Mother's opinion is that we're too young to be old
And mother's opinion is we should never do what we are told

My boyfriend, Josh Nichols, was the middle child in a family five. They lived in a nice house that sat upon a hill that was all fine to visit until the winter when the driveway became a test of your car’s insurance policy vs. the ice. I never tried to do so and would have to trek though the show on the side of the driveway, to avoid walking on Mr. Nichols prized—in his words—lawn.

His mother, Linda, was a stay-at-home mom but she worked all day at being a keyboard warrior: speaking out the atrocities of “the left,” the sheer audacity of “the liberal media,” and the “the war on women” stating that ‘trans-ing’ the kids was abhorrent.

She took the family to a MAGA rally a few days before the election. It was like a Jekyll and Hyde transformation. From a woman who loved everyone and did not have one iota of hate towards anyone suddenly became a right-wing radical and forced her husband, Wes, Josh, his younger brother and sister, Kyle and Amanda, to bend the knee and go to said rally with her. I was invited to go, and I was freighted to death on the inside and wanted to find a way to exit the situation.

“Rhett has a track meet in the next morning, mom. It wouldn’t be a good idea for her to stand in a crowd like that.”

Mrs. Nichols turned to me. “In November?”

“I do what the coach requires,” I replied.

“Well, I think it will be an interesting experience. I have never gone to something like this.”

“Do I have to go?” Josh asked.

“I think you should. You need to know more about the world works on something other than TikTok.” His Dad replied as he walked down the stairs wearing a “Trump” t-shirt. He had a set of shirts with him and handed one to Josh. “Put this on and join the party.”

Josh looked at the shirt and the at me and his parents. “I’d rather not. Can I just wear this?” Josh asked as he waved his hand in front of green t-shirt. “It’s not like we’re going to take a family photo.”

“That’s a great idea. Honey, I can use a picture like that on my Facebook wall.”

Mr Nichols nodded as Kyle and Amanda walked down the stairs with her noses glued to their iPads. He handed them their shirts and one to Mrs. Nichols. There was one left.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with us, Rhett?”

“We’ll get back to you, Mom.”

“We only have two hours before it starts, and we were going to go out to dinner.”

“I’ll us if it comes to that,” Josh replied as he scrunched the shirt in his right hand took ahold of my hand with his left and we swiftly walked out of the room at a “could have been brisker” pace.

We watched Josh’s family coast down the driveway in their SVU.

“I wasn’t planning on going, Rhett.” Josh said as he threw the shirt onto the couch.

I nodded.

“Seriously. I don’t care about politics and the only crowd I want to be around is a mosh pit or on the field.”

“You won’t hear the end of it if you don’t.”

“I won’t hear the end of it if she takes that picture. I’d rather have Mr. Larkin barking at me in US History class instead of some other dude yelling about whatever. What do they talk about at rallies anyway?”

“Only way to find out,” I replied as I scooped up the shirt and tossed it back at him.

“Are you mad?”

“Mad, no. Crazy, maybe,” I replied. “Put it on.”

“I’ll wear it under another shirt. Are you sure about this?”

I was afraid, yes, because I read about had happened years before and how the movement to obliterate “my kind” started, faltered, and then stood back up right an unstoppable robot and mowed down anyone who stood in its way with threadbare laws and repetitive grabber about what’s happening to the children.

I was sixteen, technically still ‘a child’, but I damn sure knew I was girl and lived as one since I was six years old without any issues. No one at school ever gave it a thought as everyone already thought I was a “sweet little girl”. There was an issue when I wanted to play baseball in grade school and the taunts-oh those taunts- from little boys and their moms. “How dare they let a girl play baseball!” They would say.

So, it was always the opposite for me…with no one wondering what was between my legs and nothing ever came up. Sure, perhaps there were whispers in the dark, but no one wanted to be one hundred percent ‘that bitch’ and make a scene out of it. Not like I was going out for Prom queen, I just wanted to be a girl who went to school wearing whatever she wanted to whenever it pleased.

My parents raised me to be outspoken, but to also take a step back if an idiot was talking so I could learn what drove them to their moronic ways. It was a plan of action that always worked and I was going to deploy is once again on that night.

We drove to the Westbrook Arena and found ourselves in a long line to get in.

“I think half of the county is here,” Josh said as he put the car in neutral as we waited.

“Hmm-hmm,” I replied as I looked at the column of cars all seemingly patient to get in. Tragically, it’s an an everybody for themselves after the event is over. I saw a sea of red hats. Those MAGA hats…it was on every person’s head like a starving brain-sucking alien.

“I’m willing to bet mom’s bought hats for everyone. I wonder if they’re made in China?” Josh said with a chuckle as he shifted into first and we moved to make our turn into the parking lot.

We found a space in the ‘overflow area’ which was basically a grassy area that would would become a muddy mess if one drop of water fell on it. It also beckoned for someone in to come in a huge truck that could jump the curb and plow into a space, with their flags a-waving and with some a-hootin’ and a-hollerin’.

I held onto Josh’s hand as he approached the area doors, after going around a wall or two. There was a row of metal detectors guarded by a mass of police decked out in gear that looked right of ‘Call of Duty: Modern Warfare”. Josh’s belt set off one of the detectors and it screamed out like he had brought in an IED. I prayed her would avoid saying anything stupid or witty and to just put the belt in a tray and try it again. He chose to be silent.

“I wanted to say it was a C-4 model belt.”

“I am so glad you didn’t,” I replied. “I’d hate to see you behind bars.”

“I kind of want to play COD when we get home.”

I nodded as we entered the interior of the building and into a Red Sea so large Moses would have given up in trying to part it. There was a large stage on the right with enough space to allow a performance of every member who ever was with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. There were flags all along the perimeter of the stage and three very large screens floating above.

“We’re never going to find my family in this,” Josh said as he took out his phone.

We stepped back as a group of people walked past us wearing matching red, white and blue shirts with the face of Donald Trump emblazoned on them. One person was a bit overweight, which stretched out Don’s face like no plastic surgery could ever do.

“Yeah, mom, we’re here. Where are you? No, no, we can’t see you waving. You’re up front? Like, how far up front? Okay. Got it.” Josh tapped the end call button. “They’re near the stage.”

“How did they get there?”

No idea. Do you want to joint them?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re being brave.”

“Thank you,” I replied as we walked down the stairs and weaved through the crowds.

Josh’s dad met up with us and handed over two neck lanyards with a card on them. The cards had the TRUMP logo on them along with an American flag.

“If only this was a Nine Inch Nails concert. Maybe we can do a bit of moshing.”

“Yeah, every time they say ‘make America great again’ we’ll jump and dance.”

“My poor feet,” Josh replied.

“Ha-ha,” Mr. Nichols replied as we joined the rest of the family.

Mrs. Nichols pointed her phone in every direction and dictated what was happening.

The lights dimmed and the National Anthem played every taking hats off and standing in silence. There was movement on the stage in the darkness. The crowd erupted like it was baseball game or a NASCAR race was underway.

The screen above the stage flashed rapid videos of several news quips from guys I had never about. There was a snippet that caught my attention: All residential educational programs in this state, regardless of type or duration, that allow minors to participate or to access residential facilities must segregate all restrooms, changing areas, and showers by sex.

There was a wave of yelling in agreement, like everyone around us gave a thumbs up to that. Surely there were more important things to react to: refugees, war, starvation…

A man stood up on the stage and screamed out a greeting to the crowd like he was Michael Buffer.

“Good evening! Welcome to the last rally before the election! Are you excited?”

The masses cheered in unison.

“That is so right,” Mrs. Nichols shouted over the din. “We need to protect girls at schools.”

Josh and I stood in shock.