America had a miniature city made out of paper and popsicle sticks. Over time he'd splurged on it, buying paint to give color and clay, felt, cotton, and sewing supplies to make tiny furniture. Each of the buildings had a roof that opened up so he could put things inside. America had thought of everything; he made flower shops, hand-crafting tiny bouquets; he made bakeries, gently brushing paint onto clay. He'd put a lot of effort into a church, but it didn't resemble an American church. Instead it resembled the churches of his European counterparts, the grand ones, as much as popsicle sticks and hot glue and beads and clay could. America had made banks and cars and gas stations, too, but those weren't as fun.

Out of everything, convenience stores were the most fun— and tedious— to create. The building itself was simple enough, but then there were endless shelves and posters, coupons and cans to make as well. It took a long time, but America was proud of himself for it.

America had lived in California for a time, and every convenience store was based off of one that he'd bought cigarettes from every day back in the 1970s. It was impossible to tell, as all convenience stores look the same unless you have a specific one in mind.

America had moved out of California after a long while of living there. He'd moved out in June of 2015, figuring that there was no reason to stay there, that California was no longer on the up and up. He moved back to New York after that, even though there was no reason to do that either. Really, the decision to move had been impulsive, and America had spent a long time afterwards feeling like he wasn't at home anywhere, which was ridiculous because he was, in all reality, the United States of fucking America. A normal person might've considered moving to a different country if they didn't consider reaching out to someone or getting a therapist first, but America could not do anything of the sort— whether reaching out or moving, both were equally improbable. After New York, he moved to a less liberal part of the United States, figuring that maybe he needed a good dose of conservatism to balance out his emotions, that maybe he just needed to be surrounded by a different ideology to feel like home. That was his mistake.

America was proud of California, even though a lot of people around him said it was a shithole. It'd be easy to say that he was unaffected— he was the United States, after all, and he was proud of all of them, no matter what other people said— but that would be incorrect. America hated listening to all of them, because of course he got it; California had the largest homeless population, California was ruined, California was... very liberal. America didn't think that any of his states were ruined or trash, but apparently some of his fellow Americans did.

Ever since he moved to this less liberal area, America's production of his city had been ramped up. The truth was, it had just been a street at first. He'd probably poured five hundred dollars into it by now; the streets took countless magazines, each block of pavement a carefully rolled up strip of paper; he'd purchased so many popsicle sticks and hot glue sticks. Even despite all of this effort and how proud America was of it, he still didn't show it to anybody. Even though it was huge, he still made a point to hide it away every time anyone was over. Most of the time he hid it under his couch, sometimes under his bed, but he loved that damn city and he would usually get pretty upset if he couldn't at least see it.

Even then, America's city felt wrong. He was proud of it— there wasn't anything wrong with it and he put plenty of effort into it, after all— but America couldn't show it to anybody. America didn't want anyone to ridicule him. Was he really proud, though, if he refused to show anybody? Wasn't that more like being ashamed? Shame felt so horrible compared to pride.

America had started building the city in California, but it hadn't been very much work. He hadn't put so much thought into it back then.

America missed California, but there was nothing there for him now. Sure, California had its bad parts, but it was so good. America loved California, and perhaps he was a bit biased in that. He didn't think California was the best state or anything— he didn't have an opinion— but he certainly liked living there and longed to go back, even if he knew it wasn't the same as it once was and that he didn't always agree with what the Californians were doing.

(Linebreak.)

America had bought paint for his city, but it had slowly gone to waste. The truth was that he hadn't wanted to paint the popsicle sticks beforehand because he was so afraid of messing them up somehow. So all of his buildings were very bland on the outside. He decorated the inside, though, and tried to furnish every building as well as he could. The insides of the buildings were very colorful, but they weren't very noticeable... unless you were America. The furniture and wallpaper and tiny carpets were all that he noticed, because he spent the most time on those.

America was a bit of a coward. He'd supported quite a few battles, believing in equality for all... he'd attended many protests of the Civil Rights Era, had made friends with suffragettes.

Still, as soon as his equality was at stake he couldn't show up to anything. He just went blank. Alfred Jones, unable to stand up for himself. Ever.

America had lived a long time. He knew a lot of history. In California and New York, there were always people protesting Pride— and yet there it didn't seem real because the overwhelming majority supported equal rights and didn't mind the LGBTQ+ community and called people out on their shit.

America knew that not all religious conservatives were homophobic, but he hadn't joined a large city. No, that would've been too liberal of him. Of course he had to join a small town in the country, because he just wanted to suffer all the time.

It was suffocating, but America had really thought he could do it. America was a nation, after all— and a somewhat conservative one— but this tiny fucking town was just a bit too much.

Damn California. America had gotten used to the luxury of being accepted, but this seemed like hell. America wasn't quite sure what homophobic people did these days, and he couldn't remember and now all he could imagine was being murdered or beaten up and God he should've just went anywhere else. Or he could be set on fire and die while hearing the word 'faggot' over and over again— no, that was too far back. America was fucking stupid and he shouldn't have come here.

He sat on the floor of his bedroom, furiously rolled paper up to make more streets, and then abandoned that and started crafting another convenience store. And another. Convenience stores were on every street corner in this city; he made them too often. He'd have to make other buildings to make sure that they could be evenly spread out.

America was an adult. Most of the people around him were adults. He had no reason to believe that anyone would try to hurt him, but maybe they'd say negative things and he was afraid of that too. America was very much aware of the fact that no one here thought he was anything but straight for multiple reasons, and he counted that as the largest reason that he was not seen as an outcast. America was much too afraid to be himself.

America had absolutely no reason to believe that all of the people around him were homophobic, but he couldn't help it. There were too many bad stories, and then the way he was raised didn't help. And anyway, the problem wasn't the people. The problem was their politicians, those that were openly homophobic, that were ignored here— praised, even, not necessarily for their homophobia but praised all the same.

Maybe the problem was America as well.

(Linebreak.)

America was not having the best time of his life at the moment. That was a bit of an understatement; he was doing pretty bad.

His coworkers, Dylan and James, were arguing. They were in a fucking convenience store, the only one America had been in more than a few times since the 1970s. There shouldn't have been three workers at the convenience store, as this was a small town with few people. America could've handled it well on his own; anyone could, and yet there they were. His two coworkers, arguing.

It was escalating rather quickly. America hadn't been paying much attention, but now the two of them were a bit loud and America was a bit annoyed. He just wanted to be done with his shift. America didn't really need to work at a convenience store, anyway— the government gave him money for going to meetings and shit, as if they were under the impression that the nations actually discussed things— but without a job he wouldn't have any routine, so here he was. Here they all were.

It wasn't like the two of them were violent or anything, but Dylan was yelling and it wasn't very pleasant. America decided to break between them with his classic heroic mindset, the one that said he was closer to his people than he actually was and also the one that kept him extremely disconnected from reality.

America brushed between them, gently pushing them apart. Dylan snapped at him, rather suddenly, "Don't touch me. What, are you a queer or something?"

"Sorry?"

"You never talk about women, or anyone at all. You're always alone. You touch people— men— a lot, even if you don't know them. Seriously, who the hell does that?"

America felt anger rising in his throat. He wanted to know who the hell this man thought he was, and why it would matter that he wasn't straight. Then, of course, there was the fact that he was basically only around men, seeing as he worked in a convenience store with two men and wasn't fitting in well with the community. Instead, his voice came out rather weakly, "Dude, I was just trying to stop the argument. I touched your arm; I really wasn't trying to feel you up or some shit." Apparently he wasn't passing too well as a heterosexual, because Dylan was still staring at him. A moment later he added, unconvincingly, "I'm str—,"

"Isn't that a bit fucked, dude?" James asked, interrupting America and saving him from a lie. "Why would it matter if he was? You didn't need to say that."

"Well, I'm just saying— I don't care if he is or not, I just need to let him know that I don't swing that way and that he doesn't need to push his lifestyle onto me. It's weird and disgusting and I'm not— of course I wouldn't stand for it."

James just shook his head at Dylan, sighing.

America took a few steps back, and now he was hiding behind James, being an absolute coward. Usually in stories the protagonist will have a moment where they stand up for themselves; America probably wouldn't ever stand up for himself. At the very least, it felt impossible right now.

America was not afraid of any of his people. He loved his people. He wanted the best for them. Maybe he was just a bit afraid of their opinions and what they might do because of those opinions, though. Most people might not care, but America couldn't get over himself. He loathed himself for it, for internalizing everything. America didn't get why he couldn't just be normal. Why couldn't he just be confident? Why couldn't he shrug off how other people felt? You'd think that so many years would be more than enough time to develop such a skill, but apparently not.

America was not afraid of any of his people, but for now he was going to leave. He slid behind James, climbed into his car and left before he even had the chance to think about whether or not he'd regret fleeing the situation.

(Linebreak.)

Being Not-Straight was not a defining part of America's personality. It wasn't even something he thought about very often. He thought about a lot of other things, like video games and superheroes and, you know, adult stuff— like taxes and going to work and politics. America thought about his friends and the newest YA books and TV shows, both of which he always consumed voraciously. A significant portion of his time went into learning new recipes and different work-out methods and trying to learn as many skills as possible, things that he could concentrate on (which also led to him bugging other nations, begging them to tell him of a good substitute for something that was only commonly found in their country). America was a nation; he was bored.

That was why he couldn't let things go. For fucks sake, he was the United States of America, and some of his most ignorant citizens would still hate him! His sexuality didn't matter to him, but it mattered to many of his citizens for the longest time, and it still (arguably) mattered to the big shots in the government. It wasn't fair. He'd felt uncomfortable under a fair few Presidents that cared about who he was fucking. He even lost his job during the Lavender Scare, rehired years later with the knowledge that he was only rehired because he was a special case and that many weren't so lucky.

So then, America had seen a lot of bullshit. It was easy to be angry about it when he was alone, but there, in that convenience store—what the fuck? He seriously almost said 'I'm straight', and then he ran away. He was the United States of America! It wasn't right for him to be afraid of anything. He should've been able to stand up for himself. It was okay if other people were afraid, because they... they weren't him. America didn't have an excuse; it wasn't like he was going to be murdered or something. What sort of hero was he, if he was unable to even stand up for himself? If he just hid and then ran away?

America didn't even have it that bad in the end. He was attracted to women, too... he just liked men a lot more. Still, he just ran away. It wasn't like Dylan was one of those crazy fucks who would try to kill him; Dylan hadn't even moved towards him.

There were enough bad stories. America just didn't want to become one of them.

He loved this little town. Really, he did. When he wasn't busy being uncomfortable and watching his tongue, conversations were smooth. Words really did roll off the tongue, though, especially since America was by himself most of the time. America spent some time with these people, just hunting and talking about guns. America liked guns, so it wasn't hard to have a conversation about them. It was easy to talk about most things, but as soon as politics were brought up America would dip from the conversation, politely excusing himself and leaving before he said anything wrong. Politics came up a lot, and America tried to avoid discussing them as much as he could.

(Linebreak.)

When America was significantly younger (by fifty or sixty years), there were all these advertisements and influencers smoking cigarettes. It was cool, and said to attract all the ladies. America was young and nobody was really against smoking at the time, so he did. Besides, America had figured, it could probably attract all the men too, right?

Well. Not exactly. America didn't get lung cancer or really have any negative repercussions from smoking because he was a nation, but nobody ever fell in love with him.

Anyway, California was beautiful then. It was legal to fuck there. The hippie movement was in full swing. It wasn't like California was special in either of these instances; America had just never lived too far in the West before, and wanted to go to a populated area.

And so there America sat, finishing up the counter that would go in his store. He glued a tiny pack of cigarettes to the counter. America worked in a convenience store now, so he supposed he could base convenience stores off of that— but he never got bored of this place, and it didn't exist anymore. Who really cared if he was immortalizing it?

America would leave tomorrow. Definitely. He would go back to his apartment in New York, and then maybe he would go back to California— but probably not.

He'd stayed here, tolerating this place because he knew he was the problem with how he felt. Nobody here had acted in a rude manner towards him until now, and after such a long time of anticipating the day someone would catch on, he still fucked it up. America had stayed here because he hadn't had much reason to believe that he was going to get hurt, but now his mind was swarming with stupid ideas of getting very, very hurt. People were still murdered. People were still beaten. Why did America think things ever changed? Because the government had his back? They didn't. They almost never did. Instead he relied on states, who cared much more about this subject, as states had freedom from the burden of federal sin. And America, being the dumbass he was, had left the protection of other states.

You wouldn't think that such a minuscule but nonetheless important part of America would ever make him discriminate against which states he decided to live in, and it didn't. Hadn't. America hated himself for how naive he always was, thinking things would get better when he knew they typically didn't. Of course the Supreme Court ruling didn't mean everybody would accept gay marriage— some loved an America consisting only of their ideals, abandoning one that only harbored them. Of course people were still going to be homophobic— the government encouraged it at times, didn't it? America hated everything about himself, but mostly he hated this. He hated that he needed to leave, but he would be gone tomorrow and among the mind-your-own-fucking-business-if-you-have-a-weird-opinion attitude of New York by overmorrow, as free as he was going to be for a long, long time.

There was a knock on his door. America got up and opened it, smiling immediately despite the breakdown and conflicting thoughts he'd been having only moments earlier.

"Hey," James said, half-smiling. "Look. About earlier. Dylan's sort of weird. His parents were really homophobic, and he never learned better. Sorry if he made you uncomfortable."

America didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. James continued. "I mean, I won't pretend a lot of people here aren't like that, but it's not like we're stuck in the 1950s with the traditional household in mind and all that shit. Most of us aren't, anyway."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"Dylan's fucking weird, though. He thinks if a dude hugs his friend he must be gay. That's why nobody hangs out with him."

"Oh?" America muttered.

"Yeah. Hey, What's this?" James grabbed his hand. America flinched and drew away, but not before James had seen the replica of the convenience store. "That's a cute building," James complimented.

"Yeah, I guess so." America took a few steps back, which James took as an invitation to come in. It was not. James saw America's tiny city and went over to it.

James looked at America. America kicked himself for not putting it away. This was probably a weirder hobby, especially since his city looked like shit anyway. He wondered why he'd ever been proud of it at all.

James crouched down and peered inside one of the windows. "Wow, you put furniture and shit into them, too," James murmured. He straightened again, looking to America. "That's really cool, Alfred."

America relaxed. "Yeah. I guess it is."

"Hey, do you want to come to the potluck tomorrow?" James inquired, and quite casually at that— he asked like he expected America to show up, as if America had a reputation for bringing a mean pasta and was actually a member of the community instead of someone with a slightly different accent that spent most of his time alone. "It's being held on the camp grounds outside the city hall."

America stiffened. James didn't know about his sudden plans to just drop everything and leave. "Yeah, sure. That sounds great," America responded. "What time?"

Yo, so this was a very interesting story to write. To clarify, I had a similar experience—at least to the breakdown and paranoia and all that— but it wasn't between states; I just lived in a fairly mixed state, and transitioning from a liberal area to a more conservative area was hell for any sense of well being, and yet only a fraction of how bad I thought it was going to be. Granted, it was a lot worse for other people— it just wasn't for me because I didn't say anything.

Anyway, obligatory 'Just because the person reading this might be religious and/or conservative doesn't mean they're homophobic' because that's not what I'm saying. You can be a religious/conservative without being homophobic, obviously— in this story I'm mostly referring to the loud minority and those that are just bystanders to homophobia/homophobic bullying.

I couldn't name a certain state for fairly obvious reasons, but you can imagine America's conservative residence to be just about any state you want— hell if I could stop you. Of course there are still people in fairly liberal states that are homophobic, but in my opinion homophobia is much easier to ignore in more liberal areas.

I'm sorry that the writing goes back and forth a lot; I understand if it's a bit hard to read— there are more emotions and explanations than anything else, so it was a bit hard to write as well. I did hang onto this for a few extra days and I fixed as much of it as I could, but it's still a bit choppy.

I feel the need to mention, also, that part of my reasoning for America's paranoia is that he would remember when being part of the LGBTQ+ community was still regarded as really bad everywhere, not necessarily as a bias against religious conservatives— although, to be fair, many of the stories one might hear about being gay in certain states fall into one of two categories: tragicomedy or horror.

A review would be awesome. Stay safe, stay hydrated, don't become another statistic. All the good stuff.