little women
“Tell me what democracy looks like — THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE! Tell me what democracy looks like — THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!”
“Tel
Louisa May Alcott took to the streets for women’s rights in the 1870’s, going door-to-door in Concord, Massachusetts, to secure the right to vote. She was with us again in spirit yesterday, January 21, 2017 – all over the world, to secure the right — to Be.
I read Little Women as a girl in 1970’s Iowa, identifying with tomboy Jo, who was of course Louisa herself. Louisa had younger sisters, as I did; an older sister, and I had several. She not only admired the writings of Henry David Thoreau, as I did, she knew the man himself, and spent time at Walden Pond learning botany and most certainly ideas about civil disobedience, as well.
I like to help women help themselves, as that is, in my opinion, the best way to settle the woman question. Whatever we can do and do well we have a right to, and I don’t think any one will deny us. — Louisa May Alcott
Oh, but deny us they do. With the election of Donald Trump, “the woman question,” which we thought to settle with the election of Hilary Clinton, became an open wound of outrage and despair as a self-confessed sexual predator placed his tiny, “pussy-grabbing” hand on an actual bible and swore to “preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.” The flesh-and-blood citizens of the United States, well, good luck to you. And me.
You have a good many little gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long, and the great charm of all power is modesty.
See, the thing is, Louisa, we are pretty concerned that there is in fact a clear and present danger of all our talents and goodness being not only overlooked but attacked, systematically, since Conceit took office. So when my youngest sister asked if I wanted to go to the Women’s March on Denver, I said yes immediately.
I don’t do protests. I write what I want, and say what I feel, which is how I have justified the fact that I don’t do protests. All my life, I have seen protest marches as naive and smugly self-serving, an act of conspicuous righteousness that later falls away into a return to the status quo. The truth: I am cynical that walking a parade route will change anything. But this year, it is different. This year, the certainty of oppression and abuse is undeniable. And I have daughters now.
Women have been called queens for a long time, but the kingdom given them isn’t worth ruling.
Oh, Louisa, my girls are indeed fabulous. Not in terms of fashion and hair and pageant-worthiness, though they are spectacularly beautiful to see and hear. We three together scoff and laugh at being judged in Conceit’s shallow terms of women. My girls are true women. They scale rock faces and mountains and travel between continents and love Gloria Steinem and leap into the unknown waters of their lives from the high cliffs of my arms. I cannot stop them. I would not stop them.
Love is a great beautifier.
One daughter is ferociously following her career, stalking it like a hunter. Because she can read tracks of possibility and smell opportunity on the wind, she finds the hidden work that can feed her soul. She has a quiet center to hold herself firm out in the wild. She went to the Women’s March in Washington – on her own. At 23. From Boston.
And one is a mother, one child running full-tilt into each day, one swimming in the deep waters within her, soon to arrive. She speaks many languages – English, Spanish, and also Compassion, Poverty, Art, Confidence, Encouragement, Strength. A woman of the high desert, she communicates with rock and stone, tender green and yellow flower, warm fire and stars at night. With all people. But the new baby is too close, and the 2-year-old too fast and fearless, for her to come to the March in Denver.
Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead.
They are my sun and moon, these two women of my heart, guiding me by day and night. And everything they represent is in danger.
Painful as it may be, a significant emotional event can be the catalyst for choosing a direction that serves us – and those around us – more effectively. Look for the learning.
So I met my sister at Union Station, a fitting name. And we and her friend joined 100,000 new friends at Civic Center Park, another fitting name, and wrote our dreams like nametags on scraps of paper we tied together into prayer flags for us all – old, young, queer, straight, trans, sis, black brown red white yellow purple green, a pink-hatted rainbow of human beings with the sharp ears of cats, hopes fluttering and dancing and stomping their feet to warm their toes on a chilly Saturday morning along the Rockies.
I heard a woman say to the teens walking by with her, “You’re making history.”
And that is when I really saw them – the little women. Girls, everywhere, such thin little arms and legs, long forming faces and chubby cheeks, signs in their hands, signs hung by their legs, signs in front and behind them. I wanted to read their words, hear their words. So I just started asking.
“Hi, can I see your sign? What do you think of all this?”
“Really cool – that people are standing up for our country.”
“What would you tell President Trump if you could?”
“I don’t know….”
“What’s on your sign?”
“Respect.”
“Would you tell him that? Who should he respect?”
“Us. Everybody. Women.” — Talulah, 11
And so I sought them out. So many little women, apprehensive or bold, verbose or shy. Holding signs of power and dignity.
“I’m here cuz Trump sucks. I would tell him, ‘You suck – be nice to people.'” — Carmen, 9
“The things you say aren’t right. You should be more fair.” — Amelia, 9
“I’m here to fight for our rights. I don’t think he’s a very good president. I would tell him, ‘Respect people’s rights and keep the Affordable Care Act and other things people depend on.'” — Lucia, 12 “Respect people’s health care.” — Maggie, 10
“‘Treat people the way you would want to be treated’ – does he? Not everyone.” — Sofia, 11 “I’m here to protest for our rights – our ability to have our voice heard. I would say, ‘Everyone should be equal. Treat everyone the same.'” — Clara, 11
“He should treat everybody the same.” — Mia, 9
And then, just before we finally marched, something opened up. The boys started talking to me.
A sweet boy emerged from among the girls. “I’m here to march with my mother. I think some things are gonna change. I don’t really know which, but I know something’s gonna change.” — Wilder, 11
A tall, skinny teen laughed and smiled with his little sister, who was on their father’s shoulders. I pointed to him and said, “We’re glad you’re here.” Women behind me repeated the sentiment. He beamed and said, “I wanted to be here.”
Two young, beautiful men, a mixed-race gay couple, held hands as they marched. “We didn’t bring a sign, so this is our sign,” one said, lifting their joined hands. I asked if they were able to do this all the time, any time they wanted. “Well I would, but not him.” They laughed. “It’s getting better. Obviously, here, we can. You pay attention, sometimes you can, sometimes no. But it’s getting better.”
Let my name stand among those who are willing to bear ridicule and reproach for the truth’s sake, and so earn some right to rejoice when the victory is won.
I learned so much yesterday – about my sister’s love of community, about my daughters’ security in themselves, about other mothers’ daughters and their beliefs in respect and inclusivity. And about other mothers’ sons – men, like my own sons, who offer respect as a matter of course. Who believe firmly that things can change, that things get better.
I learned about the power of protest, when we walk together to have “our voice heard” – our voice, like 11-year-old Clara said. Loud, chanting, repeating the words that matter. Many people, one voice. Taking one step together, then another.
Mia, 9
Thank you to the parents/guardians of these young people for giving permission at the march for photos and interviews. Any proceeds from this article are being donated to N.O.W. (National Organization for Women).