Tag Archives: peace

What Does Your Flag Remember?

13 Sunday Aug 2017

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Quickly! Quickly Betsy, fast as ever you can, we need to see each other from a long way. Make the flag of canvas or cotton or linen, use everything you can, but we must carry our message into the field and beyond when we’ve taken out those lobsterbacks!

Quickly! Quickly, Constance, as fast as ever you can, we need to see each other from a long way. Make the flag of canvas or cotton, linen or silk, use whatever is at hand, but we must carry our standard into the field so the Yanks know we’ve forced their retreat, our message clear!

Ah. Ackh. This flag tastes like ghost pepper, my eyes and nose and mouth are thick and throbbing.  That’s all right. No biggie. Sliding this flag off this stick 1-2-3 and you’re mine now, pathetic, race-hating antifa motherfuckers!

Ah. Ackh. This flag tastes like ghost pepper, my eyes and nose and mouth are thick. That’s all right. No biggie. My friends will douse me down with water. We got some good Go-Pro footage of everybody hollering and jeering, until they decided it was time to come and get us. Now? My flag tastes like salt and blood and I dunno what. The flag isn’t really the thing, it’s more like, standing up for what’s right.

Maybe they’ll remember Heather’s name or maybe she’ll have some 15 minutes of fame in her deceased state, you know, walking along a street wanting to stand against bigotry and white nationalism. I don’t know whose face or what place to mark that she was here. Seems like we all have to make our mark, somehow, something that says we were here. We did something. It meant something. We want our times and times and times to remember what we stood for. The little girl of me wants to remember the best of us.

What does your time, your greasy fingered baby-back rib in the front of a cave mark, stand for? Was it peace? Did you stand for neutrality to escape getting your ribs cracked because you took a stand? Or did you lick your fingers clean?

(the women’s march on dc included very specific instructions that we were not allowed to carry signs, banners, or anything sharp or cudgel-like, and we followed that rule. we carried lots of 8 x 10 inch paper, cloth, pillowcases, hats, shirts, lots of people walking to and from the mall with one goal in mind, and that goal was not to stand behind a shield, and beat you with a stick or throw bottles filled with urine or cement. why was that rule not in place in charlottesville? i await the governors reply)

We smear meanings on the wall, things we want to remember, things we teach our young. Something happened here, and smear that moment on your face so you know you are part of it. Your cannon mates, your tent mates, the buttons on your tunic, that bit of cloth that tells us where to rally, or retreat, and did you understand what it all really meant?

Flags, unholy acrid, captured and desecrated. Flags damp in the dew of morning on the way to capturing you.  Flags rising up, defying a surrendered past, denying defeat and demanding glory, wanting to tell its silken story to a crowd that sits restless in chains or brings its thin pole down and down and down upon you, race-traitor.

We will remember you, in your place as we savor gobbets of meat from the fire.

Of Gemini, Vanilla, and Truth

11 Sunday Jun 2017

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It’s the dog-walking hour, the hour before the sun takes your breath away. It’s the hour of elderly neighbors standing on the sidewalk telling naughty jokes, or breakfast with a neighbor before church lets out so we are guaranteed a seat in the cafe.

And now is the writing hour, the time before my gumption heads for a sofa and a dogeared book, the hour that I will stand barefoot on the cement balcony to watch neighbors go by with their groceries or work on their next hangover before they deploy, thinking about things I cannot repair or undo with a swish of my wand.

Nothing is the same as it was last year on this spit of land, least of all me.  The beach is wide and flat now. Neighbors are missing and favored dogs have passed away. New dogs and new neighbors have come.  But always, the pastel sky and the wonder of the wheel is present. I opened a journal to read where my heart was on this day last year. Nothing is the same, as it should be, but some things I still carry forward I see.

Today would have been Mom’s birthday, a Gemini through and through. She wouldn’t appreciate that pagan description, but oh well. One thing you could count on with Mom: you never knew who you were getting in a day.  Her moods shifted quickly, and I wonder now if the happy happy joy joy sing-song Mom was for real or just one way she masked her pain? Or maybe both? I will never know, and that’s okay.  But in those days, watching her devolve from parent to child trapped in a desperately lonely life frightened me.  She used to sit at the kitchen table paging through a big Sears catalog picking out rugs and clocks and furniture that she said would look great in the house she imagined. These were not casual musings.  It was hard feigning pleasant conversation about how this rug would go with that sofa, hey how about this one, but I couldn’t tell her I didn’t want to be part of her game.

It’s funny how you can pick up pretty seashells to keep or share, or pick up grocery bags full of cigarette butts, plastic bags and bottles from the same spit of land: the ocean just coughs up more of both every day.  I have two good hands that can manage both, and I struggle to remember this.  Sometimes I feel a very distinct two of me, truly torn, and on those days I worry for my spirit.  I recognize the gentle, rational, creative me and then there is the angry, fightful one, and often the angry one wins, the one that cannot handle the song Hallelujah.   I forget that I have the ability to manage whatever the world throws at me with both hands.  It’s the reason I don’t reply to most social media posts, or the reason I give you one word responses: Momma said if I don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.  Well.  On those Two-of-me days I want to create new social media sites where I give myself permission to vent and rant and troll the trolls, to hate the hate– a “safe” place to curse the darkness instead of being the light.   On those days, it is easy to judge others, to rage at injustice or simply complain about a visitor disparaging another person’s sweet dog.  On those days I forget I am free to seek another venue where I can return myself to kindness because anger is just too easy. Now, I am not wrong to feel pissiness, anger, or the rage, just as I am not wrong to want the peace that lives in me, that wells up and allows me to cry.  But feeling the peace, the beauty, the truthful good, when it wells up wide and deep, it often makes me feel overwhelmed and afraid.  It nudges out the anger, my protective shield:  how can I face you, or anything, anyone, naked?  I feel like a piece of beached jellyfish that everybody pokes with a stick or scoops up and tosses back into the ocean.  Most days, for the sake of my peace, I will show you some calm vanilla, a quiet void of non-words. On the days I don’t feel torn in two, when I feel strong and whole, viable and certain, useful and creative, I can speak and write truthfully and happily from my vulnerable place.  I can manage me and you with both hands, but those days are rare, and I want something more.   So.

Here’s to weaving the All-of-me’s together, the polyester, cotton, paper, leather, seaweed, barbed wire, and spider silk together, to threading them with my glitter beads and wampum and balsa, to painting them with silver stars and onyx night, adding a touch of unobtainium, and everything will be just all right — so you and me can know who you are getting on more than any given day.

Rumble and Learn

30 Tuesday May 2017

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Overcast for one and a half days.  Overcast is gentler on the body than full skin exposed to a Memorial Day sun, but I needed to stay inside.  Aunt Flo scheduled me for some couch time, and when Aunt Flo speaks I obey.

This morning I awoke with an unsteady purpose, mostly just wanting to get through this hour to the next, because that’s all I can do, but a neighbor called and asked for help.  I am blessed because she asked me and blessed because I could answer.  I hope she will take measures to be prepared for the next time, but only she can answer that.

I came home and answered a text to conversation.  Another friend who is in need. I am grateful to be able to be present for them.  I am determined to live my life with boundaries but not in solitude like a prisoner, and that means I am here to hear, so I heard, and she is okay.

Overcast.  The rain has come harder, the sound and feel that I love.  I opened my door so I could feel and hear it.  I see my disgraced neighbor at the office working on moving out. I am sad for him because he reminds me of my son: smart, young, and in party mode.  I want the best for him because young people make bad choices, and the mother of me sympathizes, but at the same time I want them to tighten up and make better choices, as if I am so perfect.   I see them as I see my son.  I see the lease that I read (and I mean read, all the way, like a dork because who the hell reads their lease entirely but me??), the same one they signed, and I know the realtor has rights, even though young man was just being a boy, like my own son. Where does it end?

I write this as a little weather comes in.  What a gentle thunder, a tender dark, something that will move east and the neighbors will fall out for sunset in damp sand. That was no storm, just a rumble.  We are all living in degrees.  What I want for my country more than anything is to accept that we are all of and in degrees, and we must compromise.  Compromise. It’s the only world we have. Some days precipitate comes and it’s a mist, sometimes it’s a little rain, sometimes it’s a prelude to tornadic activity, but it leaves us all, prepared, just in case.  The sand remains damp and my neighbors remain.

What the hell does a pile of twenty-something strangers who might be called upon to put their boots on a land far away to uphold decency, if not democracy and die matter to me, a woman who lives in relative safety matter if they drink hard and play their music hard and puke hard have to do with compromise mean?  I spoke to them, I hugged them– strangers– and only wished, as a mother of a young person, they would have pulled it together and pulled it back.  Living here by the ocean is a paradise anyone would pray for… and they blew it.   Yeah, foolish me, but I can hope can’t I?  I fear for the young persons who will deploy soon just as I care about those who wear blue and show up to a domestic, or those who came to fight a fire when the wind was against them, the coldest night of the year fighting a fire that nature seemingly didn’t want them to win, three days after I moved in.    We honor those who serve, but I expect them to behave decently.  I honor service, but I also recognize rules, the same ones the rest of us have to follow. And I can’t beat compliance into them.  I can only hope the best for them.

Honor.  And fight for peace, so we no longer have to quarrel over monuments.

 

 

May 4 Dream

04 Thursday May 2017

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She was walking alone, but perhaps not a long way. She was dressed in a sari, her long hair lightly covered, her sari the color of poppies.  There is nothing in the dream but her, walking.  She stops walking and she knows at last it is time.  She lies down and leans up against something, but I do not know what, it’s not shown in the dream. I only see this woman in poppy red, reclining, her knees are up and she is ready to give birth now.  The rest happens so quickly and silently.  They all spill out of her body, five small babies and so much blood pours out of her onto the ground like fish falling from the fisherman’s net onto the deck,  but they are all dead.

The dream changes dramatically. This is black ink on white paper, she is artistically rendered into a soft, curving line drawing. The woman opens her sari, her abdomen is one wide open womb, and she gathers all five of the babies into her arms and pulls them back into her body. She closes her legs, straightens her sari. She reclines on the ground on her right side, closes her eyes, and she smiles the most peaceful sleeping smile.

She smiles. It was the only expression she ever showed throughout the entire dream.

This was a tough one for me to write, and I’m not sure why.

Where is

07 Friday Apr 2017

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I’ll bet if you type that in your “search” bar the next word that comes up this morning is “Syria.”  Do you know where Palmyra is?  Do you know why it was important? Do you know what Aleppo looked like seven years ago?

Syrians asked for democracy, more democracy, but their leader said, “Nope. Don’t think so.”  Some of his people do not want to live under his regime, so now they’re called rebels and terrorists.  They are modern David’s throwing stones at Goliath. The world watched the stone lobbing. Watched Russia come and defend their friend against the pitiful rebels.  Sounds like the synopsis of some famous space movie, perhaps?  The world watched and raised alarms, donated, wrote articles about it, and the US sent a few troops and munitions to help the rebels, all done very quietly, so as not to piss off the sleeping bears too much.  (We’re done being government topplers. It looks good on paper, anyway.)

Meanwhile, human beings left their broken country seeking a place to lay their heads without fear of being shelled by rebels or their own country.  Hospitals and fleeing convoys of buses were bombed.  The world watched.  The US said, “Hell no, you’re not coming in here, we don’t want your terrorists sneaking in under your robes. This is not our problem.”

The world woke up when the Syrian air force dropped chemical weapons on its own people. Suddenly Syria matters? Suddenly Syria matters. I guess gassing children to death is the threshold the world will take, echoes of the Iraqi Kurds?

If there was a peaceful way to overthrow the leader of Syria, the world would have been all for it, but he chose to clamp down on his people, to dig in, ready for a fight.  If there was a peaceful way to end the conflict, I would be all for it.  But in my world, peace doesn’t mean, “It’s not my war, it’s not my problem, I can’t get involved, peace at all costs.”  The chasm inside me that I’m walking around with is ready to swallow me whole because asking the world to come to the aid of Syrians means our young men and women might die in the process.

One does not happily ask for war. I can only hope the world comes together and puts enough pressure on the leader of Syria that he and his family find themselves … elsewhere. syrian-boy-drowns-650-afp_650x400_51441283742

Angry, You, And Me

08 Wednesday Mar 2017

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Mom used to say, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.” Not only did that feel right, but it made a lot of sense, more sense than a lot of that other bible stuff I heard when I was a kid. But that doesn’t shut me up, now, does it?

I went to bed really early last night because I couldn’t take anything anymore. I just had it up to here with everything I saw, read, or felt. I got naked and curled up under super soft sheets and blankets and waited for the rain to come. I coached my muscles to unclench from brow to shoulder to abdomen, calves and toes. I let it all go and waited for the rain to come as the weather channel promised.  And then the booming began.

My downstairs neighbor is an angry woman. There is no rhyme or reason for her angry. I’ve tried to figure out if it happens on weekdays or weekends, Mondays, Fridays, Wednesdays. There seems to be no rhythm to it, so I just have to go along with it. When she’s home she stands out in the courtyard and yells at her workers on the phone. Sometimes she bangs on the neighbor’s door to come over and drink, but he doesn’t live here anymore.  Meanwhile, I sit in my home, table by the window and door, reading or typing quietly in the dark when suddenly the whole front of my apartment BOOMS and vibrates because she’s home and slams the door, murdering her life.  I jump because I startle easy.  Sometimes I get annoyed and sometimes I ignore it.  On the advice of a friend I slam a pillow down on the floor to let my aggravation out, and it helps. Sometimes.

Last night I needed refuge, but all I could hear was her slamming and banging of things, and the actual stomping of her feet across the floor. You know that’s gotta be loud when *I* can hear it.  You know when you’re angry you thrust things down or away with a vengeance?  Every footstep smites your foe, every door slam is a guillotine death to your enemy?  Oh, I know that door slam. It’s what you do when you can’t kill with your bare hands and need to get away with it.  I’m glad she lives alone, no children or spouse or pets to abuse. She kills her pain in other ways. I only wish I didn’t have to bear it.  But then I chose not to bear it anymore, last night, and I let her anger go. I let her slamming and banging go because it has no place in bed with me.  The sky turned orange and I knew the rain was coming.

This morning we seemed to have awoken at the same time, early. I felt an extra sense of gratitude because the sky was gray and it was raining. I lit candles and got to work.  The wind was surprising, like a mini-hurricane, and it scared me a little, but the power didn’t go out. And then her front door slammed, twice, like she didn’t kill her life hard enough the first time.  I watched her go out to her car so I  said, barefoot from the balcony,  “Hey! Have a nice day!” in my most sarcastic way but she didn’t hear me. I am ready to get into it with her, and I won’t miss her when she’s gone, as I know she’s just here waiting for her apartment to be repaired from the hurricane so she can live on the top floor once again. I am angry, now and so is she.

If I was any kind of woman, mature, on this day, the International Day of the Woman, if I was any kind of decent, I would reach out and offer friendship.  I know what it’s like to be an angry woman. To feel like you’re a fake in the face of everything, wanting to kill and break everything, to feel the satisfaction of glasses shattering on the wall. Oh the satisfaction.  Murder is illegal but slamming doors and getting drunk and being cruel is just a side effect, deal with it.  But I can’t offer friendship to a person that I know is toxic, and she’s not ready to breathe.  I feel sorry for her as often as I feel frustrated with her intrusion on my peace.  But then… I let her intrude on my peace.

On this International Day of the Woman I examine many things.  This morning, it is how I deal with an angry woman who lives downstairs who sometimes makes me annoyed.  Mom said if I don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all, and although I agree with her, I also feel I have to share how anger makes me feel. I wonder if it will make a difference.

Politics, Peace, and Burnout

16 Thursday Feb 2017

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Unsolicited thoughts on politics, peace, and burnout:
I’ve been voting since Reagan. I’ve been complaining and fearful since George W. Bush. I liked Obama but didn’t pay close enough attention to his administration because it seemed pretty innocuous. I didn’t get hands-on involved in politics until the Women’s March on Washington.
Now I am paying close attention to political voices, on all fronts, because I would like the world to be a better place based on facts and truth, not memes, rumors, and disinformation. The world could be a better place if I stand up for it.
I asked myself tonight where was I all these years when it mattered? Why didn’t I speak up back then instead of just whining in a journal? Myself answered, “I was busy working, being a wife, a mother, and being stressed out and not handling anything maturely.” Opinions without action are just opinions.
Today I would like to tell women and men that it’s okay we never did anything before, beyond griping at the Thanksgiving table with relatives. I’d like to recognize you, that you are going to school, or working, or taking care of yourself and maybe a family. You’ve got priorities and I respect those. Today I would like to ask women and men, if they feel passionate about something, please find a way, no matter how small, to make your voice heard. I marched for a boatload of personal reasons. Today I am asking people to look inside, find one issue that matters most to them, and speak out where they will be heard. Call, write a postcard, or visit your representatives with your concern. Believe me, it makes a difference. Please don’t lose heart and burn out because it all feels insurmountable. (I’m writing about it because I get burned out so easily.) The current president said, in his inaugural speech, “January 20th 2017, will be remembered as the day the people became the rulers of this nation again.” I would like to remind you that we, the people, have always been the rulers of this nation. This is nothing new. Your voice matters, and it will be heard. Take heart.
Find your passion. Focus your voice. Stay strong, get heard, and please do so peacefully.

I Marched Because (I’m gonna need a bigger boat)

24 Tuesday Jan 2017

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I do not believe that life begins at conception

I believe that abortion should be safe, legal, and accessible

I believe that sex education at home and at school can prevent unwanted pregnancy. Teach your daughter, teach your son, with facts, not myths, and threatening to throw them out of the house if they wind up pregnant does no one any good

I believe that a menopausal woman, married those long years to an abusive man, shouldn’t have to bear him another child if she does not want to

I marched to support Planned Parenthood who provides healthcare for women in need of exams, education, and assisting with birth control

I believe that a woman’s right to choose may be eradicated by the current administration

I believe you do not have to use birth control or have an abortion if you do not want, but do not take that right away from those who do

I believe there are children who need to be adopted, and our adoption laws and services need to be updated to protect the adoptive parents

You believe a zygote is more sacred and more important than eradicating poverty, but once that child is born, the mother better not get on welfare

I marched because

You believe that women and blacks can work and vote, therefore our country is equal and undivided

I marched for the LGBTQ community who have yet to be treated decently and equally

I marched for Gamergate (women who spoke against violence against women in video games who were in turn threatened with rape and death)

I marched because Brock Turner raped a woman behind a dumpster and served three months instead of 6 to 14 years. Had he been non-Caucasian his sentence would have been longer

I marched because “rape culture” are words commonly used in sentences

I marched for the populations who do not have clean water, access to health care, and genital mutilation is still practiced

I marched for Trayvon Martin and Philandro Castile

I marched for Black Lives Matter, and I hope you’ll not suggest that I don’t care about or appreciate Blue Lives, or any of our men and women in uniform

I marched against normalizing “locker room talk” so our children know that assault is not, and never will be, the status quo

I marched for Malala, Megyn Kelly, and against mansplaining

I marched against painting immigrants as rapists, terrorists, and bad hombres

I marched against a man who mocked a disabled person then lied about it

I marched because Citizens United takes the voice away from The People in governmental affairs and no one seems interested in overturning it

I marched because I know a wall won’t stop people from seeking a safe haven from their countries’ oppressive regimes

Because I know that as long as people want drugs, or want children for sex or to clean their homes, no wall will stem the flow

Because citizens choose between their meds or groceries every month

Because our veterans are forgotten while they are still living

I marched because we turned a blind eye to lead in the water, plastic bottles and bags have become a need, and we are destroying earth’s balance of water and air

Because school-to-prison has become the norm

I marched because there are people who believe the Sandy Hook massacre was a “false flag event” and if you do not know what that means, please find out and search your heart

I marched because there are too many guns on the street killing our young people

I marched because we are not one nation under God—we are not all believers–but we are good people who pay our taxes just the same

I marched because individuals, corporations, and religious groups do not pay their fair share in taxes, so  the middle class shoulders the burden without the benefit of an account in the Caymans

I marched because going to college should not create lifelong debt

I marched because I believe in a well-rounded education, not just the ability to pass a test

I marched because men think it’s okay to catcall and follow women walking on the street like it’s an acceptable means to have a conversation

I marched because women who are wise and stand up for what is right are labeled as witches or worse. We are ridiculed because we’ve “already got everything,” what more do we want?

I didn’t march because I want to rip a fetus from a womb because I hate babies and want to eat them in a stew, or emasculate men by forcing them to be more like women. I didn’t march to ask we get rid of all guns.  I didn’t march because I hate white people or God or my country.  I marched because I am asking you to make room for other people’s beliefs and needs.  I am asking you to get your head out of the television and Twitter and wrap your head around the fact that the United States is part of one small world, and we have to share it. I marched to ask that you understand your bible doesn’t apply to us all, but as long as we keep loving and talking to each other, we are going to be okay.   Look deeply into and drink the words love, respect, and tolerance. Let go of fear.

We have come to a place where people don’t want things to change because that’s the way it’s always been, that anything else will offend God, or it will lead to the extinction of their class and race.  That somehow all good traditions and values will cease to exist once they die.  I am asking people to examine if it’s fair to force all of us to live by your views. The world is going to go on after I am gone, and I want to leave it a more just and fair place than where I found it.  I feel grateful to have learned that life is not and never will be “my way or the highway.”  Can you learn that, too?

Women’s March on Washington (summary)

24 Tuesday Jan 2017

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The Woman’s March on Washington was touch and go for me for a long time. I wanted to participate but didn’t want to go alone, as I am not a big fan of the subway.  Sounds kind of wimpy, but truth is truth.  I rolled the Facebook dice and asked for a ride. A kind lady replied.  We talked on the phone for a bit and made sketchy plans. My instincts told me by her views, past work history, and being a grandma hitching a ride and crashing in her hotel room would be just fine.  And it was.  I even asked my Omaha companion to vouch for me as a safe travel mate, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t tell her we talked about robbing liquor stores.

She and her cute little mop dog picked me up at 4:30 AM.  We stopped in Alexandria, Virginia to pick up breakfast at an amazing bakery, dropped off her dog, and a friend took us to the Metro station. From that moment on, it was nothing but pink pussycat hats, t-shirts, and posters everywhere.  Amazing.  The Metro was packed from boob to clear backpack. I eavesdropped on them all, where they came from, why they were marching, interested in their age groups and what they did for a living.  The station where we planned to disembark was apparently overloaded, so they dropped us off at the next one.  It was early, so more walking wasn’t a big deal.  We freed ourselves from the squeeze of the subway car and shuffled towards the escalator that led up to the street. I saw many posters with Carrie Fisher or Princess Leia above the word “RESIST.”  As the escalator brought us up to the street the one on the opposite side carried National Guardsmen down into the Metro.  A loud burst of shouting “YAY” and clapping broke out for them. I felt proud.

Once on the sidewalk, it was easy to figure out which way to go.  Just follow all those people walking down the middle of the street.  Hundreds of us, all going thattaway, police directing the sparse bit of cars that wanted to get through intersections.  I heard so many people thank the police and National Guardsmen and felt glad.

The day before was the inauguration, so many Portajohns were put in place for the crowds to relieve themselves.  Most of them were padlocked the following day, the day of our march. Finding a place to pee meant watching the marchers go by while we stood in line, but sometimes you just have to put your sign down and answer the call of nature no matter how long it takes.

Arriving on the Mall and seeing the Lincoln memorial down one way and Washington monument the other, its point obscured in the fog, was very exciting.  We made it!  We ambled the same way everyone else ambled, reading signs, listening to the chanting that broke out every now and then.  The plan was to meet up near the rally point.  We left the Mall and tried to make our way towards the rally, or at least near the jumbotron but it was a dead end.  We were behind the Native American Museum with nowhere to go, but more and more people kept coming up behind us, and I could see it wasn’t going to stop. Roars broke out from stem and it waved and roared and roared all the way to stern, and I’d never seen or heard anything like that before. I’ve been in some pretty big concert crowds wearing other people’s sweat, my arms pinned and being moved, feet off the ground, by the movement of excited people. There is nothing like being part of a group who is there for the same reason, the same happiness and excitement.   It can be fun, exhilarating, but also dangerous.  I told my march buddy I felt uncomfortable and I wanted to get back to the Mall before we got so jammed up we wouldn’t be able to breathe. We turned and went upstream of the unending salmon and eventually made it back to the Mall. There we were able to read amazing signs and take note of everyone’s creativity.  A marching band came down dressed head to toe in white with black lines made to look like a wall, and they were awesome.  Some folks banged drums in time with their slogans.  Many times I felt close to tears because of the solidarity and creativity of everyone who came.

I saw a small group of pro-life people but they were being drowned out, surrounded by everyone else who did not share their view. I wanted to throw them the middle finger, it would have been so easy, I am such an angry woman, but I realized that would bring me down to their level. We walked by observing silence.

Me and my marching partner found a small restaurant where we ate and watched the news. The march wasn’t exactly cancelled, but it was definitely log jammed and rerouted because there were too many people to convey onto the original route.  Wow!   Upon seeing the crowd from above we both agreed we wanted to get out of Dodge before everybody decided to get on the Metro.  We finished eating and hopped the next train.

I didn’t get to hear any of the speakers (oh but we heard the roar while we were there), but I believe, based on what was reported, many of those people did not represent me. I have my own reasons for being a body on the Mall, filled with pink hats and good behavior.  I will never forget that day, my 49th birthday, and will always be grateful for a lady who took a chance on letting me hitch a ride. My reasons for marching will be on the next post.

Let’s Keep Talking

23 Monday Jan 2017

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On the way out to my car I met a man who works in my building.  Typically we smile or nod or wave a little hello but have never exchanged as much as a word.  This afternoon as I’m locking my door, I nod and said, “How’s it going?”

“What the hell’s going on?” he said which startled me a little. I started to ask if he was okay, but then he filled in the rest. “This crazy guy is a president now, and I just don’t know what’s going to happen!”  He was very sincere in his concern, and I felt him, oh boy did I feel him.  He had a lot to say about the inauguration, and I listened to him even though I could feel the grocery list burning a little hole in my pocket.  His need to communicate was more important, though, so I prepared to listen for as long as it took.  At the end of his sharing, I told him, “Look.  As long as you keep talking to me, I keep talking to you, we are all going to be okay.”  He seemed to understand what I was getting at, but it didn’t change the pained expression on his face, his head shaking.   We talked back and forth a little bit longer, then waved off and went our separate ways.

I’ve been thinking about that moment ever since.  I hope that all of us will keep talking to each other, we keep hearing each other, and uphold what is decent, right, and good for the good of us all.

More to follow.