It’s been an intense weekend. My newsfeed is full of pictures of women at their local Women’s March. And here in DC folks of various political parties and backgrounds have taken to the streets across the world to stand up for themselves, and the world that they want to leave their children.
I was raised to be aware of the world around me. To not only count my blessings, but to know that people fought hard for me to have them. Then, for much of my twenties in DC, I hung with organizers (you know, like Obama before he entered office). This means some of my people are of the sort that will lay down on 495 and interrupt your day so that you know they (and we) matter.
So I ignored the signs my body would give me- nerves and upset stomachs in the midst of passionate crowds, exhaustion for days after an action. And I pretended not to notice the nudgings in my spirit that said that it was just as important for someone to be back home, waiting with hugs and sandwiches, or contributing to the bail funds of those going to jail. I don’t ignore those signals anymore.
I write this for myself, to reassure the part of me that wonders if I’ll regret not putting on a pink pussycat hat today and taking to the streets. But I also write it for each of you.
Maybe you missed the march because you were working. Perhaps you were sick, you lacked childcare and didn’t want to take your babies, or you were very pregnant. It’s okay. There’s more to do.
In fact, what is most important about protests-so the organizers tell me at least- is that they bring unity and attention to issues, so that we then have larger numbers of people ready to do work together later.