Love Is Love. And This Ain’t It

(Addressed to Superintendents Richard Jamieson, Vicki Cook, John Stanmeyer, and Jay Butler)

You were the new guy in town. I didn’t ask for you, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt. That’s what I do — offer grace, offer room. Not because you earned it, but because I was raised to be welcoming.

You could’ve shown up with humility. You could’ve taken the time to learn who I am, what I love, how I live. But you never did.

Instead, you spoke down to me — like I couldn’t understand the rules of my own house. Like your title gave you the right to tell me who I’m allowed to be. You came in cold, stayed cold, and when I reached out — you gave me spreadsheet talk. When I needed presence, you were paperwork. When I needed care, you gave me flaccid fiduciary fiction.

You’ve never stood beside me at the moments that matter — the festivals, the parades, the celebrations of who I am. The times when being a neighbor means showing up and standing proud. Every time there was a chance to connect, you didn’t.

But you’ve spent your time obsessing over the parts of me you can’t change — and won’t.

You zeroed in on my library like it was a threat. You stripped its funding. You insulted the people who keep it alive — people who are me. You tried to dismantle something that is essential to my soul. And you did it not out of principle, but out of fear. Out of control. Out of ego.

I am not a flat map you can redraw.
I am Seven Bends by nature.
I twist. I carry memory. I make room for many.
And I will not be straightened.

Love is love, and this ain’t it.

How dare you try to reduce me.
I am peaceful — and sometimes mighty.
Here I am.

You tried to scold me. To shame me.
But I am not yours. I never was.

You’re giving me the ick, Dr. Dick.
And I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.

This was never love. This wasn’t even respect.
You didn’t come here to grow with me.
You came to tear down what was already thriving.

Just because you call me stupid doesn’t mean I am.

So yes, come get your sh*t.
And tell your friends to come get theirs too.
We’re done. We’re breaking up.
It’s not me. It’s you.

Sincerely,
Warren County, Virginia
(The one with the river you can’t straighten, the mountains you can’t move, and the library you couldn’t silence)

Written from the whispers and wisdoms of Warren County,
as witnessed by Parson Brown and Mallory Deinert

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