Last week, I received two separate messages with the same disturbing news: a trans colleague is relocating her family to Hawaii before the latest round of anti-queer legislation in Texas goes into effect.
She’s giving up the life she’s made here—the career, the community, and the friendships—to move to a state where she feels safe. Where she feels her family will be safer.
While this isn’t the first time I’ve heard about someone fleeing the state, this is the first time it’s been someone I know. I’ve heard rumblings about architects leaving because of the current political climate. Out & Equal recently conducted a survey on the impact of anti-queer legislation, and 45% of respondents reported feeling less safe in their state due to changes in LGBTQ+ rights.
But knowing a colleague is moving because she simply can’t exist as who she is? That really takes the wind out of your sails. And it gives you pause about why you’re still here.
We want the places we live to be safe spaces—these microcosms of friends and family, built over time, where we can be who we are. Where we can speak our minds. Where we feel comfortable expressing our whole selves without fear.
But when that safety disappears, do you stay? Or do you go?
I want to think the only reason I’d ever leave would be for work—or maybe retirement. More than once, James and I have discussed relocating for his job, if the opportunity made sense. But I’ve never considered leaving because Texas no longer felt safe for us.
I’ve grown up here. Apart from a couple of years in college, my entire life has been spent in and around Dallas. Family is here. Friends are here. I’ve never felt unsafe or like I couldn’t live openly. Everyone deserves that same experience.
But far-right politicians and hate groups have changed that reality. For every queer person living in a “red” state, we are forced to reevaluate our lives every time the legislature is in session.
What’s the next item on the agenda that will give us pause?
We’ve already seen states remove literature from classrooms and libraries—books that center Black and queer voices. We’ve already seen states try to limit parents’ rights when it comes to providing care for their trans children. We’ve already seen states attempt to restrict drag performances.
And still, at the start of every session, we hold our breath. Waiting for the next shoe to drop. Waiting to find out if the time has come for us to go.
Someone once left a comment on one of my blog posts: “If you don’t like it here, you can leave.” Because of, well, ‘Merica.
But I hate to think that’s the only solution—for me, for my fellow architects, or for anyone else. We shouldn’t be forced to make that choice. We shouldn’t be made to feel that giving up our identity or giving up our lives are the only options.
Where we live should be a safe space. Except, for my colleague, that’s no longer the case.
And unfortunately, I suspect she will be one of many making that hard choice.
