Why Don’t You Just Go to Oregon?

 


By Mikey Galván

“Why don’t you just go to Oregon?”
He said it like it was funny.
Like chains around a man’s wrists
were just a punchline wrapped in policy.

But what he didn’t know
is that I’d already left—
not in body,
but in belief.

Because in that moment,
his badge wasn’t law.
It was a mirror.
And the system reflected back
lookin’ like it forgot what justice even meant.

One state calls it healing.
Another calls it crime.
Both fly the same flag—
but only one lets you breathe in time.

Why don’t you just go to Oregon?
As if my roots ain’t planted in Texas.
As if freedom should depend on a borderline drawn by politics
not by purpose.

Tell me how a plant from the dirt
can be outlawed by the same men
who drink wine blessed in stained glass rooms?

Tell me why the land of the free
has jurisdictional schizophrenia
where a soul can be sacred in Portland
and felony-grade demonic in Plano.

They said this country was built on liberty,
but I guess that contract expires at state lines.

The cop smirked like he was in on the joke.
But I wasn’t laughing.
I was waking up.

To a truth they don’t teach in civics class:
That freedom here ain’t equal—
it’s geo-locked.

That I was born into a nation
that doesn’t rule by law—
it rules by locale.

So no, I won’t just “go to Oregon.”
I’ll go wherever truth calls me.
And I’ll carry the contradiction in my chest
until I turn it into revolution through remembrance.

Because when your badge mocks the law,
when your freedom is fenced by county lines,
when healing is criminalized in one breath
and monetized in the next—

That’s not order.
That’s a lie with a legal number.

And I refuse to stay quiet
just because the border hasn't caught up
to what the Spirit already declared free.

Location: Dallas, TX, USA

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