Living in a Rural Town Where Q-Anon is Queen

As I move into my new small town, I worry about how long any town in America will remain unshattered

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Outside the Queen’s private compound, photo by Drop Q. Tweety three

I grew up near a small town where a huge celebrity fervor arose over our star resident. I now plan to move to that very town, where Q-Anon is not king, but most definitely, queen.

I wish our town to remain anonymous, and so does Queen Bat Crap Crazy, whose vast estate is now swarming with Q-Anon gremlins. If I am being unkind to the patron who in no small part drives the local economy, well, excuse me.

Q-Anon is so laughably ludicrous that the wisest people of Lemuria have leapt off the looney schooner and left our area. That is, they, who believe a reincarnated toxically masculine militia man who has declared Trump (and so, then, our nation) will “grow” from an encounter with alien spaceships aboard Air Force One just felt Q-Anon adherents are just “too crazy.” The wise sage queen, channeling this hero, also clues people into the best moments to buy gold. Because, at world’s end (also predicted) you will presumably want the weight of those bricks.

Inside secret knowledge trading tips aside, I like so many others, don’t always see the danger of such deranged directions in which winds blow. But, still, I remain wary of them.

To be completely honest, the casual racism and sexism displayed in this small town remains more terrifying to me. The big super-charged trucks emblazoned with giant flags bigger than their blasting mouths, and the Trump 2020 banners everywhere.

There are a few, tiny Biden/Harris signs bravely peeking out here and there, but around here, even if majority in unspoken views, they are not the majority in bellowing. Conservative talk radio blares out of very truck like their toxic diesel emissions. I can’t breathe.

The confluence of country conservativism and Q-Anon intrigues amuses, but seldom assures me I am in the comfortable, bucolic, and “nice” town of Mayberry I signed up for, after all. We even had a “racial” incident, not one block from the home I rented this summer. A protest ensued, with lots of shouting of “Black Lives Matter” countered by middle fingers held aloft from those same trucks and loud sneers of “All lives matter!!”

It was sad for me, to see, really. The ugliness. The cruelty. The beautiful little town I wish to call home torn asunder by one-part Q-Anon conspiracy theory, one-part faith in Trumpeteers, and, finally, one-part loud mouth idiot in chief. I keep biting my tongue around here. The sum of all being systemic racism and inequality blessed with the blood I taste in my mouth every time I have to immerse myself among the unwashed, proud, and hard-working Walmart shoppers who oh-so-often refuse to wear masks.

Here is a disclaimer. I too, grew up in a red neck family. We were military. We were WASP. We were proud. We drove trucks. We were hard-working, and hard-scrabble. I was not immune to the rotting influence of invisible privilege and uninformed forms of insidious swill. Therefore, I take only meager delight when I point my poison pen at my neighbors and stab away.

The thing about Q-Anon moving in just feels weird though. Like an apocalypse wrapped in a mystery inside the shining copper enigma of a witch’s cauldron.

It also feels weird to criticize the primarily female following of women devoted to Queen — Let’s say, “J” — of a certain age, around here seeking power and influence. It reminds me of those white women voters who I personally wish to bitch slap into last Tuesday (debate night) who voted for madness, divisiveness, COVID-19, wildfires, and the death of so many birds long since fallen out of the sky like silent warnings.

That is, I have never, ever bitch-slapped anyone, (I find myself appalled that I could even say the words.) Yet, I continue to be traumatized by those scary, white women and even more so by their “men.”

There is something about women seeking some semblance of empowerment being pulverized by otherwise politically correct progressives. Defenses are erected. Hackles are raised. Venting voices vociferate. Like I say, I too, am a country bumpkin with deeply held conservative views on some issues.

My love for Jesus, although deeply atheistic now, is still infused for admiration of tolerance, forgiveness, compassion and, less frequently, angry indignation.

I have to temper all my views. It’s frankly exhausting, but necessary. When I demonstrate in marches to ally for causes like climate action and Black Lives Matter, I am conflicted, confused. I sometimes feel alienated and unappreciated. And, yes, I know there are very many reasons why this should be so. It does feel sometimes, that other allies — of every color and gender — are far more willing to call out irritating splinters in one another’s eyes than to address the giant beams in the blind eyes of all those diesel truckers blaring their toxic views, spews, and news.

For example, while protesting in Seattle, I felt more out of place among the righteous throng than I feel when I am meandering down Mainstreet Small Town, USA.

I think this fear that we white people sometimes feel is mostly unconscious. It betrays the fact that we would rather stay unaware than confront our programmed racism. When it does come to the fore, it’s even more uncomfortable. It displays that we are more afraid of our own guilt, or fear of rejection, than we are of scary, and hopefully meaningful discussions. But blending in with the Clueless clucks clan is also uncomfortable.

I’m not asking for your sympathy. I am definitely not asking for more soothing at the cost of more energy expended on white fragility. I am just making this very minor point.

Here is a much bigger point: small town America is very ripped up right now. It is heartbreaking and hard to square with a deep desire to simply go back to being the square I was as a child. People argue about the urban elites versus the conservative rural areas.

I think the answer is to integrate. We need progressives in the prairies and the hayseeds in the high rises. Then, we need real economic justice, policing that serves, climate justice that provides equal access to clean air, food, water, and nature immersion. It must include my much lusted for vertical gardens created in a very vast Bladerunner makeover to bloom the hanging Gardens of Babylon. Could we please do that, but perhaps without the sexual slavery of ritualized prostitution?

Q-Anon is a conspiracy theory with something for everyone. There is Satan, torture, sexual orgies, cannibalism, and the threat that they are coming for you and yours, next. And, yes, I know Hell is often a metaphor, but for actual victims of actual sex trafficking, it must feel like hell to know their best hope is the prophesied one who will take on the murderous Clintons, et al.

It’s enough to have me listening for good gold investment timing, because moving is expensive and writing pays squat, (plus some polite claps. THANKS!)

For those of us on the edges of our seats while plagues rage, fires purge, civil unrest rises, citizens rile one another, imperiled economy, failing healthcare, and doomed democracy loom, it’s like the end times sound almost welcome for a nice rest.

But there is one heroic liberator — according to Q-Anon lore — to liberate us all. Unfortunately, that great savior is Donald J. Trump.

I could always use the gold bar to bash my brains in.

Written by

Ecopsychologist, Writer, Farmer, Defender of reality, and Cat Castle Custodian.

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