“You Are Not Welcome Here”
Anything can change, even yard signs
It’s a short trip from the left turn off of the main road, down the hill, to the bend where it becomes a dirt road. Before that curve in the road, I’m vigilant.
My shoulders creep towards my chin and my heart lives in my throat for those few moments before the bend, at the bend, and just past it. Not only because of the dogs and children and chickens that tend to feel at home in the middle of it.
It is because of the sign. Right at the bend in the road, where I can’t look away because of small children playing, pets and livestock roaming. I have to be careful.
I have to drive slowly. I don’t trust that they see me. They sometimes pretend not to see me, although I wave as I drive past. We are civil neighbors, even friendly. The sign made it harder.
It must have appeared eight or nine years ago. Not long in the arc of a life. My family has been coming for nearly 50 years. Things felt more cordial before the sign.
There is something about yard signs that I’m awed by. We don’t have anywhere to put them in the city. We have a Black Lives Matter sign in our apartment window. It has been there roughly the same amount of time. I doubt anyone sees it.
This sign, you couldn’t miss. It is taller than I am.
“If You Voted for Obama or Cuomo,
You Are Not Welcome Here!”
There were a few other choice words that I won’t mention, but you get the idea. I could only guess the intention of the sign, or who it was directed at.
I did vote for those people, and I’m glad that I did, given the choices offered. You can probably tell by looking at me how I vote. It is certainly not a secret. I might as well be carrying a yard sign on my back.
As in many states, New York State’s rural and urban areas are, in general, politically polarized. Our priorities are very different. We tend to flip from blue to red as soon as you pass a bridge or tunnel out of the city. Of course there are exceptions. This tiny town is far enough from NYC that many generations have never visited, nor do they want to. Everyone knows that we don’t live on that road year round.
As outsiders, we don’t expect much more than suspicious tolerance.
I told myself, “This is their home. I don’t know how hard their lives are here. I don’t know their struggles. I come for a weekend or a week to recharge. Of course our views are different. Our lives are so different.”
Understanding or not, the words burn. It was uncomfortable to have to pass such a loud and clear statement that I’m unwelcome, every time I returned to the home that I’ve loved and felt safest at ever since I was two. The knots would form in my throat and belly, wondering “What have they added this time?” The sign grew over the years to celebrate the current president, and to comment on various local issues.
Those same five words stayed, and each time I steeled myself to see them again:
“You Are Not Welcome Here!”
It was a written declaration of what I already knew.
It’s what I had felt most places as a child, moving from one apartment to the next, in a dozen homes by the end of high school. I didn’t feel welcome. I didn’t feel welcome in my own skin. I didn’t know what welcome felt like growing up, except for there, on that land. On that dirt road. This one place had been consistent. I had returned every year for as long as I could remember.
I didn’t know what welcome felt like growing up, except for there, on that land.
The dread as I neared that bend carried all of the ostracism and hurt I held within. I didn’t want to let it hurt. I told myself I really didn’t care about these people having their opinions. I knew that I would never be able to change those opinions even if I had the energy to try.
I can guess that they also feel powerless and hurt. They probably see their way of life eroding, and feel fearful and devalued. This is the one place, their home, where they have power to hurt back. I say ‘they’, because I really don’t know who made the sign.
My family are not the only outsiders on that dirt road, just up the hill from the farmhouse with the sign. Still, it felt personal every time. I had guessed, before the sign, that we were merely tolerated. Their cows grazed on our hill. Our parents had been friendly. The gifts of venison stopped decades ago. We wave, sometimes the wave is returned. That’s the extent of our current relationship.
Five years ago, there were a lot of yard signs for the current president along the final hour of the drive to the land. This year, there they were again. Although, from certain lawns, they were gone. I noticed signs getting bigger and bolder over the summer, but they seemed to be fewer in number. One barn was painted with a confederate flag and the incumbent’s five letter name in giant letters. It was at another dangerous crossroads; literally. I had to drive slowly by as I turned carefully, checking for cars, cringing and swallowing back bile.
I noticed signs getting bigger and bolder over the summer, but they seemed to be fewer in number.
Where do we draw the line? I do not wave at that family with the confederate flag. There have been some secret fantasies of flinging paint in the night. They will remain fantasies. The people who live there have guns and dogs. I am not giving up or giving in, I just haven’t figured out what I can do, not yet.
“To sit back and do nothing is to cooperate with the oppressor.”
-Jane Elliot
Existential dread has only grown in those years since the sign on our shared road first appeared. Polarization, blame, violence, hate, and now Covid-19. We only have more to feel divided over. Dystopian rage and fear keeps us in our bubbles. We don’t know each other’s stories, and I don’t particularly want to know right now. I choose to focus my energy where I have influence, starting from within and working outward.
In meditation and yoga I’ve found healing from the disconnect of my childhood. The tagline on my website is “If you breathe, you belong here.” Creating nurturing, inclusive community is my life’s mission.
While I’m much better, I’m not all better. I still easily feel rejected. I’m attuned to rejection, and empathize with the pain of people who have been ostracized and oppressed.
“The wounds heal but the scars hurt”
-Dr. Gail Parker
Our little place on the dirt road, up the hill from the farm with the sign, is a haven. It is worth the discomfort of being told that I’m unwelcome momentarily, to reach the unconditional acceptance I feel from the trees, crickets, birds, and toads. As soon as the road turns and I hear the scratching sound of loose dirt under the tires, it drowns out the feelings from the sign. Soon, my rear view mirror holds no trace of it.
As soon as the road turns and I hear the scratching sound of loose dirt under the tires, it drowns out the feelings from the sign.
The land has been an absolute blessing during Covid-19, to escape our apartment and let our son run around outside. We gladly endured the sign, while barely noticing small changes to it.
I have just arrived at our place on the land, alone this time. On my long drive, I found myself smiling more than shrinking.
There were the same signs for the incumbent, but there were others right beside them. Biden-Harris signs! Yard signs laid out like a patchwork quilt: Lawns of neighbors boldly disagreeing.
I turned off the main road. I rode the brakes down the little hill. There was a toddler on one side and a dog in the middle of the road. I slowed to almost stopping. Two men ignored my wave. The dog let me pass, the kid stayed still. I crept forward, afraid to look, but I had to…
The sign was gone.