The election shocked a lot of us and most of my friends. I have been withdrawn and depressed, more so than usual. I quit Facebook for over a month and read first source news: The Athens Messenger, The Washington Post and The New York Times to name a few. I felt more grounded and happier without the social media stress. Ironically I found Twitter to be helpful as it gave me a lot of the single sourced news I wanted.
I found comfort in the late night monologues of Stephen Colbert, Samantha Bee and Trevor Noah. They whispered and sang to my soul that I was not alone. President Obama gave the country, or those like me, time to mourn until after Thanksgiving and then it was time to get back to work.
The whispers of my sadness and despair, were echoed through the communities of which I am a part: roller derby, LGBTQ+ organizations, Planned Parenthood, and mainline faith community. I cried, and stayed in bed. I took my dogs for walks hoping to run into HRC but apparently she doesn’t walk here in Ohio.
But the attacks on the press came. And kept coming. I was a journalist before I became clergy with the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). I am a feminist. I am Pro-Choice. I am married to a bisexual man. I connect in more with the women’s issues, but the press, what is happening to the press enraged me.
If the First Amendment falls, our right to speech, assemble, religion to have or not have, disappears and we will be bound in such a way that we will not be able to disagree, dissent, challenge anything. If the First Amendment fails, we will be unable to advocate for anything or anyone.
When the whispers became dull roars in my ears; and the roar became a cry from Hawaii, to Michigan to New York to Washington DC. A movement. A movement uniting different women, different PEOPLE, ultimately realizing that it is not Women’s Right but Rights For All, for which we march.
I go, because I am a married, white woman with a certain amount of given authority and privilige that I am called to Washington.
I go to Washington to be a presence: vocally or in quiet solidarity. My fight, our fight, has just begun. We will not go gently into that good night. We will rage, rage against the dying of our dreams.
Reluctantly Writing 