01/23/2017
I have been asked by a skeptical friend exactly what "The March" represents and why I support it.
I support it because I am old enough to remember.
I remember when a bright, young female in the early 1960's saw two professional paths attainable for her: nursing or teaching. Only the bravest and boldest saw law, medicine, industry, science as possibilities. Those without the worldliness, means, or family support never recognized the existence of that dream. They (I) had not yet realized how the glass ceiling had been absorbed into their very marrow. We had never seen female doctors, lawyers, engineers.
I remember the loan officer who would not calculate my salary as a teacher into the formula when my husband and I applied for our first mortgage, because "...she will get pregnant and stop working."
I remember the local illegal but wealthy abortionist who ate at the restaurant where I worked in high school. Oh...he was a big tipper with his smug smile, all the while taking advantage of women's lack of reproductive rights and access to family planning and endangering their lives along the way. I remember the admonitions, "A good girl doesn't do this, a good girl doesn't do that." "It's your fault."
I remember the local banker who took young girls to the lake to photograph them and kickstart their "modeling careers", while the town ignored the implications. After all, he was a man of stature!
For me, The March represents an even broader picture. I support its principles to protest a man who has disparaged not only females but also war heroes, an entire religion, nations, civil rights leaders, whole slices of cities' residents, the disabled. Do I take the insults personally? Yes. He has not targeted me, per se, but in the end all things are personal.
It is my husband's African-American side partner in the Baltimore City Police Department circa 1968 who was refused service when we stopped at a greasy-spoon diner on Pulaski Highway in Baltimore. It was my neighborhood in the city where signs "No Indians Served" were hanging in bar and restaurant windows.
It is my little student Mohammed whose family came here from Iran to run a smelly and labor-intensive chicken farm on the Eastern Shore. Mohammed...who asked to be called Mo in order to deflect the obvious scorn.
It is my husband's best friend whose Muslim mother prayed to her God that her life be taken instead of that of my dying Mike.
It is my son who does more every day to overcome his disability than this man has done in his lifetime---this president who stood on a public stage, flapped his hands in mockery and disdain, and then lied about it.
Everyday I am filled with gratitude for the many blessings life has given me. But I also bleed everyday for those less fortunate. I applaud all of the women and men who assembled in cities and towns in this country and around the world to protest. My heart is with them. My memories are a tiny drop in the bucket; injustice and obstruction are still very much with us today. I will continue to champion the cause. Words matter---the tweets, the insults, the lies.
