Human Rights

darnold1975

The Boob Boy, The Bondi, and the Big Ol’ Bus They Got Thrown Under

“When you build your house on hypocrisy, don’t be shocked when the storm hits first.” 

-Southern Gay Wisdom

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Brace your spirit. Today’s sermon is brought to you by the Holy Ghost of “I Told Y’all.” The Book of Southern Gay Prophets. And the ancestral spirits who only show up when the drama is premium‑grade. The air is thick. The wind is petty. And the hypocrisy is rising like steam off a Mississippi driveway in July. Kristi Noem and Pam Bondi are out here doing the MAGA Walk of Shame. And the universe itself said, “Roll camera.”

Kristi “I Love Traditional Marriage Unless It’s Mine and Puppy Killer” Noem is over here smiling like she’s hosting a Mar‑a‑Lago bake sale. While her entire political career collapses like a Dollar Tree folding chair. Pam “I Have the Files-Wait, No I Don’t-What Files?” Bondi is shuffling papers like she’s auditioning for a Florida reboot of Law & Order: Girl, Please. And the hypocrisy? So thick you could spread it on a biscuit.

These two strutted into the week like they were the headliners of the Family Values Revival Tour. And strutted out like they’d been personally escorted offstage by the Holy Spirit and a security guard named Earl. The way they both got tossed under the Trump Bus with no seatbelt, no warning, no emotional support casserole, and not even a lukewarm dish from the church ladies is nothing but whew.

The ancestors aren’t just giggling. They’re hollering. They’re wheezing. They’re slapping their knees and saying, “See? Didn’t we tell y’all?” And now the smoke rising today? It’s not from the grill. It’s from the fall of two of America’s most dramatic ‘family values’ performers finally catching up to the truth they tried to outrun. Light the charcoal cause history is happening.

Let’s begin with Kristi “Traditional Marriage” Noem, who woke up this morning as the Director of Homeland Security. And then went to bed as the Director of “Girl, What Happened?” She strutted into that press conference like she was about to announce a new casserole recipe. Her bless your heart chin high. Hair sprayed into a helmet. Confidence radiating like she’d just won Miss Cornbread 2024. 

Kristi Noem is the same woman who smiled her Mar‑a‑Lago smile while cheering on the cruelty of ICE like it was a halftime show. And she really thought she was untouchable. She encouraged the worst of it. The raids, fear, brutality, and the “show them no mercy” energy that echoed the darkest chapters of history. She did it with a grin. With a camera‑ready face. And with the confidence of someone who believed she’d never be held accountable.

She wanted to take anything into custody that breathed wrong in Trump’s direction. Which included blow‑up animals, parade balloons, inflatable flamingos, and anything that dared to stand against the man she treated like a holy relic. She acted like Donald Trump wasn’t the con artist the entire country warned her about. She acted like loyalty to him was a retirement plan. But the check bounced.

And then Trump hit her with a “You’re fired!” Which had that same energy as a Dollar Tree cashier clocking out early. Because the register froze and they simply don’t get paid enough for this. But the real plot twist? Her husband, Mr. “Family Values” himself, is now living his best life as a cross‑dressing boob boy. And honestly? Good for him. Somebody in that marriage deserved joy, sequins, and breathable fabric.

Meanwhile, Pam “I Have the Files on My Desk” Bondi is out here giving us the greatest trilogy since Lord of the Rings like:

  1. “I have the files on my desk.”
  2. “I don’t have the files on my desk.”
  3. “What are the files?”

Ma’am. This is not a Nancy Drew novel. This is not a Hardy Boys mystery. This is a Florida woman with a ring light and a dream. Here’s the part that hits the deepest nerve. Pam Bondi who spent years doing the “I don’t have the files” shuffle, while survivors of Epstein’s abuse begged for acknowledgment she never gave. She never even acknowledged the Epstein survivors. Not when she was Florida Attorney General. Not when they begged for accountability. Not when they asked for meetings. Not when they asked for justice. 

Survivors and advocates have said for years that she ignored them. Dismissed them. And prioritized political loyalty over human suffering. And now she’s out here crying on camera about being “betrayed?” The only betrayal that mattered was the one she committed against the people who needed her most. Public criticism has followed her for years. Because she didn’t meet with them. She didn’t prioritize them. And she didn’t use her power to pursue accountability when she had the chance.

And so here we stand. We’re watching Kristi Noem and Pam Bondi wobbling down the political driveway tumbling down the marble steps of their own hypocrisy. Like two contestants eliminated in the first round of a reality show nobody asked for. Their mascara is running. With their heels in their hands whispering, “Donald, please don’t do this.” Donald Trump, patron saint of Save Myself First Ministries, simply adjusted his tie and said, “Ladies, I love you, but I love me more.” And he tossed them off the political porch like yesterday’s potato salad. The silence that followed could’ve been bottled and sold as a conservative Christian essential oil.

They’ve been politically guillotined by the very man they worshipped like their Orange Mussolini Messiah Daddy. The same man who told them he’d protect them. The same man who said he’d always be there. The same man who turned around and cut them loose the second it benefited him. Pam and Kristi, the country wasn’t lying to you. He was. So, put that in your Epstein pipe and smoke it.

And this is only the beginning. The fall of Trump and the collapse of MAGA isn’t a single moment. It’s a season. A reckoning. A slow‑motion implosion of every grifter, every sycophant, every “family values” fraud who thought proximity to power would save them. Two down. Many more to go.

And as the dust settles. As the excuses crumble. And the crocodile tears dry on the marble floors of Mar‑a‑Lago, let the record show That the South remembers. The gays remember. The survivors remember. And history remembers.

And now I’ll say this with my full chest, “Kristi, Pam, Bye Felicias! May the truth follow you louder than your lies ever did. May accountability find you faster than your loyalty found Trump. And may the fall of this corrupt movement be as dramatic as the chaos it unleashed.” Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts on these two useless human beings with no souls?

Affirmation: I release the chaos of hypocrites. The noise of liars. And the weight of other people’s fake values. I walk in truth, glitter, and ancestral clarity. 

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

You Can’t Pray the Gay Away, But You Sure Can Expose the Hypocrisy: A Southern Queer Survival Guide

“If your faith requires someone else to suffer, it’s not holy. It’s just dressed‑up cruelty.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Apparently the courts woke up. Stretched. Sipped their Folgers and said, “Hmm. What if we brought back psychological torture today?” And the conservative Christians said, “YAY! Revival!” Meanwhile, every queer person in the South is standing on their porch like, “Lord, give me strength, patience, and a Xanax the size of a biscuit.”

Down here in Mississippi, we know hypocrisy like we know humidity. It clings. It suffocates. It ruins your hair and your spirit at the same time. And nothing brings out the hypocrisy quite like a ruling that says, “Sure, go ahead and traumatize queer people in the name of Jesus. He won’t mind.” These folks will tell you with a straight face that they’re doing this out of “love.” If that’s love, then I’m a straight man named Bubba who drives a lifted truck and says “bro” every six seconds.

Let’s be honest. This ruling isn’t about saving souls. It’s about controlling bodies. It’s about punishing difference. It’s about making queer people small enough to fit inside their narrow theology and even narrower worldview. And the wildest part? These are the same people who can’t keep their own households together. The same people who preach “traditional marriage” while living like a deleted storyline from a messy reality show. The same people who scream “protect the children!” While ignoring the actual dangers children face like abuse, exploitation, and the youth pastor who keeps volunteering for overnight trips.

But sure. Let’s focus on the gays. Because we’re clearly the problem. Not the pastors who keep getting “relocated.” Not the lawmakers who can’t keep their pants zipped. Not the “family values” influencers who spend more time in hotel rooms than in prayer.

Let me break it down in terms even a conservative uncle can understand. You cannot convert someone out of being gay. You cannot shame someone out of being gay. You cannot therapy someone out of being gay. You cannot “deliverance session” someone out of being gay. Unless the only thing you’re delivering is trauma.

If sexuality were a choice, don’t you think I would’ve chosen something easier? Something with less paperwork? Something that didn’t require me to explain myself at every family gathering like I’m giving a TED Talk in a Cracker Barrel? But no. God made me like this. Curved, colorful, and incapable of pretending otherwise.

You could dangle 45 sets of dangly bits in front of me like a clearance sale at Spencer’s Gifts and I still wouldn’t be straight. But put me in front of some boobs and a cooter cat and suddenly I’m glowing like a porch light in July. That’s not a choice. That’s not a phase. That’s not a “lifestyle.” That’s divine architecture.

If you want to stay in the closet because it feels safer, I get it. But don’t pretend it’s holiness. Don’t pretend it’s righteousness. Don’t pretend it’s “God’s plan.” It’s fear. And fear is the currency of conservative Christianity. I sprinted out of the closet like it was on fire. And I’ve been free ever since. Even with my own family members who weaponize scripture like it’s a Nerf gun filled with shame. I send that mess right back to sender with a smile and a boundary. Chosen family is where the love lives. Chosen family is where the truth lives. Chosen family is where the rainbow was always meant to shine.

Theo rainbow is divine reassurance. It’s God saying, “Relax. I made y’all fabulous on purpose.” No court ruling can change that. No pastor can change that. No conversion therapist with a clipboard and a superiority complex can change that. We are here. We are queer. We are not going anywhere. And we are not apologizing for existing.

So let the smoke rise like a prayer the evangelicals forgot to proofread. Stand tall in your queerness like a magnolia tree that refuses to bow to the storm. Because here’s the truth they don’t want to face. Every time they try to erase us. We multiply. Every time they try to shame us. We shine harder. Every time they try to legislate us out of existence. We become louder, brighter, and more unbothered than ever.

Their hypocrisy is loud. But our joy is louder. Their cruelty is sharp. But our resilience is sharper. Their fear is deep. But our love is deeper. And at the end of the day, when the court rulings fade. When the sermons lose their sting. When the shame campaigns collapse under their own weight. We will still be here laughing. Loving. Living. Thriving. Dancing in the rainbow God hung in the sky as a reminder that storms don’t last forever.

So let them clutch their pearls. Let them scream about “family values.” Let them pretend their closets don’t have motion‑activated lights. We know the truth. You damn sure cannot stop the rainbow from rising. Mic dropped. Floor cracked. Hypocrisy exposed. Amen and pass the sweet tea. Thanks for reading! And Happy Pride year-round. What are your thoughts on this type of ruling?

Affirmation: “My identity is divine. My joy is sacred. And no court, church, or closet can dim the rainbow God put in my soul.”

***Don’t forget to watch the video!!!

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Dear World, Please Don’t Give Up on Us: A Love Letter From a Blue Dot in the Red Sea

“Hope isn’t blind. It’s stubborn. It keeps standing up even when the world keeps trying to knock it sideways.” 

-A Blue Dot American Who Refuses to Sit Down

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Tell the ancestors to clock in for overtime. Lord help us, y’all. The United States is going through it. And by “it,” I mean the kind of national meltdown that makes you look around and say, “Surely this is a deleted scene from a dystopian comedy that never made it to Netflix because the plot was too unrealistic.” Yet here we are. Living it. Breathing it. And trying not to scream into a pothole on I‑59.

To the rest of the world:

Please don’t give up on us. I promise you the majority of Americans are not standing behind the chaos, cruelty, or conspiracy‑soaked nonsense that has taken over our headlines. Most of us are exhausted, horrified, and Googling “how to apply for dual citizenship” at 2 a.m.while clutching a heating pad and a prayer. We see the instability. We see the authoritarian vibes. We see the white‑nationalist cosplay that keeps popping up like mold in a damp apartment. And we’re fighting it loudly, creatively, and with the kind of determination only a country built on protest can muster.

Yes, we know our leadership looks like a fever dream. Some people in power are making decisions that feel like they were written by a committee of raccoons who found a bottle of expired cough syrup. And our country is being run by a pube signature. Some are facing public scrutiny over their past associations. They include the widely reported connections between political figures and Jeffrey Epstein’s social circle. And the public has every right to demand transparency, accountability, and the full truth. People across the political spectrum have been calling for the release of all relevant documents. Because sunlight is still the best disinfectant. Meanwhile, the rest of us are over here like, “Hey world, please don’t judge us by the loudest people in the room. We’re trying to get the remote back from the uncle who keeps changing the channel to chaos.”

To our allies abroad:

We still see you as family. We still believe in cooperation, democracy, and global peace. We still want to stand shoulder‑to‑shoulder with you. And not stomp around the world stage like a toddler who missed naptime. Please keep talking to your governments about ways to support democracy here. Not because we’re helpless. But because democracy is a team sport. And right now, our team captain keeps wandering off the field.

About the weaponized religion situation. Listen. I grew up in the Deep South. I know about Jesus. I know his work. I know his vibe. And I can tell you with full confidence that Jesus would be flipping tables so fast in Mississippi right now that he’d qualify for CrossFit. The loudest “Christian” voices down here aren’t preaching love, compassion, or justice. They’re preaching fear, control, and purity culture. Which is ironic considering how many of their own scandals keep popping up like whack‑a‑moles at the county fair.

Not all Christians are like this. Some are kind, loving, justice‑oriented people who actually read the parts of the Bible about caring for the oppressed. But in Mississippi I can count those folks on one hand and still have fingers left to hold my sweet tea.

And for the record. I embrace all religions. All ethnicities. All genders. All sexual orientations. All cultures. Except the ones built on cruelty, control, or harming children. If you come to this country with love in your heart and respect for human dignity, you’re welcome at my table. I’ll even make you cornbread.

If you are brown, seeking asylum, fleeing violence, or simply trying to give your babies a better life. You are welcome in the America I believe in. The real America. The one with a heartbeat. The one that remembers its own immigrant roots even when our politicians pretend they sprouted straight out of the soil like turnips.

The America I love has always been a patchwork quilt of cultures, languages, and stories. And it has been stitched together by people who crossed oceans, deserts, and borders because hope was louder than fear. That America still exists. It’s bruised, tired, and currently being held hostage by people who think compassion is a weakness. But it’s still here. And it’s not going anywhere.

We just have to clean our governing house first. And Lord when I say “clean,” I don’t mean a light dusting. I mean roll up your sleeves. Put on the yellow gloves. And open every window because something in here died in 1987. And nobody ever dealt with it. The corruption runs deep. Deep like “you’re gonna need a shovel, a headlamp, and maybe a priest” deep. We’re not afraid of hard work. We built this country on hard work. We can rebuild it the same way.

And let me say this plainly. Donald Trump does not speak for us. Not for the majority. Not for the heart of this country. Not for the people who still believe in democracy, dignity, and basic human decency. Millions of Americans across races, religions, genders, and backgrounds are fighting every single day to protect what’s left of our democratic institutions. They’re marching, voting, organizing, educating, and refusing to be bullied into silence. We’re not giving up. We’re not backing down. We’re not letting authoritarianism take root in the soil our ancestors bled to cultivate.

The heart of the United States will return. I believe that with everything in me. Not because things look good. Because they don’t. Not because the path is easy. Because it isn’t. But because the soul of this country has always been bigger than the people trying to tear it apart. We’ve survived wars, depressions, pandemics, corruption, and more than one leader who thought the Constitution was optional reading. We’ll survive this too. The real America is the one built on courage, diversity, and stubborn hope. And it is still here. Still fighting. Still glowing like a blue dot in a sea of red hats. Thanks for reading! And Fuck Donald Trump, ICE, and MAGA.

Affirmation: I glow in the dark. I stand in the storm. And I refuse to let chaos speak louder than my courage. My voice, my vote, and my hope are stronger than any tyrant’s tantrum.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

I Stand Up Because Too Many Still Can’t

“I don’t raise my voice because I’m angry. I raise it because whispering never changed a damn thing except how fast people ignore you.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like it knows the truth is about to get told. Let the smoke rise slowly and dramatic, the way my ancestors intended. Curling through the room like it’s searching for the lies we’re about to burn out. This is the moment where the air shifts, the spirits lean in, and even the cats pause mid‑chaos because they know Mama’s about to say something real. This is my “brace yourself, I’m done being polite” announcement to the universe. It’s the Southern version of rolling up your sleeves. Except with more sage, more attitude, and a whole lot more intention. When that charcoal glows, so do I. And whatever truth I’ve been holding in my chest finally gets permission to walk out the front door like it pays rent.

I write the way I live. Loud enough to be heard, honest enough to be felt, and Southern enough to confuse anyone who’s never survived a family reunion with both potato‑salad politics and generational trauma. I stand up and speak out because silence never saved me. And it sure as hell never protected the people I love. So, if you’re here for polite whispers, bless your heart. But if you’re here for truth with humor, grit, and a little Holy‑Ghost side‑eye, pull up a chair. You’re in the right place.

I’ve been asked many times, “Why Do I Stand Up And Speak Out?” And here’s my explanation. There’s a moment in every Southern woman’s life when she realizes she has two choices:

  1. Sit quietly and let the world run wild with foolishness.
  2. Or stand up, speak out, and let the church fans flutter in shock.

I chose the second one. Mainly because the first option has never worked for me a day in my life. I didn’t grow up planning to be “the outspoken one.” I was raised in the Deep South, where you’re expected to smile politely, keep your voice at a respectable whisper, and only speak your truth if it fits neatly between a cobbler and a prayer request. But life has a way of handing you a microphone when you least expect it. It’s usually right after you’ve sworn you’re done talking. So, here’s the truth I carry deep in my bones. I was that child who screamed in silence that no one heard.

And now? I stand up for those who don’t have the power to stand up. Or who have been intimidated into swallowing their truths whole. I will absolutely be a voice for Immigrants, LGBTQIA+ (my home group), Native Americans, Canada, Venezuela, Mexico, Greenland, Venezuelan fishermen, Gazans, the homeless, the victimized, Black and Brown communities, and anyone who needs support through solidarity. I can’t get away from this calling because I will always stand up against tyranny, crimes against children, religious scapegoating, hypocrisy, racism, and oppression. And especially here in the South, where silence is expected and resistance is treated like a character flaw.

But I am not built for quiet compliance. I have never been. I speak out because silence never saved me. Silence never protected me or my kids. Silence never made the world kinder. Silence protected the perpetrators with fragile egos and made the wrong people louder. And Lord knows the wrong people do not need a volume boost. Their voice is almost as big as their unfinished golden ballroom. Their headquarters are located at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

I stand up because I’ve lived through enough chaos to qualify for a punch card. After your tenth traumatic event, you should legally get a free smoothie or something. But instead, I got a voice. And the realization that if I don’t use it, someone else will use theirs to rewrite my story in a way that makes them comfortable. Absolutely not.

I was forced as a child to watch adults do absolutely nothing about the abuse they knew was happening. They didn’t want to “rock the boat.” They didn’t want to challenge the system. They didn’t want to stand up for what was right. They stood up for what was popular. What was convenient. And what kept the illusion intact. And while they protected their comfort, I was left to protect myself.

As a child, my only way to survive was by fighting back. Not just against the adults who caused the harm. But also, against the complicit bystanders who saw everything and chose silence. That kind of abandonment teaches you something. And it is this, “if you don’t stand up for yourself, no one else will.” And that lesson, painful as it was, is exactly why I refuse to be quiet now.

But here’s the part they never planned for. I didn’t stay small. It took years and years to claw my way back to myself. To unlearn the lies. To rebuild a voice that had been broken, bent, and boxed in. To stand in my own truth without shaking. To speak without apologizing. To breathe without asking permission.

For years, my voice wasn’t quiet. It was taken. Stolen by abuse. Smothered by “be nice” expectations. Buried under the weight of family roles I never agreed to play. And when I finally stumbled into adulthood, those lessons didn’t magically disappear. They clung to me like wet clothes, heavy and suffocating, convincing me that silence was survival and shrinking was safety.

I speak out because my kids are watching. I speak out because my community deserves better. I speak out because our nation can do better. I speak out because my cats already assume I run the world, and honestly, who am I to disappoint them. But mostly, I speak out because my voice is not a liability. It’s a legacy. A tool. A torch. A refusal to let the world slide backward while I sit politely on the porch pretending not to notice. I speak out because I know what it feels like to be unheard. And I refuse to let anyone else sit in that silence alone.

So let the world adjust its volume, because I’m done shrinking to fit inside anyone’s comfort zone. I was born with a backbone. I earned this voice. And I’m using it whether the room is ready or not. If standing up makes some folks uncomfortable, they can go ahead and shift in their seats. I’m not sitting back down. This is my line in the sand, my truth on full display, and my promise carved in stone. I will not be silent, I will not be small, and I will not stop.

I have learned the beauty and the necessity of boundaries. I am absolutely, unequivocally, and in no universe responsible for anyone else’s feelings about my truth, my choices, or my existence. I was raised to believe that people‑pleasing was practically a family requirement. And that we should disguise what was really going on for fear someone might realize our family wasn’t the picture‑perfect postcard we pretended to be. But those lessons didn’t protect me. They imprisoned me. And to feel strong enough, grounded enough, and whole enough to speak my truth after being silenced for so long is a miracle in itself.

But once I broke free from the expectations, the abuse, and the boundary‑less people who benefitted from my quiet suffering, something in me locked into place. I will never be silenced again. Not for family. Not for comfort. Not for tradition. Not for anyone. I earned this voice. I fought for this voice. And now that I have it back, I’m using it. Loudly, clearly, and without hesitation. Thanks for reading! And stand up.

Affirmation: My voice is not too much. It is exactly enough and it was built to be heard.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

 #ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

A Life Too Bright for Silence: Honoring Alex Pretti

“Some people leave footprints. Alex left constellations.”

—This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Grab your protest sign and a cup of coffee. Because if you live in the Deep South like I do, grief doesn’t just arrive. It sweats through your clothes and fogs up your glasses before breakfast.

Before I knew his name. Before I knew the details that would punch me right in the chest, Alex Pretti reached me. All the way down here where I’m surrounded by red as far as the eye can see. And when a story travels that far and hits that hard, you know it’s not just news. It’s a wake‑up call. It’s a “Lord, give me strength” moment.

I didn’t know Alex personally. But the kind of man he was? You could feel it. He was one of those people whose light didn’t ask permission. It just showed up, loud and warm and human. The kind of man who loved deeply, laughed easily, and carried a softness this world doesn’t always know what to do with. A man who deserved to grow old, to be safe, to be held by a country he believed in.

However, an ICE agent took his life. Another name added to a list no one should ever be on. And here I am, a radical left lesbian mom in Mississippi, suddenly out in the streets protesting because a man I never met had his life taken by a system that keeps insisting it’s “protecting” us while leaving families shattered in its reality.

Alex was the kind of man who felt everything at full volume. He cared deeply. He believed people deserved second chances. Even when he rarely gave himself one. He was the friend who showed up with snacks, unsolicited advice, and a chaotic plan that somehow always worked out. He was the man who apologized to furniture when he bumped into it. The man who hugged like he meant it. Said everything with his full chest. And had a softness, that humanity, is exactly what makes his loss so difficult. When I learned that Alex had been shot by an ICE agent, something inside me cracked. Not because it was surprising. Even though it was. But because it was familiar. Too familiar.

Another life taken. Another family grieving. Another official statement full of phrases like “self-defense” and “ongoing investigation.” Another community left holding the weight of a story that should never have happened.

Alex wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t a danger. He wasn’t a headline. He was a man. A son. A friend. A human being who deserved dignity, safety, and a future. And here’s the part that keeps making tears well up in my eyes. We never met. Our lives never crossed. But somehow his light still reached me. Where people like me are used to feeling outnumbered, unheard, and underestimated. Your story landed right in the middle of my heart like a truth I didn’t know I needed. Your life touched a stranger hundreds of miles away. Your death shook a community you never met. Your name pulled me into the streets to protest because what happened to you was wrong, and silence would’ve been its own kind of violence.

We had the only thing we ever needed in common. We were both Americans who still loved this country. All the colors of the rainbow. Who believed in equality for all. And who loves and respects our constitution. Not blindly, but bravely. Not the sanitized version. Not the version politicians slip out when they want applause.

We loved the real country. The one made of people, not power. The one made of communities, not cruelty. The one that’s worth fighting for because it’s ours, even when it breaks our hearts. You loved this place enough to believe in its promise. And I love it enough to protest the systems that stole you from it.

When I speak Alex’s name, I think of the way he lived. I think of his light and his laugh. The kind that made strangers smile. I think of his hope for our neighbors and country. The kind that refused to dim. I think of his softness. The kind that made people feel safe.

Alex taught me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. He taught me that vulnerability is an act of courage. He taught me that showing up messy, flawed,  and human is enough. You and me strangers on paper. Yet connected in purpose. Your life touched mine, and now your name lives in my throat every time I show up with a sign, a voice, and a righteous amount of Southern gay attitude.

I wish your story ended differently. I wish this country loved you back the way you loved it. Your light didn’t go out. It spread. It reached a queer mom in Mississippi who refuses to be quiet. It reached a community that refuses to forget. It reached people who are tired of watching the same system break the same bodies and call it “order.”

And if ICE, the state, or anyone else wants to know why I’m out here protesting, yelling, writing, and refusing to sit down, the answer is simple. Because Alex Pretti and Renee Good deserved to grow old.Because loving this country means fighting the parts of it that keep killing people. Because silence is not patriotism. Accountability is. And because The United States of America’s Constitution specifically states, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that ALL men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” BECAUSE IN THIS COUNTRY, THERE ARE NO KINGS!

And yes, I’ll still make jokes, because grief and humor are cousins in my family. But don’t get it twisted. The fire is real.

Your story changed me. Your name will not fade. And if this country ever gets better, it’ll be because of people like you. And the people who refuse to stop saying your name. Thanks for reading! And never stay quiet.

Affirmation: I honor the fallen by fighting like hell for the living. And by keeping my sense of humor, because the revolution needs snacks and sarcasm.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

A Life, A Name, A Nation’s Failure: Renee Nicole Good

“Some stories break you. Some stories change you. And some stories demand you stand up, speak up, and refuse to look away. Renee Nicole Good deserved to grow old.”

— Dana, This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today’s story is heavy, holy, and heartbreaking. And it deserves to be told without flinching.

There are moments when the world tilts. Moments when a headline hits you in the chest because you know this isn’t just news. This is someone’s daughter. Someone’s mother. Someone who laughed, cried, loved, lived, and deserved to grow old.

And this time, her name was Renee Nicole Good. She was a 37‑year‑old mother of three who was shot and killed by an ICE agent in Minneapolis on January 7, 2026, as reported by CBS News and NBC News. She was unarmed. She was shot three times including once in the head. And it was the wound that killed her according to the Hennepin County Medical Examiner’s report, cited by MPR News.

I didn’t know Renee personally. But I know the shape of injustice. I know the sound of a system cracking under its own weight. I know what it feels like to be trapped in a place where the people with power insist they’re “keeping you safe” while your body tells you otherwise.

When I read about Renee and about how the fatal shot was to her head. And about how the agent claimed “self‑defense,” about how the body‑camera footage released by ICE shows her backing away when the shots were fired. I felt that familiar ache. The one that says, This should not have happened. The one that says, This keeps happening. The one that says, How many more?

The world saw the moment she died. Millions watched the video, replayed it, argued about it. But Renee was more than the last seconds of her life. She was a whole human being. She was a mother. A woman trying to survive. Someone who deserved to be seen in her fullness. And not just her final frame. Another woman gone. Another family shattered. Another official statement claiming “self‑defense,” as reported by The Associated Press. Another community calling bullshit.

I’ve spent enough time in psychiatric, legal, and medical systems to know how quickly institutions protect themselves. How fast the narrative shifts. How easily a person becomes a problem instead of a person. But Renee wasn’t a problem. She was a life.

When I say her name, Renee Nicole Good, I feel the heaviness of it. The way a name becomes a headline. The way a headline becomes a debate. And the way a debate becomes noise. But behind that noise is a family who will never be the same. Children who will grow up with a before and after. A community that will remember the day everything changed.

And I think about how often marginalized people are told to “comply,” “calm down,” “cooperate,” “not escalate,” “not resist,” “not move,” “not breathe wrong.” And still they die. Grief like this doesn’t fade when the headlines do. It lingers. It haunts. It becomes part of the landscape of a community. And it should. Forgetting is how injustice survives.

Renee deserves better than to be forgotten. She deserves better than to be reduced to a political talking point. She deserves better than to be a momentary outrage. She deserves to be remembered as a woman whose life mattered.

When I read that her death was ruled a homicide, even if the system refuses to call it a crime, I felt that familiar sting. The one that says, We see what happened. We just refuse to name it. And when I read that she was unarmed. And that she posed no threat, and that the fatal shot was to her head, I felt the anger rise. Not the wild, chaotic anger. The quiet kind. The kind that sits in your chest like a stone. The kind that says, This is not justice. This is not safety. This is not okay.

I don’t have a neat ending for this. There isn’t one. But I can say this, Renee, your life mattered. Your story matters. Your name will not be swallowed by the noise. To her family, I am holding you in the softest part of my heart. To her children, I hope the world becomes gentler for you than it was for your mother. To her community, keep speaking, keep fighting, keep remembering. And to anyone reading this who feels the weight of it, you’re not imagining it. You’re not overreacting. You’re not alone.

Some stories demand to be told. Some losses demand to be honored. Some names demand to be spoken. Renee Nicole Good. We see you. We remember you. We will not look away. Thanks for reading! And from the bottom of my heart I say, “Fuck ICE!”

Affirmation: I honor Renee by telling the truth, holding the grief, and refusing to let her name fade.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

We Love Our Allies

“An ally is someone who stands up even when they feel they can’t.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. As Pride month begins to wrap up, I want to talk to you about a group of people that many of us LGBTQ+ people draw strength from. It’s our allies! This group of people are usually straight. But they stand up for different issues within the gay community that continually marginalize us. They are voices that stand up and say, “I’m straight. But your discrimination and hate is wrong.”

Our allies who are sometimes known as “fruit flies,” bring strength to our battles with equality. And they also love us for who we are versus many of our families who love us for “who they want us to be.” I will be the first to say that there are zero gay affirming people in my family. No matter who agrees or doesn’t agree, the gay person is here to stay. And I gladly wear the title of the “rainbow sheep” in the family.

There are those still who say, “We love you for who you are.” But they stand against equality and continue with their homophobic or transphobic comments. That, my friends, is not an ally. You just know someone who is gay. You cannot say that you’re ok with me being a lesbian and then speak out about how my transgender friends are wrong or abnormal. That’s hypocritical. You don’t have to be gay or trans to be active and say, “Equality should be for all and not just one gender or sexual orientation.”

Our transgender brothers and sisters need our support in the fight for their rights to be who and what they want to be. To be able to fight for our country on the frontlines for freedom. And to be able to use any damn toilet that matches the gender in which they identify. They do not want to harm you or your children. Individuals who have or are transitioning do not want to rip your genitalia off or steal whatever small amount of virginity you may have left. They simply want to empty their bladder and bowels.

 I had a friend that I had a close relationship with one time. But when I came out to her, our friendship ended. That is what I call a conditional friend. As long as I was who they wanted me to be everything was ok. But when I told them who I really was, that was not acceptable. It is truly their problem and not mine. That is not an ally. That is an asshole. I know they both start with the letter “A,” and it can be confusing to some.

People have a misconception that anyone under the LGBTQ+ umbrella has an insatiable sexual appetite. And that we are lurking around to force straight people into gay submission. If I know that someone is straight, I will not cross the line by trying to seduce them. It’s call mutual respect. I know that there are creepy people that do that and are ok with that. I would simply call “bullshit” and tell them that it’s very disrespectful. But I know even more straight people who want to pound the gay out of us. It would be like someone forcing me to be straight. And I barf in my mouth just a little at the thought of ever having to pretend that I’m straight again. If someone who is gay comes on to you, simply tell them that you’re straight. Most of the time that is respected. And sometimes is just a faulty “GAYDAR.”

As a lesbian, the misconception that we want to run in and turn straight women gay is an absolutely ridiculous argument. And this is where our allies come into play. They not only love us for our authenticity, but they are also on the front lines of the pride banner to speak up against hate even when we are not around. Allies are another source of strength that can only be found within them. And for this, I am eternally grateful. Beautiful friendships and family relationships can be mended by being an ally.

In my family there are those who when discussing someone who is gay, they spell it. Like “Yea, I collaborate with this guy, and he is G-A-Y!” Let me help put your minds at ease, “You cannot catch the gay from saying someone is gay.”  So, making the statement, “I love you because you’re my child or my family member.” Then to counter with, “Hate the sin, love the sinner” asserts that you hold yourself to a higher level because you know God better than he knows himself. When God actually spoke about loving everyone. And that no one deserves his love any more than the other. Jesus preached about equality and inclusion, not discrimination and hate. And from what I’ve seen in my life, there’s a lot of “cherry picking” of the Bible to satisfy an argument. God’s people are taught to spread his love. But some of them are the very ones who close the church doors when the gay people arrive. And if you are let in there is no shortage of stares and whispers.

If there was ever a group of people who I give the utmost respect, it would be our allies. I have always been one to stand up for the underdog in most situations. And I can promise you that it doesn’t always make me popular in a good way. So, for a “straight ally” to stand up for me and others, you will always be considered members of my Pride family.

A lot of us LGBTQ+ individuals create families among others, because our families are simply too rich in bigotry and self-righteousness to be considered a “safe place” that nurtures love and growth in a relationship. And I live in a “hotspot” of the country that has a lot of judgement and ignorance. They have simply become a wounding vessel and a very rigid group of people that do not deserve the time nor the energy to continue relationships with them. So, we form close ties and bonds with our allies instead.

I have used this phrase many times and it stems from my own family when I say, “If nothing changes, then nothing changes.”  I have to hold my head high, turn around and walk away like a boss. And I walk right over to my ally’s house where love and acceptance isn’t only spoken, it’s shown. You can love me and stand up for our rights as we do. But you cannot say that you love me and think that neither I nor my friends are entitled to the same rights you have. I absolutely will NOT be a part of that in any way.

Thank you so many allies for everything that you do that we never know about. And thank you for showing us what the love of Christ is all about. Homophobes, transphobes, and the self-righteous thank you for showing me who I never want to be. As always, take what you can use and leave the rest. Keep smiling. Happy Pride Everyone!

Affirmation: I will not shrink myself for the comfort of others.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

“Trans Rights Are Human Rights”

“It’s not the child’s responsibility to teach the parent who they are, it’s the parent’s responsibility to know who their child is.”

-Tig Notaro

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away! I hope everyone’s Pride month is going well. There’s just something about Pride month that feels so unique to the rest of the year. To me it’s almost like coming out of the closet for one month every year. The release of finally stepping out of that smothering closet into your truth and say, “This is who I am!” And after the  chaos that can happen, at the end of the day, you can finally sleep soundly knowing that you just set yourself free. You no longer have to pretend that you’re one way or another to appease, yet another, non-affirming straight person who wants to tell you how many different ways that you’re going to Hell. And for my fellow trans brothers and sisters, it can be so much more difficult.

First, you must understand what the term “Transgender” means. Transgender is very simply, when someone has the brain of one gender and the body of another gender. It’s difficult for many to understand. If you don’t understand, then you were never transgender. I’ll admit that I don’t understand everything. But that’s not the point. The point is that the person or people are my friends, and I accept them for whoever they are or want to be. And I understand how difficult that can be. 

Transitioning is so much more difficult than just saying that you’re trans. They go through physical, psychological and emotional changes. Not only do they have to say, ‘I’m different.” They also have to say, “I’m switching genders.” Based on the way that my family reacted to my own coming out, I would rather dive headfirst into a vat of hot lava instead of telling them that I was switching genders. I’m considered “soft butch” and there are a lot of problems because I’m not the stereotypical female.

Let me explain a few things.

· Transgendering behaviors are peppered throughout history in ancient civilizations and cultures of the world. 

· In the nineteenth century, people like Karl Ulrichs began to describe “gender confusion” as being “female psyche caught in a male body.”

· The Early 20th century the Germans began studies and treatments for gender dysphoria.

· In the 1950’s transgender rights in the United States began with Christine Jorgensen’s surgery coming to public attention. 

· 1960’s the term “transgender” appeared and then medical treatments like hormone therapy and gender affirming surgeries became possible.

· 1970’s The very first clinic dedicated to transgender health care opened in Canada. 

· 1980-Present the term “transgender” was popularized and the moment began to build momentum(HRC.org, 2024).

Transitioning can be something as simple as having a new hairstyle, name, pronoun or style of clothing. Not everyone transitions all the way through surgery. Some people have complete top and bottom surgery and hormones. And others do hormones and choose not to do surgery for several reasons. The complete process is individual to the person. And your opinions will not influence this. It’s not about you and your wants and needs! It’s about them.

I wish that some of you could be on this side of the “public bathroom” argument and realize how utterly ridiculous you sound. They want to simply use the bathroom that reflects their gender. They don’t want your precious “dangling genitalia” or your “cooterville.” And equally ignorant is the statement about being dangerous to kids. Let me make one thing perfectly clear, a lot of the time you won’t be able to identify these individuals by just looking at them. The whole concept of transitioning is about change. And not everyone transitions at the same pace. Peeing and pooping happens no matter what your gender. After my own sexual abuse, I would feel safer leaving my children with someone who is transgender versus someone who is straight and religious.

 That does not mean that I don’t love God through my own beliefs. It means that some of the people that I distrust the most are religious people I’ve been around. And no, I don’t believe that all religious people are harmful. I have some very beautiful christian people in my life that have become a backbone of strength for me. But my trauma has taught me since the age of 5 years old to be incredibly careful around people who say they love Jesus and then use that as a weapon to manipulate and hurt others. I watch actions and not religious rhetoric.

And the military argument? Really?! Like what soldier is going to say prior to his/her life being saved by someone who is transgender, “Wait! Drop your drawers. Do you have one a “banana hammock” or a “clam snuggler?” I wouldn’t care and would be screaming, “Kill this ISIS asshole!” And they are willing to lay their own lives down for a country that does not see them as equal or as deserving as their straight battle buddies. Think about that for a second. They are going out risking and laying down their lives for people who live in some kind of world where random acts of violence are conducted by a “Trans Monster” seeking out children and virginities. I have never seen so much stupidity until “Trans Rights” came into question.

If you think coming out as a gay person is difficult, talk to one of the Transgender Warriors. The term “transexual” is a very outdated and derogatory term. A transexual is the same thing as a cross dresser. There are no hormones or surgery involved. And drag queens and drag kings are not the same as transgender. Some do perform as kings and queens. However, transgender is not only when the individual dresses like the opposite gender. I have met some of these beloved and very courageous people. And I can tell you that a lot of people who transition are some of the most appealing and sexiest people on the planet. And don’t think that they have an insatiable sexual appetite like what is assumed by those not under the rainbow umbrella. Trust me, they have standards too.

I will always be an advocate for Transgender Rights. They deserve the same rights as anyone else. And I believe that if they are brave enough to go fight for my rights, then they’re also deserving of the same rights. They are fighting for our freedoms as I sit and write blogs with a cat in my lap. Have the courage to stand up for these people who are even more marginalized than I am. And to all of my trans friends and family, “I stand with you! You are deserving of love and compassion. You are not wrong. You are loved and accepted. And YOU ARE ENOUGH!”

Thanks for reading! Take what you can use and leave the rest. You are Wanted, Needed and Loved! Happy Pride Everyone!

Affirmation: Your gender and authenticity are beautiful.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#Thispuzzledlife