Goodbye, Texas

On moving from places that both break and bolster our hearts

My partner and I are moving cross-country from Austin, Texas, to the Denver, Colorado, area this weekend, and it feels bittersweet.

Texas is my home state. My heart and soul state. The place I’ve lived and breathed more than any other in my thirty-three years of life.

I grew up in a suburb of Dallas-Forth Worth from ages six to seventeen before moving away for college and law school. After graduating with my J.D. in May 2015, I eagerly returned to Texas to put down roots in Austin, and I’ve been here for the past eight years.

It’s safe to say I’ve experienced the majority of what Texas has to offer: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

As a small child, I was convinced Texas was going to be all cowboys and horses, so here’s a photo of little me in Texas looking like a classic Texan.

If you’ve never lived in Texas or loved someone who’s lived here, then what you know about “The Lone Star State” is likely limited. You probably know about The Alamo, the John F. Kennedy Memorial Plaza, and the NASA Johnson Space Center.

You probably know about the brutal summers that last five months of the year with temperatures regularly above 100°F (don’t forget the fire ants and mosquitoes!).

You probably know about the Republican chokehold on the state government, the likes of Ted Cruz and Greg Abbott, and the broken power grid that didn’t get fixed even after people died.

You probably know about the churches on every corner, the anti-abortion laws, and the bills targeting LGBTQ+ people.

You probably know about the people who worship the Second Amendment, the lax gun-control laws, and the recent high-profile mass shootings (including the Allen mall shooting and the Uvalde school shooting).

Photo taken at Turkey Creek Trail in Austin, Texas.

Those things are all that most people who live outside of Texas have any awareness of, and hating on Texas (and Texans) as a whole is seen as acceptable by progressives who live in other parts of the country. But there’s so much more to this place that I wish non-Texans could see. For every moment I’ve spent shaking my fist in the air about this godforsaken hellhole of a state, there’s been another moment where I’ve felt proud to call it home.

Because there are lovely people in Texas. People of every skin color and ethnic background. People who are queer and trans and non-binary. People who are staunchly liberal and pro-abortion. People who are fighting tooth and nail to make this state better but are restricted by blatant gerrymandering and rampant voter suppression that keeps a “purple” state looking “red.” People who have been hurt by Texas politicians time and time again yet still call Texas home and have hope for its future.

Because there are beautiful places in Texas. Texas has a reputation for being ugly, and there are plenty of stretches of road with not a lot to see, but Texas has so much beauty and life. The wildflowers and blooming cacti take my breath away every spring, and I hope heaven smells like Texas Mountain Laurel. I’m constantly in awe of how BIG the sky feels here and the beauty of the out-of-this-world cotton-candy sunsets. There are so many cool state parks to visit from Big Bend to Garner to Inks Lake, and there’s a slew of different climates to experience depending on which part of this giant state you’re in.

Because there are magical, quintessential Texas things that make Texas, Texas. The grocery stores in every other state do not compare (promise), and I’ve been blessed to exist on this Earth at the same time as H-E-B. Show me a gas station as good as Buc-ee’s—I’ll wait. A frozen margarita in the hot summer is bliss. Queso and chips are food for the gods. I haven’t eaten meat in years, but if I ever did again it would be to have Texas brisket. The highest speed limits in the country are here. Texas thunderstorms hit different. And no one bats an eye when I say “y’all” (except my Wisconsin-born-and-raised mother who hates it).

Photo taken at Inks Lake State Park in Burnet, Texas.

There’s also so much I’m going to miss about living in the city of Austin. My friends and community. My dogs (they’re not coming with us, which wasn’t my choice, and please don’t ask me about it because I’m still grieving deeply). The professional network I’ve built up here. The delicious Austin food scene. The mild winters and almost always being able to hike in shorts on Christmas Day. Dancing at Rain on 4th and attending drag shows at Oilcan Harry’s and sitting by the pool at Kitty Cohen’s. The familiarity—of the roads, the culture, the overall scene.

Austin is where I both became a lawyer and left the law. It’s where I started a business, reformed and refined that business, and ultimately closed that business.

Austin is where I got married and divorced. It’s where I went from thinking I was straight to thinking I was bi to realizing I was gay. It’s where I had my first date with my current partner, fell in love, and got engaged.

Austin is where I started aerials and became a student of trapeze. It’s where I learned how to raise caterpillars into butterflies and befriend and feed squirrels.

Photos taken in the Mueller neighborhood in Austin, Texas.

Austin is a place where I have experienced immense change and evolution, and as a result, I have outgrown this city in unexpected ways. When I moved to Austin I never thought I’d leave, but I also never thought I’d be living the life I am now, which looks night and day different from the one I was living at twenty-five.

I have a partner who’s always dreamed of living in Colorado, and I want to make that dream come true for her. Climate change has caused the Texas summers to become so unbearable that even I, a self-proclaimed lover of heat, wouldn’t mind a break. I find myself yearning for the peace that only the mountains can bring and to live near the family member I’m closest to so I can be a bigger part of my niece and nephew’s lives. No state is truly “safe” for us as an openly queer couple, but on the spectrum of safety, the laws of Colorado are more friendly than the ones of Texas, which are only getting worse.

Photo taken at Garner State Park in Concan, Texas.

I want to be clear that it is a privilege to be able to pick up and move. When people in more liberal states tell people in more conservative states that they should just move somewhere else, they sound ridiculous.

Logistically, moving in general is a bitch, and moving cross-country is a beast. Between movers, moving supplies, security deposits, overlapping rent, etc., the expenses are immense. If I hadn’t sold a house as part of my divorce, we would have had to go into credit card debt to make this move happen. And for those who have children and/or have to find new jobs, moving can be exponentially more complicated. My partner and I are lucky that we both work remotely and the only people we have to worry about are ourselves.

Beyond logistics, moving to a new state usually means leaving behind your community, your support system, and the place you call home. It’s emotionally taxing in every possible way. For some people, like us, the benefits outweigh the costs, but that’s not true for a lot of people.

Even though we’re choosing to leave, I don’t believe that the solution to “red” state politics is for all of the more diverse and liberal folks to abandon those states for supposedly bluer pastures. That mentality ignores the fact that no state is a safe haven from shitty politicians, gun violence, hate crimes, and bad laws. And it ignores the brave and ballsy people on the ground in conservative-run states who are fighting for future generations. Those people—my friends and colleagues and community members—need support and resources from folks in “blue” states, not judgment and shitty advice.

Photo taken at Mueller Lake Park in Austin, Texas.

Texas, my Texas: I will always love you, even though you break my heart.

Texans, my Texans: I will always be one of you, and I’ll keep fighting from afar.

Here’s to what comes next— to new beginnings and mountain air and the courage it takes to attempt to flourish in an unfamiliar environment.

Queerly yours,

Shohreh

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