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

Collective Memories

15 years ago, the lives of almost 3,000 Americans were lost because of coordinated terror attacks. We could not have anticipated or prepared for such a horrific event; we could only respond with shock, with anger, with sadness, with fear, and ultimately, with distrust.

I don’t know if everyone remembers where they were that day. I remember. I had just dropped off my 20 month old at daycare. I was pregnant with child number two, my child who was born after 9/11. I went to Target, trying to get my errands finished early so I could go home and rest before I needed to pick up my daughter. Target was quiet, unusually quiet, even for an early morning. I walked around, throwing the items on my list into my cart. No one spoke to each other, as if we were all observing a moment of silence but we didn’t know why. I only knew that a plane crashed into one of the towers. I didn’t know that it was on purpose, or the first of four planes diverted.

I drove home and sat on the couch in front of the television. I flipped between several television channels for hours, watching the planes hit the towers, over and over again. I felt numb and alone, except for the child I was carrying, a child who would be born into a very different America than the one I knew as a child.

As we mourned the many losses we suffered that day, we became a different country. We gladly gave up a bit of personal freedom in the name of public safety. We were encouraged to turn in neighbors, to report suspicious behaviors. Our government patched together a plan, a reactive solution, and we reminded ourselves to never forget.

We reacted more, by removing shoes and nail clippers and shampoo bottles at the airport. We invaded countries that ultimately suffered worse at our hands than by their own. We demonized an entire religion based on a small percentage of evil people, and we turned fear into an American value.

What we did forget, in our goal of never forgetting, is what being free felt like. We lost our sense of hope and trust in other people. Our response as a nation centered on protecting ourselves from ever experiencing such terror again, yet we live with our own fear on a daily basis. I don’t know about you, but I am more frightened of the divisiveness and anger that has torn us apart than the possibility of another major violent attack.

Some other things we should never forget are other sad moments in our history. McCarthyism and the Red Scare. Japanese internment camps. Slavery. The Trail of Tears. We are not above committing some pretty heinous acts against each other as a country. How did we as a nation overcome them before? Where are those history lessons?

I don’t want to make America great again. I don’t know what that means. What I want is to feel safe and hopeful. I want my children to grow up without having active shooter drills at school or knowing where the closest exit is in the movie theater. I want us not to spend hours at the airport because we all have to take off our shoes, unless we want to pay more money for the privilege of keeping them on while skipping ahead in line. I want us to respect our police officers, but I also want them to rebuild community relationships. I want our leaders to be problem solvers, not finger pointers. I want us to all take a good, long look at our Constitution, not just the 2^nd amendment or part of the 1^st, and try to live by what we use as our guiding principles.

I want us all to do better, to be better people, to raise better children. Better isn’t about winning or making money; it’s about supporting one another, about showing kindness, about learning to trust, about listening instead of speaking, about thinking before acting. Better is when we all move ahead, instead of stepping on the backs of others to jockey for position. Is it a race, a contest, a journey? We all end up in the same place eventually, and I for one am not in a hurry to get there.

It is okay not to agree on everything. It is perfectly fine to discuss different ideas and not have a solution. It is one of the rights that we should exercise regularly.

I don’t know if the terrorists did this to us, or we did this to ourselves. We turned against each other. We suspended some of our core beliefs as a nation, and I don’t think we will ever be the same.

I know good people who do good things for others, and I cling to these examples to find my hope for the future. I try to teach my children to look for the good, and if they don’t see it, to be the good that other people see. I don’t know if that is enough to make a difference, but I like to think it is more effective than removing my shoes at the airport.

No Thank You

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I am still trying to make sense of this holiday. In the past few years, people used Facebook as a platform to show their gratitude for all the good things they appreciate. It was almost annoying, all those #blessed people humble-bragging, not because I was jealous, but more because they seemed so trite. This year, I kind of missed all the thanking. I am still wondering where all the thankfulness has gone, and why. I have come to a conclusion that makes me sad.

This year, we have replaced gratitude with fear.

The world has had its share of tragedy over the past month. Terrorist attacks in Paris and Beirut. Boko Haram wreaking havoc in African nations. Distrust of the police on one side and protesters on the other. And shootings. All the shootings.

It’s difficult to know if it is as bad as it sounds or if the media is just putting a negative spin on the state of the world. We used to live with hope. We used to try to see the glass half-full. We used to believe we could make our world a better place. Honestly, I worry for my children and the future, not for their personal safety, but because this gloom and doom view that is so pervasive leaves everyone feeling depressed.

Frankly, we are afraid of the wrong things. What is the chance you are going to be the victim of a terror attack? Are you really concerned about being shot by the police? Do you think that Syrian refugees are on their way to destroy the American dream?

 

 When you live in fear, you become the victim you were afraid of being. The level of fear we live under is killing more than joy. It clouds our judgment. It jaundices our world view. It ramps up everyone’s anxiety, but also their anger.

When we get over being scared, we switch to anger. We don’t want to feel this way. We want someone to blame. The cops. The terrorists. The refugees. The politicians. The media. And each other.

I have to work at optimism. It doesn't happen organically. I realize my life is pretty damn good, and I sweat the small stuff regularly. I am fighting the blues that all this bad news brings. I try to make do with cat videos and weird news stories, to find something to make me smile on a grey and hopeless day.

Here’s a thought I’ve been stuck with: I kind of wish everyone was a reform Jew. Working on being the best person you can be. Treating others with kindness and tolerance. Taking care of the world around us. There’s a whole lot of good going on there, and not so much of the condemnation that’s prevalent in other beliefs and religions.

I look at my husband, who thinks organized religion is the cause of most of the world’s problems, and I think he’s onto something. The terrorists kill because they want the destruction of Israel and western Judeo-Christian values. People don’t want refugees because they are Muslims and therefore potential terrorists. Americans forget what American values are, and Christians lose sight of Jesus’ message of love. That doesn’t even take into consideration the eastern religions, but even the Buddhists are attacking Hindus.

How do you stay positive?  I try to focus on my daughters with their lives ahead of them. My children, all children, are the future. We are giving them a world where active shooter drills go along with fire drills and tornado drills. We are giving them a world where they are scared of the police, not because they don’t want to get in trouble, but because they don’t want to die. We are giving them a world where a peach doesn’t taste like summer anymore and delicate flaky flounder is rarely on the menu. We are giving them a world where they need to decide their careers before they even hit puberty and must compete against each other for a college degree they can’t afford.

I don’t have any answers, just observations. I’d like to see our politicians care about more than elections. I’d like to see food, medicine, and insurance be less about profit and more about people. It’d be great if we can stop expanding and consuming and exploiting. We could all do with a little less voicing our opinions and a little more self-reflecting. How about we do a little less hating and a little more loving. It’s worth a try, because what we are doing now sure isn’t working for us.