Women’s March on Washington

The Women’s March Issue

Having recovered from the rewarding demands of the Women’s March on Washington—and across the nation and around the world—we are just not ready to give up that fabulous feeling. To sustain it a bit longer, in this week’s issue we feature the works of four writers who marched or would have, had death not defied intent.

The issue includes Julie Friesen’s essay, “March Interrupted,” describing her unexpected detour before the march even began from “the center of the world” to the South; Boston march participant Brenda Davis Harsham, whose poem celebrates “America the Beautiful”; and Julie Harthill Clayton and Rachel Federman’s works, offering a multitude of reasons people marched, in prose and poetry respectively.

Maybe their words will enlighten Donald Trump, who seemed befuddled by what he referred to as “protests.” He claims to have watched them, but he may never grasp them—it’s not at all clear what, if anything, he can understand that hasn’t erupted from his own maw or smart phone keyboard.

Perhaps we can simply be grateful for the inspiration he provides. Which brings us to a video offering in the issue, “Nasty Woman,” the poem that captured the heart and soul of the march, performed by its creator, Nina Mariah.

Finally, many thanks to artist Patrick Brown for sharing his most apropos painting, “Sisters,” to launch this week’s issue.

March, interrupted: When plans go South

By Julie M. Friesen

I’m at the center of the world right now, but soon I’ll go far right of center, to Southwest Georgia. My husband has lost a grandmother, and his mother has lost her mother. I need to be there, meaning I can’t be here.

After November 8, a groundswell movement has given me hope. Its extent is not apparent to the public yet, as the media is understandably busy covering the agenda of the new administration and the constant provocations of its leader.

Meanwhile, I’m getting invitations to secret Facebook groups. I’m reading the Indivisible Guide, that teaches those of us inexperienced in civic activism how to hold our members of Congress accountable. I’m watching grassroots-born rallies mushroom all over the country. I’m overhearing an acquaintance at a party casually mention holding resistance meetings in his living room.

As much as I dread January 20, I look forward to the 21st, the day the resistance moves from living rooms and secret groups to the streets of the nation’s capital.

I wanted to be there to make the statement that we will not sit casually by while our rights are infringed—and not just women’s rights, but First Amendment rights, Voting Rights, and Equal Protection rights.

We don’t approve of the discourse, especially that taking place in 140 characters or less. We don’t approve of the advisors or Cabinet nominees. We don’t approve of the proposed legislation. We don’t approve of the bizarre flirtation (and fear the possible collusion) with Vladimir Putin. We don’t approve of the ethics conflicts that are being minimized or outright ignored. We don’t approve of the attacks on the press. Or Muslims. Or immigrants. Or women. Or Black people. Or people with disabilities. Or the LGBTQ community. Or individuals like John Lewis.

We’re here, too.

Instead of marching in D.C., I will be driving past fields dotted with cotton and Trump-Pence signs. After the funeral, I’ll sit with my in-laws who voted for DJT, watching Fox News and biting my tongue raw. But, though I can’t be at the march, it still gives me hope to know that our freedoms of assembly and speech will be vividly on display. This time, I’ll put my voice on the page. Next time, I’ll take it to the street.

We have a voice so long as we exercise our right to use it. And that can be done anywhere, even in Southwest Georgia.

Julie Friesen is a lawyer in Baltimore, Maryland, and a writer in her living room.

Photo credit: Daniel Oines via a Creative Commons license.

Why I marched

By Julie Harthill Clayton

Two Saturdays ago, I stood, marched, cried, chanted and exercised my first amendment right “peaceably to assemble” with a diverse sea of humanity–500,000 or more–for the Women’s March on Washington.

It was one of the most memorable and moving experiences of my life.

Why did I march? Because “women’s rights are human rights.”

And I will vigorously defend the right of every woman—even the ones with whom I disagree—to express their views. This freedom is part of what makes America great.

But to dig deeper, why did I get up at 4:15 a.m. to finish adorning the pussy hat that I knit by hand, with purple ribbons representing men and women who couldn’t march with me?

Because I am a bisexual white woman. In a relationship with a man.

The color of my skin, my ability to pass as straight, affords me privileges that many of my LGBTQIA friends and family don’t have.

I own my privilege.

I choose not to hide behind it.

I am a loud, proud bisexual who refuses to pass.

A well-meaning acquaintance suggested that I just lay low for the next four years. Respectfully, I say “No.” That dishonors those who can’t pass, it dishonors my own long personal struggle with my sexuality and identity, it dishonors my fellow bisexuals who are afraid that the “B” in LGBTQIA will be silent.

The “B” must not be silent. We matter, too.

And so I marched. For all the LGBTQIAs. Because we deserve a world in which we don’t have to hide.

I marched for my kick-ass, superhero U.S. Army veteran fiancé. For the women who have shaped him into the feminist he is today.

I marched for those whose causes I agree with.

And for those with whom I disagree. “Whatever each individual woman is facing—only she knows her biggest challenge,” says Gloria Steinem.

I marched for the women who didn’t support the march. There are centuries of women who fought, suffered, and sacrificed so that today all women might feel empowered, respected, and treated as first-class citizens.

I marched for the male children I birthed and raised to be thoughtful, kind and compassionate. And to express their views and make their voices heard. I love them with all my heart, though our worldviews sometimes clash. I know that the women who brought them into being—my mother’s mother and her mother—are woven into their fabric.

I marched for the right for others to call me a “snowflake.” A “feathery ice crystal, displaying sixfold symmetry.” A snowflake is a thing of beauty. Fragile? Yes, at times. But each blizzard starts with a single snowflake.

I marched because I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Why I Marched” was previously published by GayRVA.

Julie Harthill Clayton is an out and proud bisexual with a passion for reading, writing and not arithmetic. Her work has appeared in the Christian Science Monitor, the Internet Review of Books, Curve Magazine, Lambda Literary and more. She is working on her first novel, Two Tickets to Freedom, a semi-autobiographical queer coming-of-age tale. A paralegal by day, Julie spends her free time knitting, writing, and reading anything she can get her hands on. She lives in Richmond with her partner, local artist David Turner, and their mischievous and loving hunting dog, Max.

Photo credit: Julie Harthill Clayton

Why we march

By Rachel Federman

We march because we want to send a message to refugees, to Muslims, to members of the LGBTQ and African American communities, to recent immigrants and to all women, but especially young girls. The message is this: We stand with them and we will fight alongside them.

Because we believe in science.

Because we believe in public education.

Because we want to leave an inhabitable planet for our children.

Because we will not go back on marriage equality.

Because we have not given up on democracy.

Because we will not allow you to sell our national parks to make condos and drill for oil.

Because Black Lives Matter. Period.

Because we believe in freedom of speech and the First Amendment and will not tolerate a president—or anybody—attacking those basic American rights.

Because we will not stand idly by while you take away health care from millions of Americans.

Because we know we as a society have not yet made good on the promise contained in Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream.

Because we still have that dream.

Because we have a right to peaceful assembly.

Because we know diversity makes us stronger.

Because we know all of us, except our Native American sisters and brothers, are immigrants. Some came here by choice and others were forced against their will, and we will not forget that history.

Because we will fight your pipelines that contaminate water, destroy sacred property, and continue the reliance on fossil fuels that scientists agree is heating up the earth.

Because Russia is not our ally and the clear Russian interference in our electoral process is—at the very least—a threat to all that we hold dear.

Because even the youngest among us knows it is wrong to mock people’s disabilities and even the youngest among us knows that if you see someone doing it, you stand up and tell them it is wrong.

Because we are not afraid of bullies.

Because the “alt-right” is not adequate to describe a global White Supremacist, White Nationalist movement and we will not be complicit with its normalization.

BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO ASK US WHY WE ARE MARCHING.

Because the problem is not voter fraud, but voter suppression.

Because we are on to your gerrymandering ways.

Because we will not go about our daily lives like this fascist kleptocracy is normal.

Because this is #NotNormal.

Because you were endorsed by the KKK and Neo-Nazis cheered when you won.

Because we are patriots who love our country.

Because you are the manifestation of everything we are teaching our children not to be. You are mean. You are petty. You are a bully. You’re greedy. You lie. If we did not stand up and let ourselves be counted, as strongly opposed to everything you are and everything you represent, we would be failing at our most basic task as caretakers.

Because we are stronger than you and we want to give you a little heads up.

Because we will #Resist your fascist agenda as long as we have breath in our bodies.

Because, whether we are Muslims, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus or members of any other faith, or members of what you might call the faithless, we believe in the commandment to “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Because we believe the Bible when it tells us, “He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that has none” and “Do not neglect to do good and share what you have” and “It is more blessed to give than it is to receive.”

Because we are not content with despair and don’t have time to waste engaging in any more battles about whether we had the right candidate (we did).

Because we do not agree on all issues, but we know that the right to life extends to a child with cancer to receive the treatment he or she needs to have the best chance at life. The right to life extends to toddlers whose parents leave loaded guns within reach. The right to life extends to the people of Flint, Michigan to have access to clean water. The right to life extends to people across the globe who risk malaria due to rising temperatures, while you threaten to defect from the Paris Climate Agreement.

Because we know it is a moral stain on our collective conscience that 40 million Americans live in food insecure households while the top 1% control more wealth than the bottom 95% and yet you propose to cut taxes again for that top 1%.

Because we know Obama was right in Grant Park on November 4, 2008 when he said, “Change has come to America,” and just because the white, male Aristocracy did not accept that change doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

Because. It. Is. Happening.

Because you just pissed off the wrong 3.52 billion nasty women. And the billions of non-Women who have our backs, and won’t grab us by the anything.

I’m a writer-mom and social justice advocate trying to live a simple, mindful life and mindful of how often I fail. I used to play in a band called Dimestore Scenario and now I write books like Writer’s Boot Camp: 30-day crash course to total writing fitness (HarperCollinsUK, 2017) and I work with nonprofits mainly in the field of minority education. I have a Master of Arts in English from Fordham University and blog about my efforts to live a country life in the city at Last American Childhood.