Grief stricken, I sit here through blurred and puffy lenses trying to understand what I am feeling. Rage might be a word I would use, but it is not so righteous. It might be deep sadness, empathetic vibrations emanating for all those women sitting on the edges of their lives not knowing where to go. We are still so hated.
My daughter texts, did you see the news? I had taken a week off from the doom scroll to rest my weary mirror neurons. But I had. I had seen it and I was crying. It was coming from some childhood well of sadness I cannot pinpoint. I am hurting. I am hurting for every woman who is now scared and fully cognizant, she does not matter. It’s unconstitutional.
I am hurting for my daughter who is fuming. For my daughter who has to walk out in the world feeling like we are going backwards. I said to her today, I think it is a circle and we are now on the dark side of it. How much more hate till we rebel and move the circle back to light? I can feel stuck on this dark side of the moon. Where women start to retreat and realize that maybe we are not allowed to rise. I have been hiding in my woods staring at the stars trying to pretend.
There is a rebel arriving. My mothers fought this fight before me and it is time that we will have to fight it again. My daughter texts, “I have and always will be on board with that. Now more than ever.” I love this person, this new woman I have helped raise. It was because of a choice I was permitted to make many years ago that I have her and not another. It was from a choice over my own body that gave me this child. This beautiful girl who feels the same pain as I do.
It is time to strike. It is time to make a list of demands. Not a sea of pussy hats and love anymore, but an agenda. One where women are in charge of their bodies. One where we recognize humanity over “god”. The god of greed, the god of old white men, the god of shame and judgment .FUCK THE FUCKING PATRIARCHY is my battle cry. I cannot just sit on the side and weep. There are too many tears already. Our faces are too stained. But I will hold my daughters hand, like my mother did mine and make some movement.
