We were married? my ex-husband asked. It was the start of a beautiful relationship.

In these days so fraught with political animosity, I find myself perversely following my grandmother’s advice, choosing to keep to my own kind—a tribe defined not by race but by political sentiment.

I was shaken by the house’s utter disrepair. Rotten eaves, holes in the roof, an awning coming loose. Kudzu vines, that southern sign of decay, climbed the walls, spiraled around the gutters, and sprawled over the eaves, on their way to creating a ruin. It was as if despair grew from the inside out.

In the aftermath of the tornadoes, neighbor helped neighbor, stranger helped stranger. After HB 56 passed, neighbor turned against neighbor. Anyone with brown skin became suspect. School librarians, grocery store cashiers, PTA volunteers, store clerks, hospital employees, and court reporters suddenly felt authorized to police anyone who “looked illegal.”

This fruitfulness was long in the making, years of my hands digging in the dirt next to yours, hope still in full flower. Season after season of planting and watering and whispering to the growing, flowering, fruiting things, Thank you, and More, please.

I used to think that there was one voice of Christianity. It was individualistic and regressive, and held no attraction for me. If I had encountered a more progressive vein of Christianity when I was young, I might have given church a try.

All for one, and one for all!” my sisters and I shouted as we dashed around the backyard, dueling with sticks. Three Musketeers, we were. Always on alert and trying to stay off the grown-ups’ warpath, sometimes the best we could do was to retreat together into our imaginary world. Sometimes, it was each little girl for herself.

Water fills the bathtub, reflecting the tile’s minty shade of green. My grandmother sits on the side of the tub, sleeves rolled up, a hand towel on her right shoulder, testing the temperature with her hands—marbled with strong, thick veins, her nails bright with red polish.

My father pulled up to our house in a moving van. He and his drinking buddies spent the morning loading all of our toys, bikes, clothes and furniture onto the truck, taking frequent breaks to reach in a cooler and empty a can of Black Label beer. They were all sweat and muscle. Piece by piece, they took our life apart like it was nothing.