I marched for me

The march itself was great—I didn’t know what to expect, having not participated in anything similar ever in my life. What I saw was a sea of pink hats even though it was sunny and nearly 60, and wide variety of people of all ages, genders, races, religions as indicated by their signs, sexual orientation (again as indicated by their signs), a few police officers on foot, three on horseback, several food trucks, a row of latrines and amazing weather.

I took this picture looking back at the march (I left a bit early—I get pretty antsy in crowds, which is another reason why me participating was a big deal to me personally).

But I’m dismayed by the number of people posting about how the women’s march doesn’t speak for them. Well of course it doesn’t! Just as one size doesn’t fit all in clothing or shoes, neither do marches. But what’s troublesome is the notion that this march was a single-issue march: abortion.

That’s so far from the truth, I don’t even know what to say. Sure, I saw signs on both sides of that issue, but by far most signs touched on equal rights for women.

So if you’re one of those women saying the march doesn’t speak for you or that you couldn’t have marched because you don’t support abortion, I say well find the cause you do want to march for.

Here’s the sign I made and the issues I marched about:

I found my voice

And I hope my writing skills are up to what I want to say.

In seventh grade, I was going to a new-to-me school in Kentucky. Beaumont Junior High was a beautiful, brand new building filled with horrible ugliness on the inside. I attended school there for two years and in the first year, we had six or seven bomb threats (probably just students who didn’t want to take a test but the threats were all taken seriously) and more the next year.

We also had a race riot that year in the cafeteria that resulted in all forks and knives being removed (this was Kentucky in the early 1970s). And the violence didn’t stop there. Remember the big giant hoop earrings, they were quite thin but large in diameter, large enough to touch your shoulder? Girls had those ripped out of their earlobes, and I do mean ripped out with torn earlobes. As a result, I’ve never worn large earrings. Never. And my thumb was broken by a boy in my home room class who was angry I wouldn’t let him mess with my flute. He pulled my left thumb back across the top of my hand until I let go of the case but by then it was too late, and he’d broken it.

That same year, in seventh grade, I spoke up about the Vietnam War and had a POW/MIA bracelet to support the anti-Vietnam War movement, I’d started a small ecology club to clean up a creek in my neighborhood, and I was vocal about equal rights for women and minorities. You can imagine how that went over at school.

I also took the bus to school. Now remember, this school was a rough crowd and at least on my bus, the really rowdy kids sat in the back and those of us who weren’t so rowdy sat in the front. But you had to hustle to get on the bus early to sit in the front—and that’s what I did, I made sure I could sit in the front because frankly, those kids scared me (side story, one of them punched me in the stomach in PE class and when I asked why she did that, she said very nonchalantly “just felt like it” . . . ).

That year, George McGovern ran for president and I wasn’t shy about supporting him.

So that’s the stage for this story.

It was a coldish, drizzly day in October and for whatever reason, I couldn’t get to the bus early enough to get a seat in the front section. I sat perched on the edge of my seat way in the back of the bus and hoped nothing would happen.

One of the boys called out something about hey she’s for McGovern! The insults (you commie!) flew, and then one of them spit on me. Then more of them started spitting and I sat there in the back of the bus getting spit on because I didn’t support Nixon. The bus driver didn’t notice or didn’t dare notice.

I couldn’t get off that bus fast enough. I remember running into the house, finally able to cry, and going to the half bath on the first floor to start washing my hair in the sink and telling my brother that people who believed the way he did (he supported Nixon) had done this to me.

Nothing happened. At least not that I know of. No repercussions to those boys, no safeguards for students on the bus. Nothing.

And folks, I have to say, that shut me down quite a bit. Oh, I spoke up here and there about issues (for example, I reported someone who sexually assaulted me in basic training and he lost his job; when my first sergeant refused remove the female centerfolds plastered on the walls in a common area, I bought five or six copies of Playgirl and posted those centerfolds in the same area). But I stopped voicing my opinion on politics and stayed silent for the last 44 years.

I’m breaking that silence now. I cannot stand by and silently go along with proposals like a national registry or a wall between our country and another country. I cannot stand by while ACA is gutted and destroyed and people like my son, who has a pre-existing condition and was turned down for insurance, go without coverage. I did not serve in the Army to support those policies.

I’m making a sign today. I’m going to the KC version of the Women’s March. I’m done being silent.

Addendum: I realize you might wonder about being opposed to the Vietnam War, and then joining the Army. Remember that by the time I joined, we’d been out of that arena for a few years. The Cold War was front and center. I joined in that era, and served then as a musician. If we’d still been in Vietnam, I would not have joined.

Put on your mask before assisting others

Sometimes, sewing fills a practical need, and sometimes it’s more about creating something. I’m not a particularly imaginative sewist but I enjoy picking out fabric I like and then making something I can (hopefully) wear.

In December, I ended up sewing this jacket one Sunday. I’d had it cut out for a couple of months but between home and work, I had no time or energy to sew. But that Sunday, I was driven. And when I finished making the jacket, I realized that I had needed that creative effort. And that I shouldn’t wait until the pressure to create something, anything, becomes overwhelming.

Chloe photobombed this time

Yesterday, I made a skirt to go with the jacket. It’s all done except for hand work, and it’s hanging so that the fabric will stretch however much it wants to before I hem the lining and the wool.

What do you do to recharge yourself?

And for your amusement, here's a blurry photo but I'm smiling (clearly I am not very good at taking selfies).