brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
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I’ve read and heard a lot of cranky things since the women’s marches Saturday, but one stood out. “Those women don’t represent me,” wrote one woman on Facebook.
Since returning from Washington, D.C., where several family members and I were among an estimated 500,000 people assembling for what may have been the most peaceful protest in history, I’ve thought a lot about that comment. And I realized the millions of people who participated nation and worldwide didn’t represent me, either. Like many of the women, men and children present, I wasn’t marching for myself. Neither were my husband, brother or 22-year-old daughter. We marched because we believe what Martin Luther King Jr. said: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” I’m white, college educated, employed, married and straight. My parents and grandparents, also college educated, were born in this country. My husband and I have had the privilege of raising our three children in a community with access to excellent public schools, recreational programs, parks, swimming pools and even a lake. We go to sleep each night knowing public safety officers are a phone call away. Our healthcare needs have been provided thanks to employer-subsidized health insurance and our children may share those benefits until they’re 26 if they so choose. Our children received federal aid for college and my parents enjoyed their retirement years with the help of social security and Medicare. I marched because I think every American deserves these same rights and privileges. Every person had personal reasons to be there, whether they were standing up for their own rights or somebody else’s. The marches were open to everyone and people came from all over the country to participate. No one cared what race or religion you were, whether you were rich or poor, male, female or transgender, born in the U.S. or a recent immigrant or whether you walked on two legs or traveled in a wheelchair. If each of us was a snowflake, no two alike, collectively we blanketed the streets for miles. I can only speak to my own experience, not what people viewed on TV or social media. What I experienced was being crushed shoulder to shoulder in a crowd so vast I had no sense where it began or where it ended. With no cell service, getting separated from members of your party was not an option. Sitting down was not an option. Getting food or water was not an option. Finding a port-a-potty was not an option. Maybe people heard about entertainers shouting obscenities or saying rude things about our new president. What I heard was people saying, “Excuse me,” as they jostled their way through the crowd or inadvertently stepped on a toe. What I heard from the stage were messages of love, hope, healing, togetherness and the power of people to make a difference. Signs with clever sayings made me laugh, but what cheered me most were signs of optimism, solidarity, patriotism and momentum. The mood of the day was spirited and enthusiastic, but it was also peaceful. I wasn’t a bit surprised to read the next day the D.C. march didn’t yield a single arrest. People of different colors, ethnicities, genders, backgrounds and ages spoke about a range of issues. I enjoyed hearing Alicia Keys recite lines from Maya Angelou’s poem, “Still I Rise,” followed by a performance of “Girl on Fire.” I was inspired by Kamala Harris, the newly elected junior senator from California. CNN correspondent Van Jones talked about his Love Army. But my favorite speaker was Sophie Cruz, the 6-year-old who became an overnight sensation in 2015 after she crossed security lines to hand a letter to the Pope expressing her concern her undocumented parents would be taken from her. “We are here together making a chain of love to protect our families,” she said. “Let us fight with love, faith and courage so that our families will not be destroyed.” She repeated her remarks in Spanish, ending with a rousing chant of “Si se puede! Si se puede! (Yes we can)” with the crowd joining in. Did Sophie Cruz represent me? She didn’t need to. I, along with millions who marched in person or in spirit, represented her. This appeared in the Jan. 26 issue of the Grosse Pointe News.
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A journalist, a scientist, an attorney and a teacher get on a train.
No, this is not the beginning of a joke. It's a true story of what will happen next Saturday when my husband, brother, daughter and I board the MARC train from Baltimore to Washington D.C. to attend the Women's March on Washington. I am the journalist. I am marching in solidarity with members of the press who have been maligned, labeled, humiliated and denigrated by the president-elect and his supporters. I am marching to protect freedom of speech and of the press. My husband is the scientist. He is marching in opposition to science deniers trying to subvert the truth for personal gain and a new administration bent on rolling back advances in climate change, clean energy and health care reform. My brother is the criminal defense attorney. He is marching in support of social justice and the right of all citizens to equal protection of the law. My 22-year-old daughter is a fifth-grade math and science teacher and a Teach for America corps member. She is marching for her Hispanic and Latino students from Mexico, El Salvador, Honduras and the Dominican Republic. She is marching for her refugee students from countries in the Middle East and Africa. She is marching for all of her students' freedom, safety, and right to be accepted, legitimized, embraced and celebrated. We are marching for each other, for our families, for our fellow Americans, and for those who can't join us but are with us in spirit. We don't know what to expect when we get off that train and head to Independence Avenue and Third Street. We don't know what we will accomplish or whether it will change anything. But we do know we will not be alone; we will be part of something bigger than ourselves. We will be part of a moment in history. And when our grandchildren ask us years from now: "Where were you when..." we will be able to say, "We were there." My father used to tell an apocryphal story about a farmer legendary in his county for his superhuman strength. According to the tale, he could lift a cow. How was this feat possible? Each morning, he would head to the barn and pick up a calf, beginning when it was a day old. By the time the calf was full grown, he was holding a cow.
The moral of this story is no accomplishment happens overnight. This reminder struck me as particularly appropriate this time of year as many of us decide on our new year’s resolutions. Marathons are run in steps, not miles. Books are written one page at a time; music is composed note by note. If you are looking to lose weight, recognize you didn’t gain those pounds in a day. If you have a daunting task ahead of you — a major project due at work, an exam to pass, a long-term home improvement undertaking — remember to break it down into bite-sized, manageable pieces. Baby steps get you as far, with time, as giant leaps. As my daughter’s college soccer coach told her when she was overwhelmed by a grueling workout schedule stretched out over months, take it one day at a time. I think the reason most resolutions for the year are abandoned by February is because people are too ambitious. Maybe this year I will commit to 12 things I hope to have done by the end of the year. Or I will pick one small daily task that, in 365 days, accumulates to an achieved milestone. A small, attainable goal leads to a sense of accomplishment; lofty, yet less achievable, goals often result in failure. So I may not publish that novel this year or go on that trip to Iceland or join a gym. But I may write in a daily journal, set aside money each month for a dream vacation or put a workout app on my phone. I may, as my friend Suzy suggests in her “Just One Thing” calendar — check it out on happygoluckygirl.me — focus on one thing each day to “nudge (me) toward greater health, happiness and well-being.” After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day. So if your goal is to pick up that proverbial cow, start with a day-old calf and one day, you may surprise yourself. This appeared in the Dec. 29, 2016 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. |
Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |