3GT Resident Playwright, Susan Jackson – part of HERSTORY!
And Still I Rise
I use Maya Angelou’s words because they encapsulate the experience in Washington, DC.
January 21, 2017
I can’t sleep. I’ve got the cold pressed coffee from Bean and Grape (remember Diana?) in the fridge but didn’t get the croissant. “Where will I eat breakfast?” Goes through my head all night long. Will I get up in enough time? Finally, at6:45 I jump out of bed, snatch the coffee and shower and with banner on my side, head down to the lobby of the Alexandria Monaco Klimpton hotel where the night before, I had walked through well-dressed white men and women in gowns and flourish, and me, dressed up as well (in black) turned to face them in the lobby and shouted in a dignified manner, “NOT MY PRESIDENT” and swept out the door to eat at my favorite restaurant and commiserate with the lovely and kind waitress. When she asked if I wanted dessert, I said, “There’s nothing to celebrate.” She took my hand, and brought me a complimentary chocolate dessert and I gave her my card. Lots of hand taking amongst us women.
In the lobby, I am greeted by a family of three generations of women. They very kindly take me under their wing, and I become part of them for six hours. The mother (she’s 80!–Albie!) used to live on Jackson St. in SF; her son is the creator and designer of the lights on the Bay Bridge that is a piece of art. We take an Uber to the Metro (I was going to walk) and head to the March. Hundreds of people are already there. So glad we started early. We walk to the hangout place—Independence and 3 St. SW and there are thousands already there. We can’t get to the stage, but they have strategically placed screens with all the action. Packed in like sardines. Signs everywhere. Pink pussy hats everywhere. And the festivities begin with Charlie Brotman, the 89 year old announcer of the inauguration for 11 presidents (60 years he’s done this!) whom Tramp fired. He is THRILLED to having been asked to start our “inauguration”. When we finally figure out who he is, he says, “I’m Charlie. Ya know what that makes you?” “Charlie’s Angels.” Fierce tears begin.
And it starts….with the song from a Native American female that drums the sound of fierceness and the words of truth to begin the fight for our lives……
Ashley Judd, Scarlett Johansson, Angela Davis, the organizers of the March—African American, Muslim, Asian, Mohammed Ali’s daughter Maryum, Madonna, Michael Moore, America Ferrera. A young Mexican girl named Sophie, Alicia Keys (we all sing THIS GIRL IS ON FIRE), and on and on. Every speaker powerful. Every person represented. We are crammed in and can’t move, but if someone says, “wheelchair coming through”, we, miraculously make room. No one is complaining (ok, the woman behind me is but then she takes a Xanax), we move, we sing, we dance, all the while I’m connected to my new family AND the world of women, men and children, and a few dogs honoring and celebrating and RESPECTING all of man/womankind.
Sharing food, (I didn’t eat till 6 p.m.! but my new family gave me a few bites of green bar) and sharing water.
I didn’t have to pee. WHAAAATTT? Finally, around 3 I thought I should probably get in line to pee, and yup, it took about 30 minutes to get to the front of the line because, GUESS WHAT? We let people in front of us who needed to go!! Preggers, and kids, and women standing with their legs crossed. KINDNESS EVERYWHERE. Towards the end of the speeches, my family and I split up because we knew it would be too hard to stay together on the Mall, so I wandered around, chatting with people and some awesome millenniums let me use their phone charger.
Not one confrontation. Let me say that again. NOT ONE CONFRONTATION. NOT ONE. No arrests, no threats. NO VIOLENCE. No words of hate nor threats that encourage violence.
Police and traffic people cool. Metro swamped at the end, but we were all smiles. Running on adrenaline….and hope. Finally returned to Alexandria and realized my feet hurt. (Standing since 9:30 a.m.) Crying all the way down the street. See a young girl wearing “a Make America Great Again” baseball cap accompanied by her family and her mother reaches out to touch her daughter’s head as they pass by all the women wearing pussy hats. She needn’t worry. We aren’t going to grab her pussy. We aren’t going to disrespect her. We marched to protect her.
Nathan, my waiter whom I’d met the night before, asks how I am as he serves me dinner in the hotel restaurant. We hug. I go upstairs to my room and know that I have been witness to a greatness and love that heretofore I have never experienced.
Silent no more.
Not. My. President.
Love,
Susan
“Self-proclaimed feminist”
