Something I Can Do

Sometimes I realize I’m humming.  It starts as an unconscious lips, tongue, and breath thing that I, thinking-Lea, a spectator curious about the content, happen upon with surprise.  I don’t always recognize the tune immediately and have to keep humming until I identify the song.

Often during election seasons, “America the Beautiful” has been my soul’s selection, looping continuously while I’m driving, typing, walking in the woods, or washing dishes.  But, its wistful lyrics - “and crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea" - seemed so poignant and unattainable in 2016. Instead, something stirring, something rousing, something rebellious kept burbling up from my subconscious. 

What was it?

Got it!  “Sister Suffragette!”  A revolutionary cry from actress Glynis Johns in the 1964 movie, “Mary Poppins.”  Mary Poppins?  A song of revolution?  Yes!

“We’re clearly soldiers in petticoats,

Dauntless crusaders for women’s votes…

Cast off the shackles of yesterday!

Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!

Our daughters’ daughters will adore us,

And they’ll sing in grateful chorus,

“Well done!  Well done!  Well done, sister suffragette!”

Long before the election results were tallied, somewhere deep within me this rallying cry ramped up.  But why?  That battle had been fought and won in 1920. Not so long ago.  And we are the daughter’s daughters those courageous, forward thinking suffragettes fought for.  Catch me at the right moment, and I’m weepy with gratitude to those women.  

Almost 100 years later, Donald Trump has been elected president. Our right to vote is not up for grabs, but he has bragged that, for him, our private parts are.  

For years, I’ve warned my daughter not to be complacent about her rights, but why wouldn’t she be?  She has grown up in a world where women are CEOs, surgeons, and senators, where she has known she can be almost anything she wants to be.  Sure, tampons and sanitary pads are taxed while Rogaine and Viagra are not, and yes, women are paid $.78 cents on every dollar a man earns, but we’ve made solid headway.

Wait. Rewind. Having not needed a tampon in over a decade, I wasn’t aware of that tax, and while I knew about pay inequality and thought it unfair, I wasn’t really bothered by it.  Why not?  WHY NOT?  Why have I accepted that so quietly? 

Flash to January 2017 and I’m not accepting it anymore.  I’m also reeling at America’s choice for president.  Fortunately, so was Teresa Shook, a retiree living in Hawaii who was so disturbed by Donald Trump’s win that she posted her idea for a March on Washington on Facebook.  By the next morning, 10,000 followers had signed on to join her.   My sister Francie and I missed that initial call to action, but we had our bus tickets to the march secured within a month of that posting. 

In the weeks before the march, I worried.  About cold feet and frostbite. About the possibility of violence.  About the availability of bathrooms.  That was the main thing, actually. I worried about that a lot.  So I added maximally absorbent sanitary pads to my Women’s March pile of gloves, woolen socks, granola bars, and dried apricots.  Even if I were desperate, I doubted I’d be able to convince my lifetime-trained body to release and go in a pad, still, I felt better having a “what-if-I-can’t-find-a-bathroom” plan.

But the Women’s March committee assuaged my fears.  By email, they kept me posted with updates about permits, police coverage, suggested supplies, things to avoid, march route maps, and guidelines to follow in case of disruptions.  Plus, it sounded like they were renting plenty of port-o-potties.  By the time I was on my knees on the floor, Sharpie in hand, preparing my poster, I was unequivocally excited.  This was the antidote to Trump despair.  This was something I could do.   

On Friday the 20^th, I drove to Pennsylvania to stay with my sister as we’d be waking at 4:15 AM in order to board the bus in Villanova at 5:30.  Francie’s friend, Jen, pulled in at 5:00, and the three of us arrived at the bus with enough time to order coffee at Starbucks.  Our coordinator, Kat, a welcoming, energetic blonde, checked us in as we climbed onto the bus.  We settled into our seats and unpacked hardboiled eggs, granola bars, and water from our specially-purchased-for-the-march clear plastic backpacks.  I had decided on drinking minimally during the day to reduce bathroom trips, and would allow myself only occasional, tiny sips. 

It was 5:45 AM, so while some of our fellow marchers introduced themselves, many dozed off. 

About an hour out of DC, Kat took the microphone at the front of the bus, reviewed logistics and meeting times, and invited those who wished, to share their reasons for marching.

There were teachers, physicians, healthcare workers and coaches among us, women who worked with small children and with students.  One teacher spoke of a student of hers, a girl of color, who’d been accosted by two boys who called her a pussy during a sports event at their school.  "You can’t call me that,” the girl had said.  “Sure we can,” the boys answered.  “The president does.”

“I’m marching for her,” the woman said.  “For her and all my students, boys and girls.  I want them to grow up in a world that values respect.”

Some spoke of marching for their daughters and granddaughters, or in homage to mothers and grandmothers who had marched for reproductive rights or even, votes for women. One woman said ruefully,  “I can’t believe we still have to march... “

A mother reported her three year-old daughter’s remark upon seeing the president on TV.  “Mommy, President Trump doesn’t have any parents.”

“No parents?  Sweetie, why do you say that?”

“Because he has no love, so he must not have parents.” 

A sad silence settled in at this.  “I’m marching for my daughter,” the speaker continued.  “I want her to know a world that loves.”

My sister Francie spoke of our good fortune in having a family united in our political views and in being fairly secure economically.  “I’m marching for those more likely to lose jobs, insurance, and rights,” she said. 

I spoke of my years at Eagle Hill, a school for children with learning disabilities.  I mentioned volunteering in a women’s literacy program and on my town’s conservation commission.  “I fear that these, my priorities, are threatened under this administration.  I am marching for their protection.”

A woman from the Ukraine stood to speak, but was choked by tears and sat down.  Later, she tried again.  Still weeping, she spoke of the relief her family had felt and the welcome they’d received when first they moved to this country, and how that contrasted to the belligerence unleashed by Trump’s bullying.  “I am marching because you are the America my family moved to.  I fear the America this man represents.”

When we reached Washington, our bus lined up behind an armada of others angling for access to the lot at RFK stadium.  Francie, Jen, and I shrugged on our coats and plastic backpacks and donned our pink pussy hats.

A week ago, my friend Ben texted to say his wife Kristen had “been knitting pussy hats 24/7.” She was unable to attend the march and wanted to support the effort.  Would I like a hat?  And how many others were marching with me?  She would make hats for them too.  Jen grinned as she pulled hers on and said,  “I love that someone I don’t even know made this for me.” As we descended the steps to the lot, we marveled at the swarm of people in pink hats weaving among buses that tiled the vast lot.

Francie had printed out the march route from the Women’s March website, so with that as our guide, and thousands of other pink-hatted marchers before us, we headed for the starting point at Independence Avenue and 3^rd.  As we walked, people leaned from windows and front stoops to wave and thank us for coming.  In one neighborhood, residents had posted black lawn signs bordered in white with quotes from Martin Luther King Jr: “We must live together as brothers or perish together as fools.”  I was surrounded by sisters, and quite a few brothers, bent on that unity. 

A sand-colored tank attended by two MPs was parked at an intersection.  One of the soldiers, a slight African-American woman, smiled at us, but her blocky, red-faced male cohort stared straight ahead, his expression gruff. We thanked them, as we did all police and MPs on duty that day, but his attention did not waiver.

Still, the mood was ebullient, and as our throng surged within sight of the impressive domed Capitol building, I felt my first real sense of where we were and the importance of our message.   “Are you listening?”   Francie called out.

In front of us strolled three young women garbed in cloche hats and ankle-length black coats with purple, green, and white sashes – suffragettes!  I trotted to catch up with them and timidly started to sing.  “We’re clearly soldiers in petticoats, dauntless crusaders for women’s votes…” They turned to smile at me, and, despite her youth, one woman knew the words. Together we warbled, our voices growing stronger together,

“Cast off the shackles of yesterday!

Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!

Our daughters’ daughters will adore us,

And they’ll sing in grateful chorus,

“Well done!  Well done!  Well done, sister suffragette!”

As we neared the gathering place, we could hear amplified speeches and cheers. Further down the block, filmmaker Michael Moore loomed large on a Jumbotron screen, and press vans lined the avenue. Shoulder to shoulder, ass to stomach, elbow to hip, breath to breath, people were packed tight.  Movement was difficult, but everyone was polite and cheerful, saying “’scuse me” or “Oops, sorry,” when a toe was scrunched or a cheek poked. It was past 11:00 AM, and the program had started at 10:00, with the march planned for 1:15. We had missed hearing Gloria Steinem and the march organizers, but we threaded our way closer to the screen to hear actress and activist, Ashley Judd.

Periodically, a whisper of a whoop would start among those assembled blocks away. It would roll toward us, gaining power and volume as thousands of people took deep breaths and joined in the wave.  It swelled around us, triumphant, joyful, defiant, unified, and we inhaled deeply then expelled a roaring whoop, sustaining it as long as we could, heaving it forward to those beyond us, who took it up and carried it further.  On and on it went, mounting, echoing, and fading, conveying the vast breadth of the exuberant multitudes.  

Since movement was limited, reading posters was a pastime both entertaining and empowering.  A sampling:

“Dissent is Patriotic”

“If you cut off my reproductive rights, can I cut off yours?”  (with a drawing of a pair of  scissors)

“Keep Your Rosaries off my Ovaries”

“I’m With Her” with arrows pointing in every direction.

“Free Melania”…and it’s varaiation:

“Melania, Blink Twice if You Need Help”

“Mr. Trump, if my vagina were a gun, you wouldn’t try to regulate it”

“A Woman’s Place is in the Resistance”

“Love, Not Hate, Makes America Great”

“A woman’s place is in the House…and the Senate” 

 “Make America Kind Again”

 Booming over the amplifiers, one of the speakers said, “No one is going to rise up and save us.  We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.”  And maybe that’s the silver lining to this election: complacency recognized for the danger it is.  Democracy requires an engaged populace, yet only 45% of registered voters bothered to turn up at the polls.  Trump’s poor character and bad judgment were apparent throughout the campaign season.  He hid nothing… well, except for his tax returns… and he was elected anyway.  This was our responsibility, and we’ve learned a hard lesson.  Now we know, we are the ones we’ve been waiting for, and we have to show up.  

“Tell me what democracy looks like!”  A call rang out, a single voice, and hundreds boomed in response, “This is what democracy looks like!”  All colors, all ages, all religions, and sexual persuasions.  This is what democracy looks like. In his farewell speech, President Obama urged the nation, “Our Constitution is a remarkable, beautiful gift…but it has no power on its own.  We, the people, give it power with our participation and the choices we make.”

The 1:15 march time came and went, and speakers droned on with poems and calls to the choir for equality, unity, rights, and healthcare. These were why we’d all traveled to DC, but wedged body to body with our fellow Americans, inhaling their exhalations while crushing dry stalks of sage and drooping tomato plants in the remnants of a crowd-pulverized community garden, the choir was eager for action.  “Oh no, another poem,” moaned someone nestled into my armpit. The poems were powerful and uplifting, I’ve no doubt, but we’d heard a lot of them, and it was time to go.  A baying cry went up and was multiplied by thousands. “March!  March!  March! March!”

 “Okay,” said Francie.  “Maybe we should get out of this crunch and try to get closer to the mall.”  Hm. True, but challenging.  Madonna started to sing “Express Yourself,” initiating a general bobbing – as close to dancing as the lack of space would allow - but even this slight shift eased the pressure and caused a ripple effect, as if many had the same thought at the same time. People started to edge toward side streets. 

One block over, the crowd was still immense and slow moving, as was true of the next.  Finally, we turned onto a street still surging with people, but we could stride and dance as impromptu drummers and bands thrummed on corners.  We advanced to the mall, a demanding but effervescent sea of people in wheel chairs, babies in backpacks, little ones in strollers, elders on canes, women - and quite a few men manly enough to wear them – in pussy hats. Those hats made a statement and evoked a sense of unity, and again, we were grateful to Kristen for her gift.

Eventually, we turned toward the mall, thrilled to spot the obelisk of the Washington Monument rising before us.  We merged onto the greenway with the flood of pink-hatted people as they swept in from side streets, and lent our voices to that soaring, soul-lifting whoop as it rolled in with them.

 A massive, tiered, brown edifice reminiscent of a barge hulked on the lawn to our right as we climbed toward the monument: the new African American museum.  Such a contrast to the classic architecture of the buildings around us. 

“Why did they go with that style?  It doesn’t fit at all,” said Jen.

“Maybe that’s the point,” Francie offered.

“Yeah. Slavery didn’t fit in with American ideals either,” I said.     

Down the lawn, beyond the pulsing sea of people, posters, and pink hats, gazed the windows and portico of the White House.  The Obamas had emphasized that this was the people’s house.  Now the people clamored for attention, but it seemed Trump had closed the door to many.  Like Francie, I hoped Congress was listening and watching.

“Tell me what democracy looks like!”

“This is what democracy looks like!”

In their wisdom, the event organizers figured clenching had taxed muscles as much as marching. Upon cresting the slope between the iconic sites of our nation’s capitol, a phalanx of port-o-potties – probably fifty of them! – welcomed weary protesters.  The lines were long, did we really want to wait?  Despite my worry about the discomfort of holding, I’d opted to sip water sparingly, and that strategy had saved me. Still, “Don’t pass up the opportunity to use a bathroom” was a pointer in the protest guidelines, and we embraced it.  As was true of the march as a whole, even people desperate to go were patient and polite, awaiting their turn and making sure they weren’t cutting in front of anyone else.    

It was 4:30 and we were due back at our bus by 5:30.  I was loath to leave as people continued to flow onto the mall chanting and proudly brandishing posters.  “Women’s Rights are Human Rights!”  “Black Lives Matter!”  “Protect the Planet!”  “Love Trumps Hate!” Determined. Buoyant. Powerful. In my heart and head, this is what America looks like.  What I want it to look like.

Moving against a tide that rushed as strongly as ever toward the mall, we headed down Independence Avenue toward RFK stadium.  Our hiking boots had been comfy, our plastic backpacks light throughout the euphoria of the day.  Now, we limped, exhausted.  I took off my backpack and carried it in front of me to relieve my knotted, aching shoulders.  Jen checked her Fitbit and it registered 9.1 miles walked.  Felt like it. Still, homeowners waved from their windows and yards and said, “Thank you for coming!” and that helped.

Again we passed the two MPs on duty before the sand-colored tank and thanked them.  The woman now held a bouquet of yellow flowers.  Her gruff companion seemed softened by the day’s events.  He smiled broadly and said, “You did good, ladies.  Safe trip home.”

 

     

Each of You, Shelter for the Other

We have a half hour to kill before the family photos.  Mom visits the bridal suite looking regal in a silky white shirt and long black skirt.  I line up the bridesmaids for a picture with her, feeling childishly pleased to nab a shot the photographer won’t have.  I’m not a competitive person.  Really.

Then we whisk and rustle downstairs to find Casey and PJ who have returned from their First Look photo shoot.  They beam at us and at each other, but there’s little time to talk as the photographer marshals us in quick succession up the raised platform at the head of the ballroom.  For a week, the forecasts had whittled away hope of a sunny, waterside ceremony, but gratefully, the rain had held off  - almost – for the wedding party and First Look photos. Now, however, it is pouring in earnest.

Quickly now!  It’s almost 5:30 – showtime! – and guests are milling around in the foyer as family groupings scamper to the stage to pose.  Hurry! No time for shifting positions, adjusting corsages, closed eyes, or odd expressions.  Coax baby Paul to smile!  Goofy faces and kissy lips,  “Hey Paul!  Hey little guy!” Then we hustle off into the back room while the guests filter in to take their seats.

Whew!  Breathe, breathe.  Yes, thanks, a flute of champagne would be heavenly. The staff, Laina and Eddie– our friends, by this point – are taking care of us.  We peek into the hall and see a line-up of loved ones, so we sneak out for hugs.  It’s hard to retreat because everyone in that line is someone we cherish.

OMG! The veil!  We forgot the veil!  Casey was not to wear it until the ceremony, so in the photo schedule flurry, it was left in the bridal suite.  Karis runs up to get it and returns.  Respectful of its age and delicacy – it has been worn by Ingersoll brides since the 1800’s - she gives the veil to me to tuck snugly into my daughter’s hair, just above her braided bun. 

Shouldn’t be a challenge, but I’m struggling.  The comb won’t slide in.  “I think it’s backwards,” says one of the bridesmaids gently.  She is right. But it’s not easy to wrest that backwards comb from the clutches of Casey’s elegant hairdo.  Again, I’m holding my breath, self-conscious before all of those watching and waiting. 

“I think it’s off-center, Mom,” says Casey.  Shit.  She’s right.  What is my problem?  I wiggle it a little and try to convince her it’s fine, but it’s not.  One of the girls takes over and eases out the comb, starts over, and it’s perfect.  Beautiful.  Tradition and the good wishes of all those generations of Ingersoll brides riding with her, flowing down her back. 

“All right everyone,” says Laina,  “Time to line up!”

We place champagne flutes on the silver trays offered, look around for our partners, and shuffle into line.  Which side?  Who goes first?  Why didn’t we pay attention during the rehearsal?  

I’ll be walking with Steve, Dave’s brother, who is officiating today.  He must be nervous, but he looks only happy as he takes my arm.  You’d never know that he and Casey’s cousin, Christopher, had rushed over during this morning’s downpour to dismantle and wrestle the arbor from the lawn by the shore, it’s initial, wistful placement.  Dripping wet, they had lugged it into the ballroom and reassembled it on the stage so Casey would be married beneath the arbor her father made, just as she’d envisioned.

As we take our places in line, I gesture to the ballroom full of loved ones turned expectantly our way and I say to Steve, “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for you and me.”

He looks puzzled, and I continue, “If you and I hadn’t met and gone sledding together on that snowy slope at Trinity in ’73, I wouldn’t have met and married Dave.” A smile breaks across his face and we snug our linked elbows tighter.

“Your turn!” says Eddie, and Steve and I, first in line, head down the steps.

                                    *                                  *                                  *       

“It’s a typical night at SBC, the restaurant and bar sounds ever present throughout the high ceilinged brewery. She’s new, confident, and catches his eye.  She checks out the frosted blond tips in his hair, diamonds in his ears, a lip ring, and thinks to herself, ‘He thinks he’s cooler than me.  So not true.’ 

“He watches her trying to be cute as she slowly approaches. The young girl then trips and stumbles.  All coolness gone, she looks up; he looks down…and they both start laughing.”

So began Casey and PJ’s romance, and so Steve begins the service.  Everyone in the ballroom cracks up at the story of this inauspicious first meeting.

One of the things Casey loves best about PJ is his sense of humor, and she likes that quality in herself as well, although hers tends toward the slapstick.  There’s nothing that makes her laugh like someone taking an arm-flinging, feet-flailing fall, although she claims she always make sure the person’s okay before she cracks up. In the days before the wedding, she was relaxed about glitches, saying, “If one of the flower girls runs out crying, that’ll be funny.  If I trip on the way down the aisle, that’ll be funny.”  But no one flees and no one falls, and the service, conducted by her uncle who knows and loves her, is funny without any casualties.  

Up on the platform beneath Dave’s arbor, their attendants flanking them, the room full of loved ones with glistening eyes, Casey, and PJ are radiant, beaming with emotion so powerful it crosses boundaries and spills into tears.  They had discussed this with Steve, Casey voicing her concern that she and PJ would break down bawling in the middle of the service.  Steve said he’d take care of it and would slip her a flask if she looked like she needed it.  She does and he did.  Luckily, the grandmothers don’t pick up on the exchange, but those who do howl with laughter.

And so the ceremony swings, from laughs to poignant and meaningful.  Lindsay, the matron of honor, reads a passage from Mitch Albom’s Tuesday with Morrie that closes, “[Morrie] ended the subject by quoting a poem he believed in like a prayer, ‘Love each other or perish.’”

Steve reflects on the saying, “No man or woman is an island unto himself or herself.  Both are part of a greater continent.”  He speaks of PJ, “a self-professed non-world traveler” helping Casey select the perfect backpack for her trip to Asia, even while fervently wishing she wouldn’t go.  He mentioned PJ’s return to grad school and his athletic endeavors, and Casey’s professional accomplishments at Lululemon. “You both possess spirits individual and adventurous, yet coming together, islands within that continent…You have maintained the ability to keep on laughing and remain silly, keeping your lives upbeat and calm, when at times I’m sure it feels like you’re awash in a sea of chaos.”

Maybe it was time to swing back to some humor?  So Steve tells the story, in PJ’s words, of the night PJ proposed to Casey.  “I had all FREAKIN’ DAY to stew on how I was going to do it, what my wording would be, and how smooth my delivery was going to be (yeah, right.)  Here I am – cool, calm, collected – until she pulls in the driveway.  Case gets home and instantly hops in the shower…ten more minutes of stewing…finally she comes out, freshly dressed and still wearing a turbie twist towel on her head.  I get down on my knee and pop the question.  After asking me if I was serious seven to ten times and leaving me down on my knee, she accidentally knocks the ring out of my hand and it goes flying across the room. I think we both agree we wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

Songs and guitars have always played the background music of Casey’s life.  Since the seventies, it has been a tradition at Sylvestro weddings for the musicians of the family to play Paul Stookey’s Wedding Song.  There might have been some inward groans among guests not familiar with the song or the players upon hearing the game plan announced, but groans gave way to pleased grins and nostalgic tears as PJ’s Uncle Dan joined Dave, Steve, Trevor, and Christopher in performing the melody they’ve played together for decades. 

       

True to the bride and groom’s love of the bizarre and the funny, they have asked groomsman Tony Deluca to read Cath Crowley’s poem, Graffiti Moon: “If my like for you was a football crowd, you’d be deaf  'cause of the roar.  And if my like for you was a boxer, there’d be a dead guy lying on the floor.  And if my like for you was sugar, you’d lose your teeth before you were twenty.  And if my like for you was money, let’s just say you’d be spending plenty.”

The vows are a natural follow-up once the laughter quiets and Tony returns to the groomsmen line-up.  With eyes bright, full of love and tears, PJ and Casey promise to “love who you are now and who you are yet to become.  I promise to listen to you and learn from you, to support you and accept your support.  I will celebrate your triumphs and mourn your losses as though they were my own.  I will love you and have faith in your love for me, through all our years and all that life may bring us.”

After the exchange of rings, Casey’s cousin, Trevor, reads an Apache blessing, assuring them, “Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter for the other…” And Steve follows with a benediction universal in its message:

The way is long – let us go together

The way is difficult – let us help each other

The way is joyful – let us share it

The way is ours alone – let us go in love

The way grows before us – let us begin.    

There is the briefest of solemn moments as Steve’s words die away, then Casey hoots, “WE’RE MARRIED!” She and PJ kiss and kiss and kiss, then the bride pumps her bouquet in celebration, and the new husband and wife strut on down the aisle.