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My first blog post ever,  and on Christmas Day.  At first I thought this to be incongruous, but then I realized it makes perfect sense:  the message of Christmas and the mission of Nasty Woman Press are in perfect harmony.  I will apologize in advance if this ends up sounding a little like a sermon: three services in 24 hours will do that to a person!   All issues of faith or belief aside, let us consider the Christmas narrative.  First, there is Mary, not at all “meek and mild” as the patriarchs of the church would like us to envision her (and I think we know why they preferred that image, don’t you??).  Obedience to God is not about meekness or mildness; quite the contrary.  Mary had to be a strong, self-assured young woman:  who else would risk ostracism and possible death by stoning to bear a child out of wedlock in first century Judea?  I like to think of Mary as one of the earliest “nasty women” – she defied societal norms and expectations in choosing to obey the voice of God.  Meek and mild?  I think not!

Second, following the narrative, there is the whole mystery of the Incarnation.  Just think about it:  the laws of nature are overthrown in “the virgin birth” and “God made man.”  That which was uncreated becomes created in the flesh.  That which is essence without beginning or end – the self-existent, if you will – comes into existence.  The Word, the Logos of the universe, becomes mortal flesh.  The creator of the world comes into the world not as a king in power and majesty but as a vulnerable, humble infant living in a community of oppressed people whose country has been occupied and annexed by a superpower.  The narrative makes it quite clear that the structure of that society is about to be overthrown as well.  So, the message of Christmas is also about resistance, revolution, and subversion:  God incarnate arrives to expose the world’s lies and reveal heaven’s truth.

And we who find ourselves called to follow that infant Jesus embark upon a dangerous path of defiance and resistance:  we are called to see in the face of every immigrant, every Dreamer, every child deprived of CHIP, every senior whose Social Security is threatened, every woman who is denied proper comprehensive health care, every homeless person the very face of Christ.   That is what real Christians are called to do.   And what of that infant we have left in the manger in Bethlehem?  Our story tells us that, because of the madness and insecurity of King Herod, the family were forced to flee their homeland for some time.  Herod knew his power was illegitimate, and he feared the rumors of a “greater one” who would come and take his throne.  So what did he do?  He massacred innocent children of a certain age to ensure that his successor would be eliminated and his tenuous grip on authority would remain secure.  It is a cautionary tale that in Christmastide the church observes the slaughter of the Holy Innocents only 3 days after Christmas.  Even the Christmas story reminds us that we are wise to fear madmen in charge of governments.   Which brings me, finally, to the title of this piece.  The poem is by Christina Rossetti and is a lovely, if haunting, carol.  But in the midst of our own “bleak midwinter,” I am put in mind of yet another Rossetti poem that embodies the message of hope and love that is also Christmas.  This – along with the mission of Nasty Woman Press – helps to fuel my resolve and keep me motivated to resist oppression and fight for justice.   And, because it is the season and I am a big Dickens fan – God bless us, every one!!

Love came down at Christmas,

Love all lovely, Love Divine,

Love was born at Christmas,

Star and Angels gave the sign.

Worship we the Godhead,

Love Incarnate, Love Divine,

Worship we our Jesus,

But wherewith for sacred sign?

Love shall be our token,

Love be yours and love be mine,

Love to God and all men,

Love for plea and gift and sign.

“Who’d want to do a crappy job like that?” asked a guy at the periphery of the group I found myself in at a bar in downtown Chicago. “An immigrant, maybe?”

Up to that point I hadn’t spoken, so no one realized I’d been born overseas.

“An immigrant?” I said. “What, like me?”

For the next few minutes confusion reigned, and during that time I realized that to many people the word ‘immigrant’ wasn’t a noun. It was an insult. It was cover for a kind of quiet, insidious racism.

For the next few years I pushed back against attitudes like that whenever I encountered them. My efforts were on a personal level but I hoped they might make a difference, albeit on a small scale. Then, last year, the stakes were raised.

A front-running candidate in the race for his party’s presidential nomination started to use his platform to demonize immigrants – or at least those who were easily recognizable as such.

He lied about them in general terms, calling them murderers and rapists. He lied about them in specific terms, falsely claiming that individuals were guilty of murder.

Somehow, this man made into the highest office in the land. Which means it’s time to push back harder. To resist the lies more strenuously. To stand together resolutely against all forms of prejudice. Because it doesn’t matter where we’re from, or which race or religion we belong to. Either we’re all treated with respect, or none of us are.

Why Am I Here?

I didn’t like Hillary Clinton. Not at all. Going back to her time as First Lady of Arkansas. I have reasons for not liking her, but they don’t matter. When she decided to run for president, I hoped she would not be the democratic nominee.

I’ve been a registered voter since the day I turned 18. For most of this time, I’ve been NPA (No Party Affiliation). I have, however, registered with the democratic and republican parties when I needed to do so to use my vote effectively. Because Florida has closed primaries, 2016 was one of those times. In hindsight, I should have registered with the GOP and voted in their primary, but I didn’t think Trump would end up their candidate. (I figured they’d end up with Ted Cruz.)

So I signed up with the democrats and did not vote for Hillary in the primary.

Boy, did I feel right. Not even so much because of Hillary, but because of some of her supporters I encountered. I was berated and called names for not being a Hillary fan. I was told I was a traitor to…something. That I was stupid.

And I realized that whatever happened in the election, progressive America was fracturing. Damaging itself.

As the election season progressed, I didn’t become a Hillary fan. I didn’t criticize her (although I did question some of the choices her campaign made), but I also didn’t #ImWithHer. Again, I have reasons. Again, they don’t matter. As I told many friends, she didn’t need me to like her. The chances of her popping over for a slumber party were always slim. She needed me to vote for her. I live in a swing state, after all. My vote does matter.

To be clear, there was never any chance in hell or anywhere else I was not going to vote for her. I wish there had been a viable third choice, but in the modern United States, there is not. But again, some of her supporters made it as hard as possible. I was always going to, in the words of a dear friend, pull up my big girl panties and use my vote.

Come November 8, I cast my vote. For Hillary Clinton. I was happy to do so. Kind of excited, even. I wasn’t overly optimistic she would win, but I hoped the polls were right. That night and into the early hours of November 9 were some of the most terrifying of my life. The next morning, I felt physically gut-punched.

In the days following, one of the things that scared me the most was that the American left (which, by the standards of most countries, is still conservative) was horribly fractured. Seemed to be inclined to continue to eat its own. To run out anyone who didn’t progressive correctly according to imaginary standards. To refuse to factually acknowledge what had happened and ban together to fight the battle we all faced in these dangerous times.

Then Kelli founded NWP.

I know that storytellers, artists, creative souls can change the world. They’ve (literally) saved my life. NWP is the absolute best of all of us. It gives us a place to work together using our skills and talents toward common goals. To do something other than wring our hands, chastise those who are on our same side, or dismiss someone who doesn’t share precisely your beliefs as a BernieBro. (I live in hope that we can stop using this term someday soon.)

I’m here because we must work together. Build together. Stop tearing down, criticizing, insulting those who are inclined to work with us. NWP is the opportunity to do just this, and so much more. I no longer know anyone who is not threatened by the current administration. This is not normal. It’s not OK. We’re all at risk. We must resist. Together.

 

Learning to Stand Up

by Linda L. Richards

Sometimes it feels like we are at this dark moment. It can be an overwhelming feeling. A helpless one.

Like so many people, that is what I felt late in 2016 and then further in January of 2017 when a whole lot of incomprehensible pieces slid together to coalesce into something that seemed to me (and still seems!) far beyond logic. How could any of this be?

I wasn’t alone. Rapidly I came to understand that I was part of a demographic and generation who had largely sat on their hands because everything was perfect, or mostly so. My world had always been close to perfect and getting better. And the things I had always believed would continue to go in the direction they had throughout my lifetime — in a constant glorious stream towards better — because those battles had been fought. They were behind us. Civil rights. Roe V. Wade. Equal Rights. So much else that had been headlines when we were children. And now? Smooth sailing all the way home. Of course!

Of course.

And then 2016 happened, and everything changed. The impossible became possible and it seemed that everything we’d learned had to be learned again. And one of those things was the message that sitting on our hands was no longer an option.

It took a while, but I finally got it. That in order to move forward in what my Boomer-to-Gen X brain understood was correct fashion, I had to stand up. I had to do something. I could no longer be too busy or self-concerned to make sure my voice was heard. Not only that, I had to make sure I did whatever I could so that other like-spirited voices could be heard, as well. And together we could console each other while we moved forward, to a better time and place.

And so here I am. And here you are. I’m heartened and encouraged to know we’re moving forward together. ◊

Linda L. Richards is an author and journalist and serves on the Board of Directors as Secretary of Nasty Women Press.

By T.C. Currie

I was a precocious reader, as most writers are, I’ve found.  At the ripe age of twelve, my librarian discovered I was reading my way through my brother’s collection of Sherlock Holmes, which I found so much more interesting than Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins.  She looked at me for a minute, then walked me over to Adult Fiction and handed me The Three Musketeers.

I was thrilled.  What a story! I returned the book and headed back to this magical section. Next, I picked up the Count of Monte Cristo.  Now, as an innocent Christian white girl in Denver, Colorado, a lot of the more salacious passages went over my head, (I wrote about this a few years ago) but man, I loved the story.  And the words!  The words created worlds in which I immersed myself. I happily read and read and read.  The Bronte sisters.  Mark Twain.  Charles Dickens.  Fiction let me escape.  Fiction let me soar.

I encountered my first non-fiction book at 14.  My mother, born in 1938, decided she wanted to know more about the history of World War II and was reading The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by journalist William L. Shirer.  Ooh, I thought, a real adult book!

But I only knew how to read fiction, how to immerse myself fully into an alternative reality, how to be absorbed into the story, the time and the place.  So I read this book with that same technique, only this time, I descended into hell and read about raw hatred for the first time in my sheltered existence.  Real, unadulterated, codified, popularized, bureaucratized and weaponized hatred.  Looking at the photos of a hard man with a strange moustache, the crowds at his speeches, then at the piles of bodies and the walking skeletons who were emancipated, I was shaken to my core.

“How could this happen?” I asked my mom.  “Why didn’t they stop it?”

“I don’t know,” she answered.

In 9^th grade, we read The Diary of Anne Frank.  I was stunned at her courage.  As the class discussed the hardships she went through and her tragic end, I thought about myself living in an attic with my family (oh god please no).  I thought about those who hid her, and then hid her diary.  Would I have that courage? I wondered.  But I lived in America.  We won that war. I was safe, and would never be asked to make that choice.

I grew older, and the missing pieces started to fill in.  As a history major, I learned the causes of World War II, the desperation planted in the soil of abject German defeat and watered by a world-wide economic depression.  A madman who slid slowly into power, creeping bit by bit, normalizing hatred until the burning of bodies seemed like a logical conclusion.

My favorite history profession taught Asian Studies, which turned into my minor.  Every class I took from him had one lecture devoted to fascism, what it is, what leads up to it, how it works and how to identify the warning signs. “America will never go communist,” he said, lecturing less than ten years after the end of the Vietnam War.  “It’s fascism that’s the threat.  You don’t need a majority to turn the tide, you only need 10-20% of dedicated believers willing to take action.  If the majority is ambivalent, that’s enough.”  I listened and took notes because there was always a question about fascism on the final.  In Asian History 1 & 2.  In Chinese Empires.  In The History of the Raj.  In Pacific Wars.  And it worked.  His warnings seeped into my brain.

And my professors answered the question my mother couldn’t.  I finally found out how.

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

Martin Niemöller

The short answer is that good people, like Pastor Niemoller, did nothing.  Hate was slowly normalized, in tiny steps, fully backed by the government and a sophisticated propaganda machine who skillfully turned neighbor against neighbor, father against son.  It’s not me, they said, as they watched their neighbors being stolen away, never to return.  Would I take the easy path?  I’m privileged in this country.  White, middle class, educated.  It’s not likely they’ll come for me, unless I take action.  Would I take the safe way?

I saw the movie Julia with my friends, where Lillian Hellman smuggled money into Berlin for her friend.  After the move, we had several of the long discussions that mark one’s college years, passionately arguing, justifying our points of view over beer & nachos.  What would we do? we asked ourselves.  Would I stand up to evil? In Reagan’s America, safe, secure, arguing my liberal politics, of course I would, I stated firmly.  But privately I wondered if I would have the strength. Am I a coward?

Later, I married a black man, educated myself about racism in America, and I learned.  I listened to black people and I believed them. I watched Ken Burn’s Civil War.  I heard real stories about World War II from my father-in-law, who went into France 2 days after D-Day, walking over dead bodies still on the beach.  He lived through the Battle of the Bulge and liberated a concentration camp.  He was a hero, awarded a silver star and is buried at Arlington.  He was brave, by far the most brave person I had ever met.  I changed my hardline pacifist stance.  Wars were sometimes desperately necessary.  But what would I do?

Through all this, I remained politically active, voting in every election, and keeping up with the news and issues.  I consider this to be a responsibility of living in this country.  I cannot understand people who don’t vote.  As time passed I read Elie Wiesel, watched Schindler’s List and Sophie’s Choice.  And wondered.

So in 2016, when I finally started attention to Donald Trump’s candidacy, I found it very frightening.  Since the Republicans had dismantled the fairness rule several years before (each candidate must be given equal air time), the media soaked up the ratings as they covered his outrageous antics with abandon.  Other candidates, serious men with whom I seriously disagree on every issue, but serious men who understand politics and how this country runs, fell to the wayside one by one, victims of his outrageousness and media savvy.  But in amongst the antics, the specter of fascism starting rearing its head.  As the campaign went on, emboldened by the complete lack of unbiased, journalistic reporting by the media, he started using the same techniques as Hitler.  Openly mocking the physical disability of a Pulitzer-prize-winning journalist.  De-humanizing and belittling women and people of color.  Rallying cries uniting people by hate, not hope.  Make America Great Again.  Lock Her Up. Demonizing their political opponents.  Calling us snowflakes, fragile and not able to stand the heat.  Violence occurring at political rallies, previously unheard of.   Tiny steps. And lie after lie after lie.  Not even clever lies, just spewing words that sounded good in the moment but easily proven false.  “I did not have lunch with that man.”  “Here’s a picture of you having lunch with him.”  All going completely unchecked in the media.

Then the election, and the shared aftershock from 26 million people slamming into a brick wall at a thousand miles an hour.  On my Facebook feed, when we were silently screaming in pain and shock, Kelli Stanley said we’re going to need respite from our anger and we’re going to need entertainment.  It’s going to be a long haul, she said, and we’re going to need art to sustain us.  Are you in?

Kelli spun up Nasty Woman Press out of thin air, despair and hope.  The non-profit will publish anthologies of fiction about our time.  Writers will be paid and any money left over will be donated to those institutions hardest hit by this administration’s policies.  Win, win, win.

In the short ten months it’s taken to get NWP up and running, Trump has taken America from a respected world leader to a laughingstock, a stunning descent.  Last weekend, armed nazis took to the streets in Charlottesville, VA and the President of the United States would not condemn them.  It’s the first time I was glad my beloved father-in-law had passed.

To my deep dismay, I am now in a position to find out just what I am made of.

They were wrong, those good people in Germany, who said, “it’s not me.” They are wrong, the good people in my life now telling me that it doesn’t affect me, not really.  You have a job, they say, you have a home.  You are white. They won’t be coming for you.

But it is me.  It’s all of us.  We’re in this together.  And I am in.  What better way to join the resistance then by writing?

So this is me, stepping up.  With my knowledge of history, it’s likely I’ll need much more courage in the times to come. If I continue to speak out I understand that I am putting a target on myself.

Perhaps not.  Perhaps we can actually learn from history.  Perhaps we can still remove the fascists from the seat of power.  We have the knowledge that the good people in Germany did not have.  We have seen this before.  We know where it will end up.  And we know that we have to stop it now.

After all, millions of snowflakes banded together can create an avalanche.

In the meantime, I’m glad to finally have an answer.  And I’m happy to think my 12-year-old self would be proud.

NOTE:  The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich is a tour-de-force, highly recommended, and free to Amazon Prime members.

 

 

 

 

 

 

By Maggie King

Those surrealistic days following the 2016 galvanized me into countless political activities. Suddenly I was part of the resistance movement and often felt like I was everywhere at once, constantly asking myself: Am I doing enough? Am I being effective?

Looking back I’m staggered at all I’ve done:

I’ve marched (The Women’s March in Washington is a memory to cherish) for various causes; attended rallies and a town hall meeting with Rep. Donald McEachin.

I’ve made countless calls to my reps, signed petition after petition, sent e-mails, posted tweets, etc.

I’ve made a number of small donations to candidates and causes.

I spent several hours working on a phone bank for State Senator Jennifer McLellan, resulting in a $50 parking ticket (but she won, so it was worth it!)

I’ve attended any number of meetings, in person and by conference call) for the ACLU, Indivisible, Virginia Interfaith Center for Public Policy, Liberal Women of Chesterfield County.

I’m probably forgetting something!

I realized early on that I would soon burn out if I didn’t narrow my focus. I’m still working on that and now concentrate on health care and voting rights.

But, to repeat my question: am I doing enough? By myself, I can’t do enough. This is a “it takes a village” concept if ever there was one. It’s especially hard for me because I’ve been a lone wolf since childhood, never a team player. Sure I had to be the team player that employers are so hot on—but teams in business tend to be small and manageable, allowing me to evaluate my individual contributions. The good old USA is a mighty big team.

So I’ll just keep doing something each day, whether it’s an action or making a monetary donation, to contribute to the “village” effort. Consider how Barack Obama’s election victories are attributed to a large number of small donations.

Better to do a little, than nothing at all—that’s my new motto. That’s how Civic engagement works.

I can’t help thinking about when I went to the animal shelter and adopted two cats. I was thrilled to have them, and still am, but sad to leave behind all the other cats who needed homes. But at least my two got a great home, and I’m sure many others did as well.

Daily Action (https://dailyaction.org) is a great way to get started. They aim to make civic engagement easy, with a single action every day. I get a text from them each weekday with a suggested action. I’m sure others can share how they contribute.

An especially meaningful event I attended was a solidarity rally held in March at the Emek Sholom Holocaust Memorial Cemetery in Richmond. It was organized by Standing Together RVA, an initiative started to bring diverse groups in Richmond together to speak out and stand with religious and ethnic groups who are marginalized. I unintentionally appear in this photo (on right in purple scarf) of two women placing stones on a Holocaust Memorial.

Maggie King is the author of the Hazel Rose Book Group mysteries, including Murder at the Book Group and Murder at the Moonshine Inn. She has contributed stories to the Virginia is for Mysteries anthologies and to the 50 Shades of Cabernet anthology.

Maggie is a member of Sisters in Crime, James River Writers, and the American Association of University Women. She has worked as a software developer, retail sales manager, and customer service supervisor. Maggie graduated from Elizabeth Seton College and earned a B.S. degree in Business Administration from Rochester Institute of Technology. She has called New Jersey, Massachusetts, and California home. These days she lives in Richmond, Virginia with her husband, Glen, and cats, Morris and Olive. She enjoys reading, walking, movies, traveling, theatre, and museums.

Website: http://www.maggieking.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MaggieKingAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/MaggieKingAuthr

Buy link for Murder at the Moonshine Inn: http://amzn.to/2dtozWa

By Kaye Wilkinson Barley

Originally published in Meanderings and Musings, January 23, 2017

In the post immediately before this, I told you all why I was going to DC to march.

What I did not tell you is how it was really a day to day, minute to minute thing.

It won’t be a secret for some of you who know me well, although some of you will find it a little hard to believe.

My friend Gina Gilmore shared this on my FB page and struck home, I must say.

Here’s a little story.

When I returned home from DC, I asked Don Barley if he was proud of me for marching.  He said he was, of course, proud of me.  Always.  (He is such a good husband  ? ).   He asked if I was proud of myself, and I said, “yes, of course.”

He then said to me, “you should be proud of yourself for just getting on that bus. I know that was hard.” 

Y’all. 

Really? 

Really.

That was THE hardest thing. A bus full of people I didn’t know. 

If it had not been for the fact that I knew our friends Amber Dollyhigh-Kwong and Pat Taylor were going to be there, I could very easily at the very last minute changed my mind and not gone. 

Introverts may not always strike you as your version of what you think an introvert is, but believe me, we come in all disguises. 

So, yes. I am SO proud of myself for getting on that bus that it makes me cry.

One thing that helped also is that I got on the bus with names of several friends who weren’t able to be in DC.

Some of them were marching elsewhere, some unable to march.

So, ALL of these people went to DC with me – in my pocket.  And I was comforted by having them along.

We, the women from the Facebook Group Pantsuit Nation, Boone/Western NC, pulled out of the WalMart parking lot in Boone, NC Friday night at midnight.

Almost immediately, the adventure began.

We broke down.

But.

After a few minutes, things seem to right themselves..

(Do not ask me – I have no idea how bus things work.  But in this case, the age old fix seemed to be to turn it off, then turn it back on. Voilà!).

And then, about an hour later, on the other side of Wilkesboro, it happened again.

This time it took a little longer for things to right themselves.

But.

Right themselves, they did.

Our driver, who was great, kept us informed and kept in touch with the bus headquarters.

He let us know they were looking for a different bus, but wanted to make sure we were all okay and willing to keep going.

The response was a resounding YES!

So we kept going.

Then.

Then we got stopped for about 40 minutes behind a bad accident waiting for it to be cleared.

Then we changed over to our new bus outside of Greensboro. So. Running a little behind schedule, but everyone remained in good spirits.

I tried to go to sleep, but I managed to only doze a little off and on.

And then, it seemed like just all of a sudden, we were at our final rest stop before getting into DC.

The rush was on for hairbrushes and toothbrushes.

The Bus was awake and rocking to Aretha’s RESPECT.

Someone, and I am determined to find out who, played what I do believe was THE perfect playlist for going and coming back from the march.

On our drive into DC and to RFK Stadium, in addition to seeing iconic monuments, we saw more buses than I could have imagined.

And it wasn’t hard to tell they were filled with women who were, like us, going to march.

The pink hats helped.

We saw women walking, arm in arm.

We saw women walking with their children.

Walking with their partners.

We saw men pushing baby strollers, many of whom were proudly sporting pink hats.

All good.

I did not see one instance of discord, did not encounter a single rude person.

We walked the two plus miles from RFK Stadium along beautiful Capitol Hill to the rally point at Independence and 3rd.

I am SO proud to have been a part of it.  And tickled to have my friend Pat Taylor to experience it with.

me and Pat Taylor

Here are some random pictures, along with more of my thoughts about the day.

 

 

Most of the wonderful old brownstones we passed on our walk had signs in their yards with MLK quotes.

Many of the residents stood at their front doors and waved.

It was especially moving to see some mothers with babies on their hips waving at us.  They knew we were marching for those babies.

Pat and I stopped and had some breakfast and much needed coffee and were still having a hard time believing we were really there.

Amazing.

That’s what we kept saying to one another.

Amazing.

There was a sea of people in front of us.

A sea of people behind us.

Amazing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once we reached the rally point, we learned that was as far as we’d be going.  The news guy showed us pictures of the streets from where we were standing beyond the White House and they were full.

The originally estimated crowd of 200,000 had grown to approximately 500,000.

Too many people to march the planned route, so we just spread out and stood.

Peacefully.

Proud to be there.

And still, every single person we encountered was kind.

People apologized as they brushed by to move somewhere else.

We smiled at one another.

It was . . .

amazing.

We were not far from the Rally Stage, but honestly? Don’t have a clue as to who was up there, or what they were saying.  It wasn’t, for me, the point. The sheer numbers of people in those streets protesting peacefully. That was the point.  Although I am a little irritated at myself for not paying attention to catch Gloria Steinem.  dang.

 

 

 

 

After a couple hours of milling about near the rally point, Pat and I started our walk back to RFK Stadium.

 

 

 

We stopped and had a burger at Good Stuff Eatery (YUM!).  We were able to snag a table and saw, for the first time, pictures and video of the march.

And the marches going on around the world.

And it made me cry.

The number of people marching in DC and everywhere – everywhere!  Can you believe the numbers?! – sent a very loud message. If Trump is too ignorant to get it, Congress certainly should.  

SOMETHING needs to come of the incredibleness (did I just make up a word? or just misspell one?) of January 21st. 

I still have a lot of thoughts to process. 

500,000 of us in DC.  In the middle of the largest one day protest in our history, but I did not get the full impact of that, really, until I saw overhead shots of the crowd on TV.  And I’m still not down from that high.

Continuing our walk back to RFK Stadium to get on our bus, Pat and I could not pass up a little bit of shopping at  Eastern Market which has been on Capitol Hill since 1873.

Nobody loves shopping more than me and Pat.

I wanted to bring something home, of course.

A souvenir to help me remember.

But something other than a TeeShirt.

I found David Kessler.  A local DC artist, and bought this print on canvas.  

It embodies the architecture Pat and I admired and enjoyed on our walk along Capitol Hill.

It wasn’t until I was paying for it that Mr. Kessler told me it was a painting of the John Philip Sousa house, which was about two blocks away from where we were.  Cool.

Finally boarding the bus, a little tired, but energized by being a part of something so big – so important, it was hard to believe it was over.

It was time to go home.

And the music was playing.

And there was our incredible play list back again.

Lean on Me.

Could there have been a more appropriate song on which to end this day?

The wine was flowing, there was singing, and then we all settled in for quiet conversations, self-reflection and a little sleep.

We got back into Boone about 3 a.m., and I got home about 3:30.

Woke Donald, said, “Hi, Honey, I’m home.”

And fell dead asleep.

When I finally woke up sometime around 1 pm Sunday afternoon, I spent some time going through Facebook, reading comments on my posts, and laughed a little and cried a little. 

Thanks for going with me, everyone. You guys are the best and I love you. 

But.

There is much to be done.

And we can’t sit back and rest for long.

Stay strong. We can make a difference. We can.

Just remember – 



We’re just getting started.

By Kaye Wilkinson Barley

Originally published in Meanderings and Musings, January 19, 2017.

Why am I going to DC to participate in the Women’s March on Washington?

I’ve been asked why.

And I’ve been quoted in the High Country Press – http://www.hcpress.com/front-page/thousands-expected-attend-womens-march-washington-including-bus-full-locals.html

Yes, I did say that I think Donald Trump is crazy and dangerous.

And I do believe it.

But that’s not the only reason I’m participating.

One of the reasons I decided to go was because I wanted to help increase the number of participants.

I signed up very early.

I had no idea it would grow to what it has grown to.

And that there would be sister marches all over this country.

AND

The world!

It has become a Global Day of Action.

As soon as I heard about this march, it became important to me to make a point in any way I could to the rest of the world that we do not all accept Donald Trump as our next president.

That we do not all feel the same way he does.

That we are not all racists.

That we do not all embody all the hatred he and his supporters do.

I am terrified, frankly, of where we’ll be this time next year under Donald Trump and the appallingly shocking people he’s choosing as cabinet members.

We’re in danger, I fear, of completely losing the very things this country was founded on.

It’s as though he’s going through long lists of names and picking out the person who could do the most to dismantle the good that’s been done in a particular area.

I’m terrified that we’re going to see World War III.

So, yes, I’m going to Washington, DC to march.

For women’s rights, for civil rights, for common decency, for the planet, for ALL the things listed in The Women’s March Guiding Vision and Definition of Principles.  For gender justice, for racial justice, for economic justice.  For reproductive freedom.  For LGBTQIA rights.  For peace.

I have a lot of Facebook friends who are unable to attend this march, so I’m writing down their names and putting them in my pocket.

They will be there in spirit.  With me.

And they’ll be a comfort to me, knowing I’m not marching for all these things all by myself in a crowd of 200,000.

I’ll have friends with me.

Friends who believe in the same things I do.

I’ll also have some friends from Boone with me.  We’re riding up and back together on a bus.

It’s going to be a grueling trip.

We’re leaving Boone at 11:55 pm on Friday night.

We’ll be getting back to Boone around 3:00 a.m. on Sunday morning.

But we’re standing up for what we believe in.

We’re exercising our rights as given to us in the first amendment of the United States Constitution which, I believe, is at risk with our present congress and Donald Trump.

The First Amendment states that “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

It’s important to me to stand up for what I believe.

It’s important to me that I be in DC for this march.