my offspring. Yes, I may carry the resemblance of my father, reminding my mother of him, but no one will ever have to seek out another pair of eyes in hopes of finding me in them. I am here, and I will remain present— as a strong individual, a loyal friend, a devoted daughter, and a loving, grateful partner.

    I have broken the cycle, and I know I will find someone who has done the same. We will celebrate each other every day because we willunderstand better than anyone that finding each other would have never been possible without breaking free from our pasts. It is in that shared strength that our love will thrive.

    God knows that a lack of love was never the problem for any of us. I no longer hold anyone at fault. I did this for all of us.

  • On the Climate Crisis and WNC

    Before she became a teacher, my mother worked for the EPA, where she published a remarkable amount of research. After earning her second degree, she transitioned into teaching and taught nearly every branch of science imaginable. She is easily the most brilliant person I have ever known.

    One topic she’s always spoken about candidly is Earth’s inevitable reclaiming of its autonomy from humankind. She believes that in response to our relentless exploitation of natural resources and the escalating climate crisis, the Earth will unleash climate disasters capable of causing permanent, irreversible damage. I’ve witnessed storms of this magnitude my entire life, yet the images and videos of the devastation never become easier to bear.

    The crisis hit close to home when Hurricane Helene devastated western North Carolina. Back in the 1950s, my maternal grandmother’s family relocated from Alabama to Miami before moving one more time to Asheville, joining other family members already settled in the area. I have many relatives buried there, and in the weeks following the hurricane, we found ourselves calling the Memorial Park to confirm that their caskets were still secure. Heartbreakingly, scenes of caskets drifting in floodwaters have become more common across the region and throughout Appalachia.

    Watching places tied to my memories simply disappear is gut-wrenching. I have photos of myself in spots that are now just… gone. Places where we used to grill out, gather around bonfires, and fall asleep under the stars to the sounds of Tame Impala—now completely wiped out. Swimming holes where we once skinny-dipped are now buried by landslides. The Blue Ridge Parkway, once a peaceful escape, has become impassable, with hundreds of feet of hazardous mountainside now exposed, posing a deadly risk to locals who have no alternate routes.

    As a child, when I wasn’t at the beach, I spent my days in the mountains. I remember sunlight reflecting on rocks and streams, the soothing sound of rushing water, the fresh, clean air, and the fog blanketing the Smokies. Falling asleep to those sounds in a tent helped calm my nervous system; those moments are some of my most cherished memories.

    And then there was the music. I feel incredibly lucky to have been immersed in the vibrant sounds of bluegrass, folk, jazz, and blues that flow through Appalachia like a heartbeat, giving the region its soul. From the foot-stomping rhythms at festivals to the soulful blues echoing in small, dimly lit bars, the music is magnetic, drawing people together and weaving its way into your bones. Appalachia’s music scene isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a lifeline, a reason to stay, and a reminder of the rich, endearing culture that makes the place so addictive.

    As soon as school let out, all I wanted was to head to the mountains, where I could listen to musicians who simply got it. Local pros who had made their lives in the region were there, welcoming young players passing through, encouraging us to sharpen our skills, and embracing each visit as an opportunity to share the music as widely as possible. There was no gatekeeping, just an open invitation to step into the scene, to learn, to create, and to be part of something greater.

    The people in this region are just so deeply good. They are loyal, hardworking, and defy so many of the stereotypes imposed on them. Contrary to popular belief, places like Asheville, Boone, and many other towns throughout the North Carolina and Tennessee mountains are safe and welcoming, and as a queer person, I never once felt in danger. These communities embrace diversity in ways that go unacknowledged, offering an accepting and open-minded refuge within the beauty of Appalachia.

    Back then, you could find complete detachment and no cell service whatsoever; a kind of peace I long for now more than ever. Though some remote places like that still exist, it’s been a few years since I’ve ventured that far out, and even those areas are now feeling the effects of climate crises. Their distance from busy society, once a blessing, now makes it challenging to deliver aid and services to these regions after such large-scale disasters.

    Seeing Western North Carolina torn apart has filled me with a heartache I didn’t anticipate, stirring up more nostalgia than I thought possible. But it’s also brought an unshakable sense of dread for what’s yet to come.

    When Asheville was touted as a “climate haven,” I was skeptical. The local government reassured both long-time residents and newcomers that its high elevation, cooler temperatures, and distance from the coast made it a secure place as the climate crisis worsens. But even then, I couldn’t buy into the promise of safety in a changing world, where Mother Nature is an inescapable force. 

    I live by the motto: “Prepare for the worst, and hope for the best.” Wishful thinking no doubt played a role in the region’s unpreparedness for storms of this scale. But even with extensive planning, Western North Carolina could never have fully anticipated the sheer force of Hurricane Helene as it intensified dramatically within just 24 hours before landfall.

    Humans are intricate creatures with layered experiences, yet I fear Mother Nature has little regard for such complexity; our identities would mean nothing if we became the next species facing extinction. Unfortunately, humanity has claimed a sense of dominance over the animal kingdom, but the Earth’s power to unleash devastating storms in hours serves as a stark reminder that we, too, can be swept away like countless species before us.

    It hasn’t fully sunk in yet that my favorite places are gone. It’s something I’ll need time to process. The sheer amount of loss in such a short period leaves you in a state of shock and disbelief. Watching helplessly from afar as the good people I know, who call that region home, suffer is a feeling I can hardly put into words—embarrassing, even, to be so far removed from their pain, knowing I can’t do more.

    The community has come together in a remarkable way. There’s a collective understanding that these rescue efforts are a matter of life and death, not a partisan struggle. It’s refreshing to see people working as one to support each other in the face of crisis.

    We need to embrace a collective mindset, because Mother Earth sees us as a collective parasite—one that will require total eradication if we aren’t held in check. The way we’re exploiting the planet can’t continue without consequences, and the only hope for survival is to come together and change our approach.

    The grief is overwhelming, but we have just under five years to make the crucial changes needed if there’s any hope of preserving our planet. The urgency is impossible to ignore—it’s now or never. Every day that passes without meaningful action brings us closer to a point of no return. The choices we make in the coming years will determine whether future generations can inherit a livable world or one devastated beyond repair. The weight of that responsibility is heavy, but it’s a weight we must bear if we want to leave anything worth saving.

    As daunting as it is, there’s hope in our collective actions. By rethinking our impact, embracing sustainable practices, and demanding accountability, we can still chart a course toward a more balanced future. The changes we make today could mean the difference between a planet on the edge of destruction and one that survives, perhaps even thriving, for generations to come. The time to act is now.

  • On Brain Rot

    Being born in 2000 feels like such a flex, especially being born right at the very end, like I was. I’m grateful to be part of the last group of kids who experienced life before technology was so pervasive.

    Right in the middle of Gen Z, I’m the youngest of my siblings and cousins, so my early years were shaped by the media they loved. We watched plenty of TV—Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network, MTV, and movies we were probably way too young for—but we also read books, flipped through magazines, played instruments, got into music, played sports, and loved drawing. Using the computer meant asking for permission and hearing the unforgettable dial-up sounds every time we logged on. We hiked, camped, and spent whole days outside. We were touching grass long before it was a trend.

    Maybe part of the privilege came from growing up in the South during a time that felt warmer, friendlier, and a lot more hopeful. Our community was so focused on children and family, and we were enriched in countless ways. But that culture of enrichment wasn’t unique to the South; many people my age remember growing up like that. The same is true for my siblings, cousins, and my Gen-Z friends, whether they’re older or younger than me. I genuinely believe the reason things feel different now is that back then, we used technology. Now, technology is using us.

    Kids today seem doomed from birth, with a device handed to them almost the second they exit the womb—a kind of unconsented sabotage that is turning Gen Alpha into screen-addicted zombies. It’s clear from today’s teachers that students are struggling academically and socially. They’re spending more time alone than with friends, accumulating endless hours of screen time, and engaging with social media long before they have the emotional intelligence to handle it. They’re absorbing unhealthy beliefs from toxic online influencers, normalizing parasocial relationships, and becoming so overstimulated that real life feels boring in comparison.

    I hate writing about this because it makes me feel like such a boomer. But I’m not; I’m only 23. People born after me can still remember a time when kids weren’t completely fried.

    I understand why my views on raising kids might be dismissed since I’m not a parent, but as someone studying and working in technology, I’m deeply troubled by how the industry weaponizes addiction psychology against young people. It’s not a coincidence that apps are designed to be as stimulating as possible, that autoplay exists to keep you hooked, that infinite scroll prevents you from ever reaching a stopping point. These features aren’t there for convenience; they exist to maximize engagement at the cost of our attention spans and mental health.

    Children are a prime target, especially those with detached or busy parents, whether because they have to work two full-time jobs just to make ends meet or because they’re affluent and simply don’t engage with their kids. I recognize there’s a significant difference between the two situations, but both sets of children become casualties of a deeply exploitative system.

    Want an example? Go to the mall in 2024. Look at the food court. Everywhere, kids are sitting silently, faces glued to tablets or smartphones. When we were kids, the mall was where we went to hang out, get into trouble, kill time while our parents shopped. Now, kids just sit, slack-jawed and hypnotized, existing in the mall without engaging with it. The culture has totally shifted. I used to say that it baffled me, but now I recognize that it is completely by design.

    And then there’s AI: the perfect storm to make this even worse. When Geoffrey Hinton, one of the godfathers of AI, resigned from Google and denounced his life’s work, that should have been a wake-up call. When the guy who helped build it is saying, “This has gone too far,” maybe we should listen. But will we? Or will we let Big Tech dismantle society for profit while pretending it’s “progress”? The industry has already proven it has no moral compass. We saw it with social media, we saw it with the rise of algorithmic radicalization, and we’re about to see it again with AI.

    At the end of the day, parents are the last line of defense. If children are going to have anything resembling the kind of childhood we experienced, it’s going to require a deliberate, conscious effort. Technology isn’t inherently bad; what’s bad is the way it’s designed to replace real life instead of complementing it. There’s nothing wrong with kids enjoying games or watching YouTube, but at some point, we need to set boundaries.

    Will the next generation have the chance to draw, hike, camp, play an instrument, fall off a bike and scrape their knees, get dirty, and actually touch grass? Or will they just be pacified by pixels, raised by algorithms, fed whatever content the highest bidder wants them to see?

    I wish I could say I’m hopeful, but I’m not. I was a kid during the era of the ruthless, unforgiving internet—the 4chan internet, the lawless internet, the internet that drove people to suicide because of how cruel it was. And despite all the promises of a “safer” digital space, nothing has changed. They push politically correct messaging to make it seem like things are better, but the underlying systems remain just as exploitative, if not worse.

    This issue needs to be addressed, and tech professionals have a responsibility to start that conversation. I constantly bring up “brain rot” because it’s not just a meme; it’s a real and deeply concerning phenomenon, and I see it playing out in real time. Yes, some parents are neglecting their kids, but many are just victims of a system that forces them to prioritize survival over presence. I don’t blame those parents at all.

    But I do blame the industry that engineered this mess in the first place.

    The truth is, we helped create the problem, but we also have the power to fix it. Yet, so many of us refuse to care. That needs to change.

    Because if we don’t course-correct soon, we won’t just lose the internet.

    We’ll lose an entire generation.

    —

    Sources

    1. Common Sense Media. (2024). What Are Kids Watching on Tablets? Parents. Retrieved from https://www.parents.com/what-are-kids-watching-on-tablets-11689876

    2. ValuePenguin. (2024). Parents Admit to Judging Screen Time Limits. Parents. Retrieved from https://www.parents.com/parents-admit-to-judging-screen-time-limits-11686135

    3. Warren, T. (2024). Turing Award Winners Warn Against Premature AI Deployment. The Verge. Retrieved from https://www.theverge.com/news/624485/turing-award-andrew-barto-richard-sutton-ai-dangers

    4. JAMA Network Open. (2023). Association of Screen Time and Myopia in Children. Parents. Retrieved from https://www.parents.com/why-are-more-kids-getting-nearsighted-11688786

    5. Wikipedia Contributors. (2024). Geoffrey Hinton. Wikipedia. Retrieved from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geoffrey_Hinton

    Further Reading

    • Carr, N. (2010). The Shallows: What the Internet Is Doing to Our Brains. W. W. Norton & Company.

    • Alter, A. (2017). Irresistible: The Rise of Addictive Technology and the Business of Keeping Us Hooked. Penguin Press.

    • Lanier, J. (2018). Ten Arguments for Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now. Henry Holt and Co.

    • Broussard, M. (2018). Artificial Unintelligence: How Computers Misunderstand the World. MIT Press.

    • Newport, C. (2019). Digital Minimalism: Choosing a Focused Life in a Noisy World. Portfolio.

  • On Giovanni’s Room

    Don’t read if you don’t want spoilers.

    Being queer in 2024 is a harrowing experience. While it’s true that being queer has never been easy, the challenges we face today feel heavier and more relentless than at any other point since the AIDS crisis. The reality of our existence seems to erode with each passing day, and I can no longer ignore or sugarcoat the truth. Pretending that America doesn’t view me and others like me as second-class citizens is an exhausting charade. Every day feels like a battle to defend my humanity and right to simply exist, and the weight of this struggle is growing increasingly difficult to bear.

    I’ve been dreaming of finding my person for as long as I can remember. As a little girl, I’d look up at the stars very cheesily, wondering where they were and what it would feel like to find them at last. Even now, as an adult, that dream hasn’t quite left me. It’s been a constant, quiet light guiding me through dark moments in my life. It’s a hope I’ve held on to: a belief that lasting love is real, that it could exist for me, and that it has the power to change everything.

    This warm, fuzzy sensation of longing has been with me for as long as I can remember. It’s a longing for something that feels just out of reach, something I can sense deep inside, but can never fully name. It’s as if there’s a part of me that knows this feeling, like a forgotten memory on the edge of my consciousness. This yearning is both a comfort and a mystery, a pull toward something I can’t quite describe, yet it feels like it’s been waiting for me my whole life. It lingers in the spaces between my thoughts as a silent promise of something I’m meant to find. 

    But if I’m being honest, I think I’m full of bullshit. It feels like a story I’ve told myself to stay afloat, a comforting lie to keep the truth from swallowing me whole. No matter how much love I give, I can’t shake the fear that it won’t be returned, at least, not in this lifetime, and not the kind of lasting love I crave. Hope is slipping through my fingers, no matter how desperately I try to hold on. I don’t know how to stop it, and I don’t know how to explain this to anyone. So instead, I’m here, letting these thoughts spill out into the safety of my writing. There’s some comfort in these words, even though they carry a truth I’m struggling to face; the slow, steady fading of a belief that once felt so solid.

    I can’t help but feel like I’m running out of time. I’m afraid to share this with anybody because I don’t want to be told that it’s nothing. It certainly feels like more than nothing to me. It’s a quiet, creeping dread that won’t leave me alone, and it’s not unwarranted. I’m tired of bottling it up, so here I am, writing into the void because I don’t know where else to put it.

    This summer, I found out my heart isn’t healthy. After nearly three years of fighting to get my life together—to build something meaningful—I was blindsided by this issue. I finally started moving forward, only to be reminded how fragile everything still is. The gravity of that realization has been a lot to withstand. At least once a day I think about the effort I have put in and how it could all be ripped away from me.

    I’m not pretending I’ve never been in love, or that nobody has ever been in love with me. The opposite is true. In the past, I’ve loved deeply, and in return, I have been loved back with an intensity that has changed me. I’ve hurt more people than I care to recall, each a testament to my flaws in their own way. And yet, my own heart has been shattered too, again and again in ways that still ache deeply at times. Each love, each heartbreak, has left a permanent mark; and whether it was with a boy or a girl, it may have been excruciating at times, but never unwelcome.

    But I need to name what’s truly hurting me now, to strip away the layers and confront the raw truth: this pain is not rooted in any of my heterosexual relationships. It is rooted in my queerness, in my deliberate choice to seek a female partner over a male one. The yearning for love is already a heavy burden, but the way the world views the love I’m searching for as an adult: dismissing it as lesser, demanding it be explained or defended, wounds me the most.

    It’s draining to exist in a world where my love is seen as a political statement instead of something genuine. Even simple acts like holding hands feel like defiance, a reminder of the risks others don’t face. I’m exhausted from constantly defending my love, something that should never have been questioned to begin with. All I want is a love that doesn’t have to fight for its place—one that’s safe, simple, real, and unquestioned.

    It’s taking a direct toll on my heart—literally. I’ve been told that stress could be carving time off my life. And still, the pressure feels relentless, like the world is crushing me.

    I feel so alone in this, like no one else could possibly understand the full extent of what I’m going through. Then I feel selfish for feeling that way because other queer people also suffer. And when it all becomes too much, my worst habit kicks in: I shut down. I pull away from the people who care, retreating into the false safety of isolation. I tell myself it’s easier this way, but all it does is magnify the sensation, making it harder to bear. It’s a vicious cycle and a battle with one of my demons who refuses to die.

    Then I had the silly little thought to read a silly little book, hoping it might distract me from everything on my heart and mind. A friend had recommended Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin, and now all I can say is that this book has me in physical agony. It’s not just a story; it’s a mirror, a wound, a weight I wasn’t ready to carry, but I couldn’t put it down.

    It captures what feels like the heart of my existence: the most intimate moments I’ve shared with others, always tucked away in a bedroom with the door locked. And while most people associate bedrooms with physical intimacy, that isn’t what I am refering to. I’m referring to the quiet, sacred spaces where we laid our hearts bare to each other, where our deepest emotions, fears, hopes, desires, and memories were shared, where we planned our escape from the hatred we’d known, where we swore that being young didn’t diminish the weight of our love. These moments were always hidden from  a world that was never meant to see them for what they truly were.

    David, the main character in Giovanni’s Room, recounts hooking up with his friend Joey during a sleepover, avoiding him for the rest of the summer and later bullying him as Joey’s mental health visibly deteriorates. As I read it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I am Joey, and Joey is me. David’s shame and fear of their intimacy, his need to suppress something too raw and real, mirrors what I’ve endured. I’ve been pushed away after something that felt too right to be wrong or immoral, facing rejection and cruelty from someone I trusted. Baldwin captures that pain with devastating clarity: the heartbreak of being abandoned and left questioning what went wrong by someone drowning in their own insecurities.

    Being bullied by someone who was my lover was so painful. Giving them my trust, my vulnerability, my love, only to have it weaponized, was something that felt like the ultimate betrayal. Love, which should have been a source of strength, became a source of pain. Yet, I blamed myself, looking for an answer to a societal problem that was never mine to solve. Baldwin’s depiction of this dynamic resonates deeply, bringing me back to moments when I’ve faced similar treatment.

    I have to admit, ever since I read that part of the book, I can’t stop thinking about Joey.

    For me, it wasn’t fleeting or a one-time thing. We were together in secret for two years, not for any thrill but for survival. Her safety was always at risk. While my mom already suspected I was queer and accepted it, my then-partner’s devoutly Catholic family believed we were just friends. Her mother actually threatened her with conversion therapy in front of me.

    Yet when I tried to end our relationship, she told me that wasn’t what she wanted. So, for two years we stayed together in secret.

    A lot changes between being 14, realizing you are more than friends, and nearing senior year, when you’re about graduate and leave for college. Those years had beautiful moments, but by the end, the pressure built resentment between us. For two years, we basically ignored each other at school to avoid suspicion, which took a toll on me. But when someone is begging and crying for you on the phone at 2 am, then ignoring or even bullying you the next day, that is what seriously messes with your head. It took a lot of therapy to process all of that before I could even consider another same-sex relationship.

    Years later, David meets Giovanni, and their connection is immediate. After some initial denial, David follows Giovanni to the room where he’s been staying. Giovanni, certain David will see it eventually, insists there’s no need to delay. Though David is hesitant, they hook up and soon begin living together, settling into a routine within the confines of the room. Outside, Giovanni works as a bartender, while David waits for his fiancée, Hella, who is in Spain deciding whether she wants to marry him.

    Giovanni’s sentiment resonates with something much deeper than physical intimacy. Though I’ve had public same-sex relationships as an adult, some of the girls I’ve felt most deeply for were either not in official relationships with me or were, like before, confined to bedrooms that mirrored the one where my entire romantic life once existed.

    The more I read Giovanni’s Room, the more I saw my own experiences reflected in Baldwin’s words. David’s internal battle, from his fear of fully embracing his love for Giovanni, to the way he ultimately betrays him out of shame, is almost too familiar. It echoes the way I’ve often had to hide my relationships, the way I’ve fought to keep them secret because of the world’s refusal to understand, let alone accept, my love. I’ve lived those moments in my own life: the quiet, desperate attempts to protect what little I have left when it feels like the world is determined to destroy it.

    Baldwin’s story lays bare the trauma of secrecy and shame that so often accompanies queer love, especially for those of us who have spent years trying to make sense of it within an environment that would rather ignore us altogether. The guilt I felt, especially in my earlier years, mirrors the guilt David grapples with in Giovanni’s Room, as though the love I sought was somehow wrong, or too dangerous to openly claim. 

    Reading the novel has made me confront these parts of myself I’d rather ignore: the parts where fear has taken root, and where shame has dictated how I love and how I receive love. Much like David’s rejection of Giovanni, I’ve been ashamed to fully embrace the depth of my queerness, even when it was the most honest and genuine thing I’ve ever known, and I have felt the hurt that comes with that shame existing in the person I loved. Giovanni’s Room reveals the scars of living in a world that forces you to choose between love and survival, between the truth of who you are and the lies you tell to protect yourself. I’ve loved in secret, and I’ve been loved in return, only to be hurt by forces beyond my control—forces that make love feel like a battlefield instead of a sanctuary.

    David’s realization of his own cowardice, the way he allows Giovanni to be destroyed because of his own fear, hits too close to home. I’ve seen it in my own relationships, where self-doubt and fear still sometimes cloud the way I interact with those I care about most. But perhaps the hardest part, the part I am still learning to navigate, is the slow process of healing from these wounds, especially when the world keeps reopening them, when it keeps telling me that my love is unnatural or something to be hidden.

    Giovanni’s death, and the way it haunts David afterward, is a painful reminder of the consequences of living in denial. Baldwin doesn’t just tell a story of love, loss, and betrayal; he tells a story of what it means to be queer in a world that demands we be less than we are, that pushes us to question the things that give our lives meaning.

    The scars Baldwin describes are the same ones I carry with me. They’re the ones that show up in my dreams, in my fears, in my hesitations. Yet, like Baldwin’s characters, and like every queer person on the planet, I carry them because they are a part of me. They shape who I am, how I love, and how I fight for my right to exist as I am. As much as it pains me to say it, Baldwin’s words serve as a mirror to my own struggles, my own heartbreak, and my ongoing journey to understand what it means to love and be loved as a queer person in a world that insists on complicating it.