This Is What Democracy Looks Like: Part I of the Women's March

Have you wondered what makes people take action? Sometimes it is in their nature to stand up and speak out. Sometimes, it takes a little support and encouragement from likeminded people. Sometimes, it’s just a text.

I got a text message from my friend MH: Do you want to go with me to the women’s march in Washington?

I don’t remember how long after the election that the march was proposed and announced. I had seen it on Facebook, and thought about how much I wanted to participate. I also thought about how unlike me it would be to go that far outside of my comfort zone. I knew, in a million years, I would never do something like that on my own, but that text message was an invitation, an opportunity. I could say yes and join with many other women who had enough of the erosion of our rights and freedoms. Or I could say no and continue to sit on my couch and watch the news and grow more hopeless and angry and distraught.

I answered MH’s text: Yes!

We discussed the possibility with each of our husbands. We weren’t looking for permission or even reassurance. We just wanted to make sure we had parenting coverage in our absence and no scheduling conflicts. When we were given the all-clear, I contacted my wonderful friend, SS, who lives near DC and is always happy to play host. He graciously agreed to house us, which meant we had the means and the wherewithal. We still needed the nerve.

I don’t want to say we needed the balls to join the march. We need to stop saying that balls equal courage. Balls don’t do anything particularly courageous. They just hang there and go along for the ride. You know a brave organ? A vagina. That thing is from where we all enter the world, and to where a large majority of people, mostly men, spend the rest of their lives trying to return. That is where bravery is born, where it perseveres, where it overcomes.

We didn’t need the balls to go; we needed to pussy the hell up.

As the date of the march drew closer, we started to lose our resolve. MH and I each had concerns about the crowd size and safety of the event. Around the same time, sister marches began popping up around the country. One was going to happen nearby, in Asheville. Another was scheduled to take place right here in our town. We debated heading to Asheville because it felt safer. We debated staying here, but it didn’t seem like taking a stand. Then we debated going to the beach because, well, it’s the beach.

One week before the march, we texted again. MH wanted to know what I thought. I said I thought the only thing stopping us was fear, and fear was precisely thing we wanted to protest against. The president-elect campaigned by exploiting fear. If we didn’t want to live in fear for the next four years, we needed to take a stand now. That being afraid to go was exactly why we should. MH agreed. She didn’t want to have any regrets. We felt it was going to be historic and more significant than we thought we knew, and someday, we could sit and tell our grandchildren about the time we marched in Washington to stand up for what we believe.

A few days before our trip, MH found “Thelma” and “Louise” t-shirts at the mall. We went back together to try them on, and thanks to serendipity, we found the right sizes with the right names.  While checking out, MH told our cashier we were buying the shirts because we were headed to the march in Washington. She thought that sounded fun, and then asked us if we were going to Washington State. MH maintained her smile and said, no, DC. She had no idea what we were talking about.

After we got our shirts, we decided to search the mall for fanny packs. We both thought they made the perfect march accessory; we could stash our IDs, some cash, cell phones, perhaps a tissue for uncontrolled emotions, leaving our hands free for protest signs, throwing punches, or rubbing the tear gas out of our eyes. Our first stop was Forever 21. We figured they would have fanny packs as an homage to the 80’s, but no such luck. We did ask a girl who worked there if they had any. MH told her we were going to the march. She too had no idea what we were talking about. We tried a department store, but they had nothing resembling a fanny pack. We finally stopped at the lone luggage store, where an older woman and gentleman were working. We asked them if they had fanny packs. The woman said yes and asked us if we were going to the march.

We confirmed our trip with SS, our host. He didn’t want anything but a pussy hat, but it was too late for me to get one. I baked him his favorite cake instead.

The next morning, MH drove to pick me up. I had my suitcase, the cake, a few signs my daughter made, and my favorite pillow. She too had her bag and favorite pillow. We both packed our anti-anxiety medication, our insurance policy if we lost our nerve.

We hit the road in our matching t-shirts, ready to join forces with like-minded Americans who also had no intention of sitting quietly. We felt empowered, strong, confident, until we had to stop to pee. Then we kind of felt dorky in our matching t-shirts. Clearly, we loved the idea in the car, but out of the car was another story. Some people just looked at us. Some people told us they liked our shirts. And some women, well, they asked us about the march. They got it.

When we arrived at SS’s place, we took a moment to relax, and then we changed clothes before dinner, just like Thelma and Louise would have done.

TO BE CONTINUED

Meditation Rumination

How are your New Year’s resolutions coming along?

I am not a huge fan of resolutions. I don’t need another reason to feel disappointed in myself, so I try pretty hard to avoid making them. If I do make one, I choose a goal that is relatively minor. I might decide to read a certain number of books, or maybe go to bed earlier, or make an effort to be more social.

On the other hand, I also realize that the New Year gives all of us the opportunity to check in with ourselves. The change of the calendar year is a good time to take a little inventory, to make a commitment to personal growth and self-improvement. Most of us could stand to be more forgiving or to eat healthier or to exercise more or to be less judgmental. Most of us also know that by the end of January, all that good living sucks the fun right out of a person.

After a rough end to 2016, I knew I needed to make an effort to find my mojo again. I have been disheartened by the state of politics here and abroad, and that hopeless feeling is not going to go away on its own. I discussed my concerns with my therapist, and she issued me a challenge. She proposed I meditate every day for the next thirty days.

She is fully aware that self-care, and specifically meditation, is not something that I do. I took a meditation workshop once, and it wasn’t just an abject failure, it was actually physically painful. I sat in a room with five strangers, one of whom a business associate of my father-in-law’s, who was in the midst of a bit of a rough patch in his marriage. I knew of him and his situation, and he of course knew my last name, and any attempt I made to clear my mind for the remainder of the workshop was met with massive internal resistance. My restlessness interfered with the rest of the workshop participants’ ability to meditate. I never tried that again.

Over the years, my therapist has recommended many things that I have found impossible to accomplish. No meditating. No journaling. No weekend retreats. None of those things that would be specifically for me, to give myself a break, to afford myself the same care and support I freely give to those around me. Me agreeing to meditate for ten to twenty minutes for thirty days is a big fucking deal.

This afternoon, I made my first attempt. I sat in a comfortable position, but not too comfortable so I wouldn’t fall asleep. I selected a guided meditation on my app for boosting self-esteem, and for eleven minutes, I dedicated myself to just listening to the words and not thinking.

My first thought while trying not to think was the girl speaking could not have been older than 14. How was I supposed to find solace in the words of an infant? I attempted to concentrate on her words and not how her voice sounded, but that grew more difficult as the drone of leaf blowers outside grew louder by every second. We don’t have a lawn service, so I knew it wasn’t even in my yard, but Jesus those things are noisy.

I focused on what she said, but I couldn’t. She would make a statement and then repeat it with emphasis by adding the expression “I desire.” For example, “I deserve to be loved, I desire to deserve to be loved,” or “I am good enough, I desire to be good enough.” All that desire was, frankly, disturbing me. Why desire? Why not yearn or strive or wish to? I was uncomfortable listening to what this woman desired; it was borderline voyeuristic.

I kept my eyes closed. My left quad began to have a small muscle spasm. She requested I join her for a round of deep breathing. I rushed through my breaths, concentrating too hard on the counting and the holding and the exhaling. While I was breathing, my cat startled me by jumping in my lap. She made biscuits on my arm, staring up at my face with her big saucer eyes, and I thought, I wish I felt the same way about myself that my cat does.

I glanced at my phone, since my eyes were already open and all. I had been meditating for approximately four minutes and 53 seconds.

I forced my eyes closed again and concentrated on petting my cat’s fur, hoping it would help me stay calm and attentive. I looked at my phone again. I heard the mail truck, that stopping and starting sound of the engine and brakes. The leaf blowing stopped. My cat jumped out of my lap. After what seemed like two hours, my eleven minutes of meditation were over. I have to tell you, it did nothing for my self-esteem.

Maybe tomorrow it will be easier, but I doubt it. I wonder if there is a guided meditation about meditation.