My Day In Lansing

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My Day in Lansing

Matthew: 22:37-40

Jesus replied: Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.   

This is the first and greatest commandment. 

And the second is like it, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” 

All the Law and all the Prophets hang on these two commandments.

I woke up nauseous.  I haven’t been that nauseous in years.  I chalked it up to mild food poisoning or Trump’s inauguration. This was going to be an interesting day.  First up?  A quick breakfast to celebrate the birth of one of the most incredible women I know (Sheila Solomon Shotwell).  Despite the gift of an anti-nausea medicine that she gave to me, (when did that become how we celebrate birthdays?) I couldn’t quite move past the “life would be so much better if I’d just toss my cookies” feeling.  I suppose ordering eggs didn’t help.

I was hesitant to march on (pun intended), but I knew this would be an historic day. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to show up – for me and for all the women I know and don’t know who are aching to have their voices heard and their rights protected.

With Pussyhats* in hand, we headed to Lansing. I drove to the march with Sheila, Gail and Ann.  On the way, we talked about Ann’s bi-racial daughter who provided the reality check, “Welcome to the suffering I’ve been dealing with my whole life.”  We talked thoughtfully about whether or not the Pro-Life movement should be at the March.  We talked with differing opinions about whether a Nazi should be punched in the face during a TV interview. I was so proud to be traveling with these incredible, smart, strong, passionate women. 

That's me looking like I have to go to the bathroom, but I didn't.

We made it to the march by 12:15pm.  Parking was so easy I was concerned turnout might be small. Ha! I was wrong. To our delight, we parked next to the Republican Party headquarters. (Photo Op! Tee hee.)

 

We made our way to the middle of the capital grounds.  After about 10 minutes I realized I would probably be better off sitting at the nearby Episcopal Church that had opened its doors as a warming station and public restroom.  God Bless the Episcopalians.

I spent the first 45 minutes in a hallway.  Unfortunately it was cold and busy.  And, the first thing that happened was a woman sat down next to me to eat a ham sandwich.  Not good.  The volunteers were delightful, though.  Gail popped in occasionally (always looking for the elusive cake the church ladies were rumored to be serving) and I even got to see my friend, Tommy.  After this kind, 70-year old volunteer scoured her purse for mints for me, I headed in to the quiet sanctuary.  She encouraged me to go there and take advantage of the rocking chairs in the back.

When I took the seat, I looked up and the first thing I saw in all his stained glass glory was Christ.  Jesus, The Christ.  I decided this was perfect.  I had said on my way out the door that I wanted a peaceful day, and well, sometimes you get what you wish for.I couldn’t help but wonder, “What Would Jesus Do?” I was raised Catholic. I’m not a practicing Catholic anymore, but I am grateful for that upbringing, mostly because Catholicism taught me about Christ, his work, his mission.  Jesus was, and will always be, about two things for me...

Love and Forgiveness.

So what would Jesus do if he were at the March? I thought:

·      He’d probably be a speaker.  I doubt he’d be on the agenda though. That’s not his style.He’d probably be hanging out with the people who were even to the Left of the Messages we heard. 

·      He’d be high fiving the Bernie diehards who were gathering signatures to make sure that the two-party system is upended and that money gets out of politics. (Oh man, I bet he’d be turning over a boatload of tables if the Legislature were in session.)  

·      He’d be one of the few people of color at the Lansing rally. I’m pretty sure he’d be one of maybe five people of Middle Eastern dissent.  

·      He’d remind us that he knows what it means to be on a “registry” and that it just spells trouble.

·      He’d gather first with the people who held signs that said “Black Lives Matter” because he knows that their movement needs broad support and if this many people came out to one of their marches their voices would start to be heard.

·      He’d hug the transgendered man knowing full well the pain he has experienced getting to this place.

·      He’d hug the woman who held a sign that said CSA Survivor (Child Sexual Abuse) and he’d apologize because society failed her. And he IS society.

·      He would chide those of us who have done nothing to support progressive causes since the election but yell from our Facebook pages and our Twitter how horrible our lives will be under Trump. 

·      He’d remind us to keep the Faith.

·      He’d remind us that we need to find ways to build bridges, not walls and that every time we say that we need to reflect on what that means in our own lives.  Are we building bridges towards our enemies or walls?

·      He’d remind us not to lose our peace over a Tweet or a post or name calling.

·      He would chide those of us who believe violence, in any form, is an answer.

·      He wouldn’t grab any woman by the pussy*. Nor would he boast about ever having done so. 

·      He’d thank St. Paul’s Episcopal Church for opening their doors and say to their leaders, “Now THAT’s what I’m talking about.”

·      He’d tell us how amazing we are that we were able to get through our protest peacefully.  He’d say, “Now THAT’s what I’ve been talking about.”

·      He’d remind us what values he wanted us to remember… to Love One Another, that the Meek Shall Inherit the Earth, that Words Matter, That Deeds Matter (From Matthew: “These People Honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” And Power Doesn’t (From Luke: “You cannot serve both God and Money.”)

·      He’d tell us to stop blanketing opinions (They’re all crazy.  They’re all stupid.)

·      He’d probably make a self-deprecating joke about progressives.  Come On! He had to laugh sometimes.

·      He’d say how much he appreciates Pope Francis.

·      He’d tell us what he really thinks about abortion.  That’s it’s complicated.  That it shouldn’t be criminalized. That he hopes if you were pregnant that you would be surrounded by people that would allow you to feel safe and supported. He’d even remind us that the more access to abortion and birth control pills in a controlled area, the less abortions occur.  Okay, maybe he wouldn’t get all factual on us, but he surely would suggest that more compassion is required for the pregnant woman.

·      And he’d remind us that programs that help young mothers, young children and disenfranchised need our on-going support.

·      And when he was done with all that, he’d shut up and listen.  Because he knows that women, while many of us really really, really love men, we’re more than a wee bit tired of hearing them tell us what’s good for us.

With only a little more than a half hour to go to our departure time, I decided to buck up and take a walk around the grounds.  The dense fog from the early part of the day had lifted and the sun had managed to shine. In January?! It was beautiful.  Protestors had taken to the streets to march.  Their chants were loud, and yet peaceful. I cried.  Women, children and the men who love them gathered together to say, “This is not okay.” Repealing ACA in full, turning back the clock on our rights, destroying all the progress made in the last years, etc. “goes against the fiber of our beings and we want to be heard”.

When I got home, I spent the next few hours in and out of sleep jumping on and off social media. I watched the numbers climb. Los Angeles 750,000, DC 500,000 New York 250,000, Chicago 200,000+, Denver 100,000+, Boston 100,000+, Portland 100,000+, London 100,000+ Lansing 8000+ and on and on and on and on and on.  Amazing.

At the end of the day, still in a nauseous stupor, I hit my pillow knowing that America is a great country. It is flawed. It still has so much growing up to do, but it allowed me and millions of women to march peacefully.  Equally important, it fueled me for the work that lies ahead.

ADDENDUM *Now about that Pussyhat

Just some of the hats made by my sister, Anne.

I wore one.  My sister made it.  I wasn’t sure how to react when she asked me if I wanted one.  My gut said, “Just Say Yes”. I did.  I hate the word Pussy.  It’s disgusting.  It’s pejorative.  It’s a word made meant to make a woman feel shame. It’s a word meant to emasculate men. It’s a word that means you equate my vagina with being weak. It’s a word our current President used in a way that made me feel violated.  It’s a word that when our nation heard our then President-Elect use it, they were so numb to knowing that it was wrong for him to say such a thing that they voted for him anyway. 

A week before the march I saw a little girl wearing kitty cat ears.  She wasn’t consciously trying to suggest she was protesting Trump.  She just wanted kitten ears. I felt like the Pussyhat could claim power for “kitty cat ears”.  I was hopeful that wearing a Pussyhat could claim power for me and for all women.  If someone calls me a pussy or says I’m gonna grab your pussy or calls a man a pussy, we can now say, Pussy means strength and power and fight and control.  Now if you are outraged when you hear me use the word (and I still have to practice saying it out loud) I invite you to be outraged instead at the Man, the Men who used / use it in the first place.