Why I didn't march last Saturday
I spent Friday 1/20 being a little weepy. No real excuse for it, maybe a little hormones, maybe a little herd sympathy. I had made a date with friends to meet and take the Blue Line up to LA to join the march. As the day approached I found myself getting more and more resistant to it. I thought about what was causing this. Then I realized the bubbling discomfort in my guts was my subconscious screaming for me to actually think about what it was going to be like: The crowds, the standing, the feeling of being corralled, and smothered. The lack of escape.
I realized I couldn't handle it. I flashed on all the times I almost lost my shit in a crowded space. I've quit going to even medium sized venues, because I can't handle the press of human flesh. I almost passed out in the Tube in London. It was rush hour, the subway reeked of human funk, cologne, and mint gum. I found myself tipping my head back trying to find air that wasn't damp and dank from already being breathed.
I took the hit and weaseled out of going with my friends. I texted them and came clean. I can't face the crowds, I can't feel handle feeling trapped.
They totally got it, and were cool about it. I still felt terrible. I spent Friday with the TV tuned to Viceland, who was playing 1984 on a loop for most of the day. Appropriate, considering Spicer's press conference after the marches Saturday. What a total albino dick pickle. I watched with my mouth hanging open while he castigated the press for reporting the lack of attendance at the inauguration then exited the room like a pissed off vice-principal. No questions, you terribly dishonest people.
God, I miss Helen Thomas, the terror of the W. Bush Administration. She hounded them about the weapons of mass destruction, until she got kicked out of the DC press corps. This was unprecedented considering she was one of its oldest members and highly respected for her work. We called her the angry gnome of truth, because watching her chase down an answer was like your grandmother bitch slapping you with her cookie plate. Totally unexpected and earth shaking. She so rocked.
Saturday, I couldn't help but feel the burning shame of missing something all my friends were going to. I was missing a moment in history. I felt like someone that missed Woodstock, because they thought the rain and crowds were too much.
Saturday night I hung out with a friend who didn't go either. We talked about our guilt for not going. We also talked about the new push that we'd been hearing. My interpretation of the message was this:
White girls, you can stand down. Vote, march, make signs, but let someone else speak, anybody else other than you.
I read a blog about white women need to triage hospital style for Latina and Black women. To stand for their issues, march in their parades, and don't attend only when it helps our gender.
I get that.
I feel shushed, but I get why they need that right now.
So, even though I missed the march, I didn't miss the point. I commit to expanding my scope of social protest. I will listen and not project my beliefs and ideas on someone who has had a completely different experience than my own.
I also read an article about a luncheon with Hollywood female directors. Salma Hayek spoke over Jessica Jones, Jones felt backed into a corner and unable to express how her blackness was more of her identity than her womanhood. Salma was trying to tell her how to think about her blackness. Shirley Maclaine and Cat Cora interjected that women should have each other's backs and allow each other to speak their truth.
Salma leaned in and Jessica couldn't look up. I don't feel that Salma was trying to shut Jessica down, I think she was prodding her to speak out about how she feels, to stand up for herself. Salma asked Jessica to look her in the eyes when she spoke and not look down. I don't think it was to shame her, I think it was to empower her to speak her mind and not whisper it.
I realized I couldn't handle it. I flashed on all the times I almost lost my shit in a crowded space. I've quit going to even medium sized venues, because I can't handle the press of human flesh. I almost passed out in the Tube in London. It was rush hour, the subway reeked of human funk, cologne, and mint gum. I found myself tipping my head back trying to find air that wasn't damp and dank from already being breathed.
I took the hit and weaseled out of going with my friends. I texted them and came clean. I can't face the crowds, I can't feel handle feeling trapped.
They totally got it, and were cool about it. I still felt terrible. I spent Friday with the TV tuned to Viceland, who was playing 1984 on a loop for most of the day. Appropriate, considering Spicer's press conference after the marches Saturday. What a total albino dick pickle. I watched with my mouth hanging open while he castigated the press for reporting the lack of attendance at the inauguration then exited the room like a pissed off vice-principal. No questions, you terribly dishonest people.
God, I miss Helen Thomas, the terror of the W. Bush Administration. She hounded them about the weapons of mass destruction, until she got kicked out of the DC press corps. This was unprecedented considering she was one of its oldest members and highly respected for her work. We called her the angry gnome of truth, because watching her chase down an answer was like your grandmother bitch slapping you with her cookie plate. Totally unexpected and earth shaking. She so rocked.
Saturday, I couldn't help but feel the burning shame of missing something all my friends were going to. I was missing a moment in history. I felt like someone that missed Woodstock, because they thought the rain and crowds were too much.
Saturday night I hung out with a friend who didn't go either. We talked about our guilt for not going. We also talked about the new push that we'd been hearing. My interpretation of the message was this:
White girls, you can stand down. Vote, march, make signs, but let someone else speak, anybody else other than you.
I read a blog about white women need to triage hospital style for Latina and Black women. To stand for their issues, march in their parades, and don't attend only when it helps our gender.
I get that.
I feel shushed, but I get why they need that right now.
So, even though I missed the march, I didn't miss the point. I commit to expanding my scope of social protest. I will listen and not project my beliefs and ideas on someone who has had a completely different experience than my own.
I also read an article about a luncheon with Hollywood female directors. Salma Hayek spoke over Jessica Jones, Jones felt backed into a corner and unable to express how her blackness was more of her identity than her womanhood. Salma was trying to tell her how to think about her blackness. Shirley Maclaine and Cat Cora interjected that women should have each other's backs and allow each other to speak their truth.
Salma leaned in and Jessica couldn't look up. I don't feel that Salma was trying to shut Jessica down, I think she was prodding her to speak out about how she feels, to stand up for herself. Salma asked Jessica to look her in the eyes when she spoke and not look down. I don't think it was to shame her, I think it was to empower her to speak her mind and not whisper it.
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