On this grey Sunday morning in Montreal, all I seem to be able to do is sit in front of my computer screen.
I was up early and had some lonesome time here; time to search online for feedback from yesterday’s Women’s March in Washington, those across the US and the world, and also here at home.
The images I’ve turned up are marvelous. Some snapped by friends (thank you Gail, thank you Alice, thank you Cindy) but most are by amateur and professional photographers I’ve never met.
It feels good to look at all of the faces. Many white women, for sure, but more than that.
I didn’t go to the March in downtown Montreal. My feelings about the marches were strangely unenthusiastic. And now, looking at all of the faces and placards in the photos online, I feel a pang of sadness and discomfort which comes at least in part from a sense of guilt.
I should have been there.
Should I have been there? Why didn’t I go? Why should I have gone?
I have to say that I feel relieved that so many mobilized yesterday. It HAD to be that way. Any other result would, I think, have been a counter-productive, booming, echoing failure with awful repercussions.
I feel immensely grateful to everyone who marched somewhere yesterday. THANK YOU.
There is, in part, a contradiction, an incoherence in my absence from yesterday’s March in Montreal. For the past six months especially, what’s been happening in the United States has ulcerated me. It has stained every single day and dredged up such intense feelings of dismay, despair and discouragement that I’ve felt both fearful and impotent.
The community of writers online has been furiously, obsessively expressing its outrage and resistance to the reign of Donald Trump and his dark entourage. At first, I couldn’t get enough of it. I read and read and read and commented and searched out more. I mentally fist pumped when I viewed merciless, bullseye parody, read especially caustic and effective zingers, or else brilliant pieces of journalism that laid out the facts of the sickness that now occupies the White House.
But with each week that has passed, I’ve grown tired of this same ocean of words. I’ve become wordlogged. I’ve started to feel myself being dragged down. Lost.
I’ve been reading less and responding less to the sentinel voices. Time to see something else. To feel something else. To see beyond.
Yesterday should have been my opportunity to ACT.
To DO SOMETHING.
Mobilizing must feel good. So, why didn’t I?
There was a certain defeatism in my passivity yesterday, as I imagined the grim, contemptuous and dismissive attitude of Trump, his people and the wider circle of opportunists buzzing around him now. Blowflies.
A feeling that the movement expressing itself yesterday, its message, its energy, its spirit, will soon be tainted, respun, labeled and diminished by the new President and all of his men.
I wasn’t sure what it would be like out on the streets of Montreal yesterday. I wasn’t sure what the crowd’s ultimate message would be. I wasn’t sure how idealistic, how innocent or how angry it would be. I couldn’t predict how many ways it could be misconstrued.
So I stayed home and kept an eye on Facebook.
There was lots of self-protection in my choice to do other things yesterday.
There were the voices of all of the people who have always been there to say It won’t make any difference to the things that I’ve advocated for and fought for in my life (they’ve often been right: this dismays me).
There was waiting and seeing.
Where are we headed, the vast WE who cannot accept what is? How will our course be plotted? By whom?
I don’t want the truth of our intentions usurped or hijacked.
And so, I hover. And wait. And read. And write. And converse. And live. And hope.