By Miura Rempis-Locke
Being an advocate for religious freedom as a Tennessean has always been an uphill battle – so many aspects of the day-to-day life of an average Southerner interact in some way with religiosity ranging from media depictions and discussions to legislative intent to educational policies and practices.
Religious expectation is deeply integrated with many activities in the South; your community is comprised of members from your nearest church, your elected official attends church events and uses them as face-to-face meetings with their constituents, your public school forum is begun with both the Pledge of Allegiance and a prayer, and your child has the opportunity to attend a private religious school using a tax-funded voucher provided by the state of Tennessee – you received a mailer about it over “Christmas” break.
As a long-time Tennessean and an atheist, I realized these actions were encroachments – but widely accepted as part of the culture of the South. When I first moved to a town south of the Mason Dixon line, one of the first questions I was asked at my public middle school by a fellow student was what church I attended. Luckily, another new student in my grade must have sensed my hesitation, as she pulled me away from the lunch table to warn me that being nonreligious was not something that was common among our peers. Sarah was one of the first people I met at our school that I felt I could be my authentic self around, as she accepted me for what I did (and didn’t) believe. We became very quick friends and remain close friends over a decade later; my community was found outside of the church.
When I accepted a new job role in Boston at the beginning of this year, I felt relieved to have finally escaped the Bible Belt. The biggest culture shock was not so much the lack of religiosity that exists here but the ways in which Christianity is different. Scattered across Boston are churches with rainbow Pride flags and Black Lives Matter signs in their front lawns, a far cry from the anti-gay and anti-trans messaging often heard in sermons across the South. The ways in which the communities here interact with the structure of the church seem different as well, with community and youth partnerships and aid initiatives being the most visibility that many churches receive.
My religious freedom advocacy will look different here, but Boston is not inherently safe from the dangers of Christian Nationalism. I moved just in time for a new presidential administration, and the implementation of many of the rumored Project 2025 initiatives that rely heavily on Christian Nationalism and complacency to implement. Less than two weeks in, DEIA initiatives have been scrapped, anti-trans initiatives have already started to roll out and pushes to replace federal employees with officials related to Project 2025 have already begun. Following public outcry of a federal grant freeze, the White House and OMB have reversed their plans only slightly, though this backpedaling signals an opportunity for hope to advocates across the nation that organizing against this religious encroachment may be possible.
What affects one of us in America affects us all – from Boston to the Bible Belt to the border of the West Coast. And even though advocacy may look different for me here as a new Bostonian, I am still a Tennessean who will not stand by as my friends and family back home fight, in some cases for their own identities and rights to their own bodily autonomy, the good fight.
Miura Rempis-Locke, an Americans United Youth Organizing Fellow, is a graduate of American University, where she received her Master of Public Administration, and an alumna of Middle Tennessee State University.
