The Bastard Middle
I didn’t pick this name to be clever.
I picked it because it’s survival.
Because this is where I live.
In the bastard middle.
Charlie Kirk was assassinated.
And I’ll be honest.
Inside, I celebrated.
I thought: finally. One of them. Finally, he got what he put into the world.
But then it hit me.
If I celebrate his death,
what happens when it’s mine?
What happens when I’m on a stage,
or walking down the street,
or holding my wife’s hand,
and someone decides I don’t deserve to live?
Do they get to cheer?
Do they get to call it justice?
I’m trans.
I’m queer.
And I’m fucking tired
I’m fucking tired of being the target practice for America’s culture war.
Every day, another law.
Another ban.
Another headline about “protecting women and children” by erasing people like me.
Another body on the ground.
And every time, I wonder: how many people secretly celebrate that death the way I celebrated his?
That’s the poison.
That’s the trap.
That’s why I’m wrestling with myself.
Because if I cheer his murder,
I’ve already handed them permission to cheer mine.
And I fucking refuse.
I refuse to go quietly.
I refuse to let my rage turn me into the same monster I’m fighting.
Look around.
The right has gone full fascist.
Christian nationalism, xenophobia,
burning democracy for power.
The left has built its own purity prison.
check every box, say every word exactly right,
or you’re canceled, exiled, erased.
Two sides, same playbook:
silence anyone who doesn’t submit.
And here I am.
Here we are.
In the bastard middle.
Not because we’re weak.
Not because we’re confused.
But because we still believe in something bigger.
Because we won’t be owned by either side.
Because we know politics is supposed to serve people, not parties.
The middle isn’t lukewarm.
It isn’t fence-sitting.
It’s saying no to extremism from both ends of the noose.
It’s saying yes to humanity,
even when rage is begging you to let it go.
It’s carving out a space
where queerness, and truth, and survival
can breathe.
I celebrated his death.
That’s the truth.
But here’s the other truth:
I don’t want to live in a country
where murder is how we settle our differences.
Because if it’s him today,
IT’S ME TOMORROW.
And I’m not ready to go quietly.
This is what it means to live here.
In the bastard middle.
