Progressive People Exist in Iowa
Plus a small confession about Saturday, shared from my kitchen table (and the Scott County courthouse)
I was in the middle of drafting a depressing post when I got a text that changed* everything.
On Saturday morning, I was typing away at my kitchen table, drinking my coffee and struggling to articulate something I wanted to say.
It was a cold but bright morning, and I was parked in front of the space heater, grateful for the sun coming through the windows.
But I was trying to capture and describe the surreal sensation of realizing that the stirring, momentous experience of having marched on the capitol (as I did in an historic event in January of 2017)—as part of a record-breaking crowd there to stand up for women’s (and all humans’) rights—has turned out to be…not once in a life time. (And that if anything, the need to raise collective heck against misogyny and the stripping of women’s/humans’ rights is far greater this time around.)
Where are all of us in our pink hats?
Where did we go?
Why aren’t we there again?
…either literally, or out in public and social-media spaces [AND IN THE FREAKIN’ VOTING BOOTH] being just as loud?
I wrote about how “the only person I know” protesting in D.C. that morning is/was my political craftivist friend. Her plan to attend was was unsurprising because she’s more dedicated than anyone I’ve ever known, (and in fact has spurred the creation of more than one RAYGUN t-shirt). In 2017, she was one of the two women who led our overnight bus trip to DC.
I noted in that draft that there are a lot of reasons we’re not showing up. “People are at travel sports with their kids,” I wrote. “They have errands to run, messy kitchens to tidy, closets to declutter. Their paycheck didn’t show up this week because their bank had some kind of crash.”(OK, I was definitely talking about myself here…everything but the sports/kids part.)
“But also,” I wrote,
“we have lost hope that our showing up will do anything.”
Protesting (and canvassing, and making calls, and leading postcard campaigns, etc.,) takes time and energy, plus money for gas (or plane ticket in this case).
But it also requires at least some sense of spark; some level of belief that expressing dissent—especially en masse —can create change. That in a democracy, our voices matter, that they can and should be heard, and that we have the power to put necessarily change into action. By expressing visible dissent with our presence and our signs, we show the world that sexual assault—let alone bragging about it!— is. not. fucking. ok. (Nor other offenses in his litany of democratic and moral violations.)
But then, that text.
As I was in the midst of typing this, my phone buzzed: a photo from a friend of mine—a strong, independent, adventurous woman who also lives in Davenport—with a group of four other women.
‘Thinking of your today as we march in DC!’
said her text underneath.
Huh, I thought. I’d had no idea this friend (and the group of fellow Quad Citizens) were going.
I should be there, I thought. But I don’t have the money, the energy or the time.
And that fouled my mood even more.
As I continued writing, a reminder on my Google Calendar popped up about the women’s rights rally that would be taking place at noon downtown (Davenport, Iowa, where I live). According to the description on its Facebook event page, the QC chapter of NOW (National Organization for Women), would hold its annual rally (which recognizing the date of the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision) in support of the Women’s/People’s in D.C. as well.
I flicked away the reminder, grumpily digging in my heels about not wanting to change clothes or go out in the cold.
Of course, as each 15 minute, then 30 minute, chunk of the morning slipped away, the irony—or maybe self-awareness of hypocrisy?—was dawning on me. I’m sitting here planning to publish a post about how sad it is that there seems to be no outrage, no real showing up, at the same moment I’m debating whether or not to attend the local rally. (Which would be held within walking distance of my home!)
Trust, I didn’t walk… but, I went.
Women's Rights Rally hosted by QC NOW
Still in my yoga clothes slash more-or-less pajamas, I stepped into some winter boots, threw on my coat, and drove downtown. What follows is a set of photos I snapped, and a closing thought.
Here’s a quick clip from when I first arrived:
a small (but mighty?) showing
A clip of the first two people I spoke with:
and pics:
Mother-daughter attendee team:
I ended up feeling revived, enlivened, and glad that I’d gone.
I approached, chatted with, and/or asked permission to take and post pictures of, everyone seen above. I realized upon closer look that one of those people, obscured by the hood of their coat—was someone I knew (and a paid subscriber to boot!) “Hey, it’s you under there!,” and we chatted for a bit. I met a mayoral candidate (for Rock Island, Illinois). As I was leaving, I thanked Rep. Ken Croken for being there and speaking. “Ok,” the male attendee said kindly, nodding affirmatively. “But I’m not Ken.” (Damn all those hoods and sunglasses!)
I don’t think I need to explain why there’s an asterisk in the post title.
But my mood definitely did change that morning—and, as with every other protest I’ve participated in over the past decade—the real boost was from the visible proof that I am not alone.
Fantasic! Thanks to the women fighting for all of us. Some great signs too.
Now that the ERA is officially going into the Constitution (28th Amendment), the abortion fight will have support nationwide, but likely with lots of court battles!
👍😎