I know this will be an unpopular opinion among my peoples, but upon his death I am forced to reflect on a certain degree of gratitude I feel for Rush Limbaugh. I grew up listening to him from the back seat of the car. My dad would tune in to his AM station all the way across Kansas, often turning it up loud to make out his words through the static. From a very young age, Rush's program taught me to question the adults—the "experts"—around me. I would hear his words and think to myself: That can't be right. Those words sound like hate, not love. My childhood was confusing. Whose wasn't? I spent a lot of time trying to parse all the mixed messages in a brain that really wasn't sophisticated enough to do that kind of work. As a result, I often felt confused. Out of place. A disappointment to the people I was supposed to be pleasing. But all that melted away whenever I heard Rush speak. Even through the static I could hear a message loud and clear: "Resist