Remember a few weeks back I wrote about revolution?  At the time I was mostly thinking of the yoga kind, but certainly the marches etc. were on my mind.  My friend Maria is an incredibly talented interior designer and she recently started painting.  And wouldn’t you know it, she is incredibly talented at that too.  She posted an image of a painting she made shortly before the weekend of the women’s marches and it seemed to sum up the whole thing beautifully.  A perfectly knit pussy hat floating in a twinkly galaxy.  This modern symbol of feminism or femaleness, or whatever word you want to use, floating untethered out amongst the sky and stars.  And larger than life.  As most good women are.  It just looked like the perfect image to capture my thoughts about what is going on, what it means, and how I fit into it.  When I received that painted piece of paper in the mail I was flooded with appreciation and admiration for my friend that created it and for all the women that marched.  But it also made me think aloud, what next?  What can and are we going to do now?

I don’t have an answer to my question.  I can’t know what you are going to do when I don’t even know what I am going to do.  I don’t think I am a fighter or a leader in that way.  I am angry and sad and sometimes it all seems hopeless.  I don’t want to feel this way.  But I also don’t know that I can make myself crazy over too many things outside the purview of my control.  I can make calls.  I do make calls.  I can talk with my friends and neighbors, but we already agree with each other and are all in the same state of disbelief.

When I thought that John Kerry was going to be POTUS and we would finally be rid of W I was just elated.  And then there was that hard cold reality.  At the time, I couldn’t imagine anything worse than 4 more years of dubya.  I sure can now!  I don’t even have to imagine it this time.  You know, I remember the morning that John Kerry was going to give his concession speech and we got wind that he would be leaving his Louisburg Square home and riding over.  I worked on Charles Street at the time and the street was lined with people that left their offices and stores and homes to applaud him as he rode down the street.  I was still in disbelief as he rode by, and looked right at me and gave a thumbs up.  I burst into tears.  I knew that I would never forget that physical feeling, and I haven’t.  If he could be so positive and give that symbol of it’llallbea-ok, surely I had to feel positive too.  But this time it feels different.  Way different.  Because this time it feels like the rules of the game are being changed as the ball is in the air.  There is no predictability or accountability.  We have alternative facts, alternative rules of law and a blatant disregard for decency.  And we have fear.  Real fear.  What do we do with all this?  I am not sure.

While I am still processing and tying to figure it all out I reached out to a local theatre and asked if they would offer a group rate for the people I work with to go see I Am Not Your Negro, the documentary about James Baldwin.  It is a small gesture, a small event, but I hope that it sparks conversation and reignites the passion in us that brought us all to work in the nonprofit legal sector in the first place.  Something else to think about in these troubling times.