CNBC just ranked America’s worst place to live in 2026, and the No. 1 spot goes to Tennessee. But looking at the scorecard, it seems one person’s best life might be another’s worst nightmare. Earning just 64 out of 290 points when it comes to quality of life (it might have gotten an F-minus if it weren’t for that fresh country air), the Volunteer State’s most serious threats to an ideal daily routine are strong families, designated bathrooms, and biology.  I recently moved from CNBC’s 17th best state (California, with its redwood forests, cinematic coastlines, and suffocating cost of living) to Tennessee because of cheaper gas, no state income tax, and Southern hospitality. How could the world capital of music and the birthplace of Mountain Dew rank below the state best known for entitled nepo babies fighting in Whole Foods’ parking lot and residents contracting typhus in the year of our Lord 2026? Something seemed fishy about these alleged “quality of life” metrics. Among the rest of the top 10 worst states — in order of least to most terrible: Arkansas, Oklahoma, Alabama, Missouri, Utah, Georgia, Louisiana, Indiana, and Texas — every state on the bad list was conservative. “If Tennessee was really the worst state to live in, people wouldn’t be moving there in large numbers, which they are,” Florida Governor Ron DeSantis posted on X. He’s not wrong. But did I and nearly 200,000 other people who have relocated to Tennessee since 2020 make the biggest mistake of our lives? Placing a hold on my future Tecova cowboy boots in my online shopping cart, I dug into the details.  On the surface, healthcare, crime, air quality, and cost of living seem like valid benchmarks for a state’s livability. Who wouldn’t hope for unlimited sunny days, good health, reasonable housing and grocery prices, and few-to-no random drive-bys? But add in “inclusiveness of state laws and reproductive rights,” and red states such as Tennessee get slammed while Vermont wins CNBC’s best state in America six years in a row. (For the record, Vermont came in 47th for homelessness, a crisis it hopes to fix with $83 million in services. Guess you only need a sleeping bag to love the Maple State life.) Tennessee got dinged for laws allegedly targeting its own 300,000-person LGBTQ community (who, notably, have been openly celebrating Pride since 1988), requiring trans-identifying people to use the bathroom matching their biological sex, barring the reversal of that law by individual businesses, and designating June “Nuclear Family Month.” Louisiana’s reluctance to go along with affirmative action, Georgia’s protection of religious freedom, and Oklahoma’s ban on abortion earned each of these states a poor grade from the uncritical news outlet.  The report also cited Tennessee’s high violent crime stats, per FBI data, and its third-highest drug-related deaths in the nation, according to United Health Foundation reports. Take Democrat-run Memphis out of the equation, and Tennessee hits closer to the national average. I have a hard time believing that most people base their location on their preferred bathroom. Remember when we used to have “unisex” toilets, AKA solo experiences with locking doors? How about non-gendered bathrooms? Life’s so good, we’re inventing problems to solutions we already had. So what are people actually looking for when it comes to the ideal quality of life? Real people, I mean. The ones who go to work every day, raise families, worry about homework assignments and soccer practice, make dentist appointments, and have to mow the lawn before that storm rolls in. Well, it turns out, most of us agree on this highly subjective measure of personal fulfillment. Are we financially secure, connected to a community, satisfied with work, and pretty darn healthy? Then we enjoy living in our place. When this is easier, life is sunnier. When states make it harder on us (not to name names, Shmalifornia), well, you get it. “I moved from California to Tennessee in 2022 and it was probably the best decision I’ve ever made,” posted Colin Wright, evolutionary biologist and fellow at the Manhattan Institute. “I love it here.”  For me, the proof is in the pudding. Not only can I see a future in the so-called worst state in America, but I see so many other people thriving in Tennessee and other coastal alternatives, too. Transplants claim they’ve never nurtured stronger friendships, families flourish in safe neighborhoods and rigorous schools, and (thank you, Jesus) people complain when gas prices top $3 — a supersaver discount compared to most major cities.  And I can’t ignore the comments section. I admit this is a total generalization, but people from coastal cities often attempt to dare outsiders to try to afford elite life among the cosmopolitan tastemakers of the country. It’s like luring someone to a city based on clout and likes. On the flip side, those living in more affordable cities are less open to inviting New Yorkers and Californians (along with their perceived politics and highway-clogging cars) to invade their local towns.  The population influx changes these gems of America in lasting ways, and not always for the better. I know I’m part of the problem. Well, at least my car is when it comes to morning and evening rush hour traffic.  About that worst state status, six-year Tennessean and LA refugee Tomi Lahren posted, “It’s okay we are full, we actually don’t need any PR. We are happy if people … take their Lib sh*t somewhere else!” Former Virginia state delegate Nick Freitas commented, “I totally agree … Tennessee is the worst!! Please tell all of your woke leftist friends what a terrible place it is and that they should never move here under any circumstances.” One user revealed his inconvenient truth, posting, “I’m gay. Moved to a small town Tennessee in 2023 after living in big cities all my adult life. My closest friends are now straight men … and they treat me with more dignity and respect than I have ever received from the TQ+ crowd.” With rankings like these, there’s still hope that the Volunteer State — even with its NashVegas bachelorettes — will remain one of the most iconic states in America, and never turn into Tennefornia.  *** This article is part of Upstream, The Daily Wire’s new home for culture and lifestyle. Real human insight and human stories — from our featured writers to you.

A gay couple is suing a single mother for an estimated $600,000 because she refused abortion after potential minor birth defects were discovered by ultrasound. A surrogate in Canada says a gay couple told her to abort the baby she was carrying — which was created using a donor egg and one of the men’s sperm — at nearly six months pregnant over a possible cleft palate and a potential minor heart issue. A lawsuit obtained by the National Post says the couple is suing the woman for causing them emotional distress and not keeping them informed in a timely manner. After the woman, who is not being named, refused to kill the child, the couple allegedly stiffed her on reimbursement for pregnancy-related expenses, lost income, and other costs, which were supposed to be paid per agreement. When the woman tried to take them to small claims court to try to get the $10,000, the couple hit her with an estimated $600,000 lawsuit. “You know I’m a single mom, you know I have a daughter, and you’re basically suing me for my house. It seems very sh*tty, it’s just awful,” the woman said. “I just feel used … They didn’t get the perfect child they wanted and they threw me away.” In Canada, women are not paid enormous sums for surrogacy as they are in America; instead, they’re only allowed reimbursement for pregnancy-related expenses. The woman in this case said she decided to become a surrogate to help others. She said she was inundated with dozens of requests for surrogacy after she announced her intentions. She added that she chose the gay couple after much consideration. After the woman told the partners about possible birth defects, which were a cleft lip, a potential cleft palate, and a possible minor heart defect, the couple said in a letter that they wanted their surrogate to kill the child. “Considering that medical tests indicate that the fetus has, or is likely to have, a genetic, chromosomal or other abnormality or defect, and in accordance with article 8.5 (a) of our surrogacy agreement … we want to inform you of our wish that the pregnancy be terminated,” the gay couple reportedly said. “Although very difficult, this decision is free and informed.” The request left the woman feeling “devastated” and a “mess,” she said. She ended up delivering a baby boy through an at-home birth, which further upset the gay couple, who reportedly wanted the baby delivered in a hospital because of the suspected birth defects. The at-home birth was agreed upon in their original surrogacy plan. Surrogacy has become increasingly controversial, with critics arguing that the process turns motherhood into a transaction, preys on the poor, and treats children like a product. Pro-life activist Lila Rose posted about the lawsuit on Tuesday, writing, “A same-sex couple is suing their surrogate for $600K after she refused to abort their baby at 22 weeks in Canada. Scans indicated the child had a cleft lip and a possible heart defect,” she said. “The little boy was born healthy.” “That child is alive today not because of the men who purchased his life, but because the woman who carried him in her womb protected him. Children are not commodities,” Rose added. “Ban surrogacy now.” The gay couple declined to comment on the matter, according to the Post. Related: Surrogacy Is The Worst Outcome Of Throwaway Culture

Acclaimed actor Sam Neill passed away this week at the age of 78, and while most people remember him for his iconic role as Dr. Alan Grant in the Steven Spielberg blockbuster “Jurassic Park,” my immediate thought was of one scene in the 1990 thriller “The Hunt for Red October.” In that film, Neill played Soviet Captain Vasili Borodin — serving under Captain Marko Ramius, who was played by the late Sean Connery. When Ramius reveals his plan to defect to the United States, his loyal second-in command is ready to follow him. But knowing nothing beyond his life in the Soviet Union at the height go the Cold War, he struggles to wrap his brain around the concept of liberty. WATCH: “I will live in Montana. And I will marry a round American woman and raise rabbits, and she will cook them for me,” Borodin begins, his dreams getting bigger with every word. “And I will have a pickup truck … maybe even a ‘recreational vehicle.’ And drive from state to state … Do they let you do that?” “I suppose,” Ramius replies. “No papers?” Borodin is incredulous. “No papers, state to state,” Ramius repeats. Borodin continues: “Well then, in winter I will live in … Arizona. Actually, I think I will need two wives.” “Oh, at least,” Ramius agrees. Spoiler alert: Borodin is killed before the end of the film and never gets to realize his dream. His last words are, “I would have liked to have seen Montana.” But in his real life, in his own way, Neill lived out that Soviet’s dream. Born in Ireland, Neill moved to New Zealand with his family when he was just seven years old, and for the rest of his life, he felt more connected to his adopted home than to his birthplace. Even after reaching the heights of fame — in major releases such as “Jurassic Park,” “The Hunt for Red October,” “Event Horizon,” and more — and building a film career that spanned more than five decades, Neill often preferred the open space and quiet he found at home, making acclaimed pinot noirs at his Two Paddocks winery. Neill filled his life with animals, many of whom he named after his celebrity friends, joking that the names were meant to ensure that he’d never eat them. He always asked friends’ permission before naming animals after them, he said, and noted that “many of them then take an interest in their namesakes. Helena Bonham Carter is always keen to know if she’s calved again.”   View this post on Instagram   A post shared by SamNeillTheProp (@samneilltheprop)   View this post on Instagram   A post shared by SamNeillTheProp (@samneilltheprop) “I am so honored to have a pig named after me,” actress Annette Bening told Kelly Clarkson on her eponymous show in 2024 — and then revealed the reason she’d been so tickled to have Neill recognize her in that way. “Well, it’s Sam Neill! I mean, oh my god. I have a crush on him, I’m just going to put it out there,” she admitted. For Neill, the move to a simpler existence was about balance. He loved acting to the very end, but it was his animals and his wine-making venture that truly made him happy. As he told the West Australian, “I’d like the vineyard to support me but I’m afraid it is the other way round. It is not a very economic business.” As it turned out, he loved the feeling of caring for the land and creating something with his own sweat and toil. “It is a ridiculously time- and money-consuming business. I would not do it if it was not so satisfying and fun — and it gets me pissed once in a while,” he explained. “I wanted to produce a good pinot noir that would, at the very least, be enjoyed by my family and friends … Frankly, my friends will pretty much drink anything, so this didn’t seem too hard.” Neill was far from alone in his desire to embrace the simpler things. Story after story has surfaced in recent years highlighting celebrities making the move away from industry hubs such as New York and Los Angeles, particularly when it means they can raise their children away from the Hollywood bubble. What is it about the simpler existence that’s so appealing? Maybe Neill had it right all along: There’s something truly gratifying about the idea that you can pour your own blood, sweat, and tears into a project and create something that wasn’t there before — whether it be a healthy family, your own peace of mind, or just a really good pinot noir.

Praise is due to a recent Trump administration push to nail immigration lawyers for the broadly undeterred crime of running mass asylum fraud schemes, which have let huge volumes of ineligible illegal aliens into the country. The asylum system has long acted as a powerful magnet for aspiring illegal border crossers and visa overstayers, because, until President Donald Trump sharply curtailed its use, merely claiming asylum verbally allowed millions of ineligible foreigners into the country almost indefinitely. But targeting lawyers with fines is more of a beginning than a finish. To prevent the next mass migration crisis, we need the whole world to feel real asylum fraud deterrence. That means the Trump Department of Justice, headed by Acting Attorney General Todd Blanche, must prosecute and imprison individual claimants, known in the business as “single scope” cases. These would be just the average foreign economic migrants who, perhaps coached online or by friends and relatives, lied under oath on U.S. government forms, to federal agents, and to immigration court judges, claiming that they suffered asylum-eligible government persecution back home. Claiming government persecution that never happened to gain asylum and its attendant public welfare and work authorization is a prosecutable felony crime. The problem is that appointed U.S. Attorneys in all 94 offices have never wanted, and won’t take, such cases unless told to. The time for that is now. Acting A.G. Blanche should appoint a “Special Attorney” (under 28 USC 543) to elevate asylum fraud prosecutions against individual aliens to a high-tier priority nationwide and within Department of Homeland Security component agencies. They won’t want to do it because presidentially appointed U.S. Attorneys don’t regard busting individual aliens for criminal asylum-lying as worth the squeeze, so they decline most criminal referrals that come their way. That roadblock in turn disincentivizes investigations by the responsible agencies: ICE’s Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) and the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services’ Fraud Detection and National Security Directorate (FDNS). After all, why would any HSI or FDNS agent bother investigating crimes they know prosecutors will ignore? This (somewhat dated) December 2015 Government Accountability Office (GAO) report details how the processing blockage serves non-lawyer individuals who commit asylum fraud. According to the report, U.S. Attorneys had long preferred to see individual suspects of asylum fraud “not generally criminally prosecuted.” In turn, the agents of HSI “felt constrained because…prosecuting asylum fraud is a low priority for the U.S. Attorney’s Office.” Until very recently, FDNS could not directly refer their own fraud cases to U.S. Attorneys; the old policy required them to ask HSI agents to do it for them. HSI would reject FDNS cases, which, in turn, dampened FDNS interest in originating investigations. It’s a vicious, feckless circle. FDNS officers in six of eight asylum offices, the GAO report stated, reported that HSI declined their case referrals and, for those the agency did accept, would close them without further investigation. As a result, half of the eight FDNS offices referred either zero or only one fraud case to HSI from 2010 to 2014. One HSI office had not accepted an FDNS referral in two years because the area’s U.S. Attorney’s Office would only accept asylum fraud referrals involving at least 100 asylum applications, a circumstance that provides for sentencing enhancements, the report stated, which prosecutors love. Another asylum office reported that its U.S. Attorney had accepted no asylum fraud referrals in five years. “Because HSI does not prioritize investigations of single instances of asylum fraud, FDNS immigration officers we interviewed in seven of the eight asylum offices stated they generally do not submit single-scope cases…” the report stated. Skill atrophy was another cost. A 2008 GAO survey of all the nation’s then-256 asylum officers and 56 supervisors in the nation’s eight USCIS division field offices found the majority felt themselves ill-trained to detect fraud or assess the credibility of asylum seekers. Seventy percent confessed they found it moderately or very difficult to identify document fraud and could not assess credibility in more than half the cases they adjudicated. While these reports have aged, sources inside FDNS and USCIS told me recently that nothing has changed in the nearly 10 years since, despite the unprecedented mass border crossings of 10 million foreign nationals and a related surge in asylum claims from 172,000 in 2019 to 860,000 in 2024. A great many of those were no doubt filed by people encouraged by the knowledge that they would face no consequence for lying. This must be fixed. An appointed Special Attorney must require the 94 U.S. Attorney’s Offices to understand that single-scope asylum fraud cases are far more valuable as crucial fraud deterrents than previously thought, and must accept some in every judicial district each year. Almost as important is that every one of these cases gets publicized and broadcast around the globe. That’s because the world of aspiring immigrant wrong-doers pays almost obsessive attention to all immigration-related enforcement in the United States and will alter its behavior if prison time for regular people becomes a possibility. It’s notable that last September, the Trump administration gave its FDNS agents guns and investigative referral authority that bypasses HSI. A whole new corps of officers is now geared up to refer individual asylum fraud cases to – hopefully willing – prosecutors. And they should get orders to be willing. At stake is no less than another mass-migration border crisis that voters have already said, loud and clear in the last national election, they don’t want. *** Todd Bensman is a Senior Research Fellow in the Heritage Foundation’s Border Security and Immigration Center. He recently joined Heritage following an appointment as Senior Adviser to DHS, ICE, and Border Czar Tom Homan.

Fans of “Little House on the Prairie” can rest easy. I’ve been studying Laura Ingalls Wilder for decades, and I love the new Netflix rendition of her story. While binge-watching it over the past several days, I hung on every scene, taking in the scenery, the characterization, the story lines, the innovations. I was hooked from the opening scene of the first episode until the closing credits of the eighth and final episode. The cinematography, the writing, the acting, the themes, and the action all swept me away and brought me to tears more than once. As a kid, I read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s “Little House” novels over and over. I dressed as Laura for Halloween. I faithfully watched the original television series. As a mother, I read the books to my children and showed them the various television miniseries as well as the television series produced and directed by Michael Landon, who played Charles Ingalls. These television adaptations run the gamut of staying close to the novels to straying very far from them. But no matter how big the departures from the “Little House” books, all of these renditions, especially the new Netflix one, embrace the family-centered wholesomeness of Wilder’s novels. Far from presenting a woke version of the beloved story, Netflix’s new series celebrates life and human dignity as it explores the very same questions raised when the novel was published by Laura Ingalls Wilder in 1935. The autobiographical novel follows the Ingalls family as they depart from the Big Woods of Wisconsin to settle as farmers on the Osage Diminished Reserve in southeastern Kansas. Charles Ingalls (Pa) acted on news that the Osage lands would be open to settlement as soon as the tribe signed the treaty. The plan was to arrive just as the Osage removal had taken place, in time to select a choice parcel of land. But the Osage had not decided whether to sign the treaty, and their presence creates the central tension of the book. When “Little House on the Prairie” was published in 1935, no other author asked the questions Wilder put to her readers. Why did the Ingalls and other settlers choose to settle in Indian Territory if they didn’t like Indians? Why were potential settlers told the Osage Diminished Reserve was available for settlement before the Osages had decided whether to sign the treaty? Why did the government make the tribe leave a place that had been designated Indian Territory? Netflix’s new cinematic version places these questions from the novel firmly at the center of its riveting rendition, creating new characters and story lines that bring those tensions into the everyday realities faced by the Ingalls family. The release of the cast list made clear that a host of newly invented characters would join the Ingalls family in southeastern Kansas. Teasers showed the Ingalls family taking an active part in the town life of Independence, Kansas, which is a new angle to the story. (The novel has the family living some 40 miles from the town, a distance that made trips there something of an annual occasion; in reality, the Ingalls’ homesite was 13 miles from Independence.) But the relationships and story lines that keep plots moving forward for an entire season’s worth of episodes need a town. I’m willing to allow for that suspension of disbelief. Showrunner Rebecca Sonnenshine and her crew of writers and producers have crafted a beautiful series that is simultaneously true to the themes and story arc of Wilder’s novels, cognizant of the timeline and history of the “real” Ingalls family, and creative in spinning new characters and story lines that build the themes and give texture to the story arc. Other minor characters from the novel appear in greatly expanded roles, such as Dr. George Tann, the black doctor who nurses the malaria-ridden Ingalls family back to health. The endearing Mr. Edwards gains a first name (John), a backstory, and a love interest. Mr. Scott is transformed into a young single man from a wealthy Boston family. There is no Mrs. Scott, but much of her character is transferred to Jemma James, the town’s leading socialite and bigot. The essential parts of Wilder’s novel are all there: a dangerous river crossing that results in the disappearance of Jack the dog, the necessity of finding help to build the cabin after Caroline is injured, tensions with the Osages who help themselves to the Ingalls’ food supplies, the entire family suffering from malaria, Christmas with Mr. Edwards supplying greetings and gifts from Santa, a devastating prairie fire, an encounter with wolves, tense Osage councils, and the threat of armed government officials pushing the Ingalls and their neighbors off the land. These quintessential aspects of Wilder’s novel appear in different ways and combinations in the new series, which underscores the intertwined themes of danger and the need for community. Very early in the first episode, Dr. Tann tells Charles that independence on the prairie is an impossible dream. Throughout the eight episodes, community building plays a central role in plot development. The Ingalls’ survival depends on good neighbors who are willing to help each other. Departures from Wilder’s novel most noticeably center on the ages of Laura and Mary and the relationships they develop. Laura seems to be around seven years old, while Mary seems to be around twelve, and baby sister Carrie was born at Christmas. In the novel, they are much younger, ages four and six, with Carrie born in Wisconsin. In the show, Laura befriends an Osage girl, Good Eagle, and Mary has a beau, Caleb, who was abandoned by his father and taken in by the Exoduster brother and sister team who own the town mercantile. These relationships develop across the entire season. Laura’s friendship with Good Eagle brings the tensions between the settlers and the Osages into tight focus. Mary’s budding romance is just one part of her adolescent growth pangs. She is constantly annoyed by Laura and even jealous that everyone likes her best. She is tired of having to be a good role model and share all she has with her sister. Laura’s character traits are more exaggerated than in the novel. She is a tomboy who wears a boys’ hat and expertly wields a slingshot to hunt rabbits. She loves the prairie and does not want to spend time studying. In an interesting twist, she, rather than Charles, is the family storyteller. She is often called upon to tell a story, in which moments she relates something from “Little House in the Big Woods.” Charles’ and Caroline’s characters have also evolved in the new Netflix series. Charles is still a talented carpenter and musician and a loving father and husband. But his big heart causes trouble for his family. Caroline grows from the reluctant pioneer who dislikes Indians into a feisty champion of her Osage and Exoduster friends. By episode eight, Caroline displays the same level of sensitivity toward the Osages as Charles and Laura. Such understanding is a big departure from the Caroline of Wilder’s novels, who never changes her poor opinion of American Indians.  When there seems to be no way to remain on their homesite, she tells Charles they must move on. They came to Kansas in search of a place to become the best version of themselves. They have done this and can replicate it somewhere else. With that, the Ingalls bid farewell to their new friends and departed, with Mr. Edwards leading the way to a town in Minnesota where his deceased wife’s cousin has a store, Oleson’s Mercantile. Here’s a teaser for season two, a continuation of the “Little House” story as the Ingalls move to the banks of Plum Creek. The new story lines and characters featured in the Netflix rendition of “Little House on the Prairie” are details to be enjoyed and celebrated, not a cause for castigation or hand-wringing about wokeness. These new twists on the beloved novel reveal that the “Little House” story arc is such a fundamental and universal aspect of American cultural literacy that the kinds of liberties taken with Wilder’s novels add to the power of the story. The “Little House” story and its television adaptations are vehicles for discussing and encapsulating core American historical understandings and timeless values. Familial love is a constant theme in the Netflix rendition, as is respect for life and an understanding of the inherent dignity of each human person. Moreover, Netflix’s release of this beautiful new television series just days after the Fourth of July in the midst of the country’s semiquincentennial underscores the power of Wilder’s autobiographical fiction, and it further cements its place as a wholesome standard-bearer of American culture. *** Dedra McDonald Birzer is director and editor-in-chief at the South Dakota Historical Society Press and a lecturer in history at Hillsdale College. She serves on the executive boards of the Laura Ingalls Wilder Pageant Society and the Middle West Review. She is currently writing an intellectual biography of Rose Wilder Lane. This article is part of Upstream, The Daily Wire’s new home for culture and lifestyle. Real human insight and human stories — from our featured writers to you.