Why I #RESIST

In late summer of 2015, my sister, niece, and I made our second genealogical Southern tour. This time it was precipitated by the news that one of our forebears, John Justus Grovenstein, was to be honored by the DAR at Oak Grove Cemetery in St. Marys, GA.

St. Marys is a lovely little seaside town just across the Florida/Georgia state line, and is where my grandfather was born and grew up, and where many of his family (including his mother) are buried. While there, we also planned to visit some other family gravesites, as well as the town of Ebenezer where our ancestors first settled in the mid- to late-18th Century. We also planned to finally meet up with a long-time Facebook friend and attend services at his church, have dinner with a cousin, and – one of the highlights – actually have a tour of the house that my great-great-grandfather lived in after the Civil War.

We were able to do all of these things and more, and had a wonderful time. One thing I had hoped to do, but didn’t know if we could, was to visit Mother Emanuel Church in Charleston. This was just a few months after nine people were murdered by a White Supremacist as they met for prayer and Bible study. Since my great-great-grandfather’s old home was also in Charleston, I had high hopes.

In fact, we did visit Mother Emanuel, and as we gathered, there were a large number of other people arriving as well. The gates were locked and we weren’t able to go inside, and there were obvious signs of construction and repair following that hateful and horrendous act. There was a man there who had created great signs with sheets of plywood, and he invited each of us to sign our name, leave a few words, to honor the memory of the victims. I can’t remember how many hundreds of thousands of signatures he told us were there, but it was impressive.

As we stood there on a hot southern summer day, I began to weep. Looking back, it was similar to the spontaneous and uncontrollable weeping I had experienced at the Vietnam Memorial in Washington DC several years before. A weeping not just for the awful loss of life, but for a society that allows such things to occur, that at times seems to foster the very hatred that is represented. An African-American woman who was there saw me and opened her arms to me. We embraced, and through my tears all I could say was, “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.” But I felt her consolation even though I should have been consoling her. It was a sacred moment in a sacred space.

This week I am watching “O.J.: Made in America,” a documentary film that won an Academy Award this year. It’s long – five episodes, each about an hour-and-a-half long. I’ve just finished the second episode, and it’s gut-wrenching. You see, it isn’t just about O.J. Simpson. It’s about the Watts Riots and Eulia May Love and Rodney King. It’s about all the things I was too busy to pay close attention to when they were happening, but that were telling people of color over and over and over and over again, “You’re not important to us. Your lives aren’t as valuable as ours. You are disposable.”

It’s about Mark Fuhrman (remember him?) saying, “What do they think they’re proving by burning their own businesses? I don’t understand it.” It’s about Police Chief Daryl Gates defending the indefensible, and blaming King for the excessive force that was used against him. It’s about all the ways we as a nation have failed the most vulnerable among us. Perhaps if Mark Fuhrman had read history, had seen that generations of our fellow citizens had tried every method available to them to achieve parity, only to be spurned at every turn, perhaps then he could have understood the anger and frustration that leads people to set fire to their own neighborhoods, to break and destroy, to loot and to crush. Perhaps he would have understood that when the wall of injustice is falling on you, you do whatever it takes to get someone’s attention, even if it seems unreasonable and counterproductive to passers-by.

I can see that. I don’t like it and I don’t condone it, but I can understand it. I’m just sorry it took me so long.

And now we are living in a time when people are being banned because they’re Muslim or Mexican, when cemeteries are being vandalized because they hold the mortal remains of Jews, when a White Supremacist sits in the highest halls of power in this country. I may have been busy working and raising children in the ’70s and ’80s and ’90s and not paying close attention, but I’m paying attention now. And I’m using my voice in whatever way I can – postcards and rallies and marches and town halls. Tweets and emails and Facebook posts. Learning how to be not just an advocate, but an ally. Learning to put aside my natural inclination to speak in favor of listening and learning – and then speaking the truth of what I’ve learned. That’s why I #RESIST.

And I think often of that kind, embracing woman in whose arms I wept on a hot summer southern day. And I wonder if she ever thinks of me.

Dinner with a friend

Last Friday, I went out to dinner with an old friend. Patty and I first met when we both worked for Portland Parks in the late ’90s, lost touch after I left in ’01, and reconnected on Facebook a year or so ago. I always enjoy her company and look forward to our occasional dinners.

As is common these days, our conversation soon turned to politics. Patty voiced her concern that those of us on the left are fragmented in our approach to what’s going on right now, and that it would be better to be cohesive if we hope to have electoral successes in 2018 and 2020. The question is: How do we do that?

Right now, we do have a lot of fires that we’re trying to put out. The Trump administration has mounted assaults on LGBTQIA rights, Women’t rights, immigration and human rights, our national lands, our ecology, education, and with the “get tough on crime” stance, a certain assault against people of color. And, really, that’s only part of the things we’re fighting against. The lack of qualifications and sheer incompetence of Trump’s cabinet is frightening and threatens the very foundations of our nation.

I don’t think anyone has all the answers, but I agree that we do need to work together. The most important thing we can do for now is continue to voice our objections, to attend marches and protests, to participate in Town Halls, call our representatives, and as we are able to provide financial support to those politicians whose positions most closely match our own. We also need to continue to support our representatives who are taking a stand against the current administration’s appointments and policies. There is an abundance of resources available on the internet, and most anyone can find a cause to support.

I believe the great danger is stretching ourselves too thin, or exhausting ourselves with outrage. For me, the decision of the 9th Circuit Court last week caused me to breathe such a huge sigh of relief that I became fully aware of just how wound up I’ve been. When I realized that the action of a court on just one issue seemed so monumental, I knew that I need to find a way to pace myself. I can’t do everything, so I’ve had to make hard decisions about just what to do. My choices are going to focus on particular human rights, even though that decision necessarily means I can’t focus on the environment, education, egregious cabinet choices, or even the Supreme Court. Of course, I can still make phone calls on those issues – and I will – but my volunteer time will go toward protecting vulnerable people.

Other people – those with more experience and more knowledge – might find that focusing on DAPL, NAFTA, SCOTUS, or any of our alphabet of issues fits more comfortably into their lives. The important thing to remember is to not burn out. Take some time away from Facebook and the news, even if it’s just a few hours or even a day or two. Treat yourself to a massage or a nice dinner out. Pet your cat. Walk your dog. Appreciate the view out your window. Whatever it is that brings you joy and peace, do that thing – even if it’s just for a few minutes.

This week I’m going to a campaign kick-off for a woman I know only through Facebook. She’s running for the school board, and although she isn’t in my district, I’m supporting her with my presence even though I can’t support her with my vote. We need new blood in politics and those who are willing to put themselves out there deserve more than just an attaboy – they deserve our presence and where possible, our dollars. If you’re thinking about running for office, good for you! Let me know and I’ll publicize your campaign.

Each time I blog I will try to post new links to information that will help you find your place. If these links are useful, please let me know. If you know of other opportunities, put them in the comments and I’ll highlight them in my next post.

And to respond to Patty’s concern: Yes, we are fragmented to some degree, but the bottom line is that human rights covers everyone’s rights. Concern for the environment covers pipelines, fracking, drilling, loss of Federal lands, and animal protections. So really, we aren’t that divided. We just need to hold the umbrella a little higher and let more people into the shelter of our concerns. I’m optimistic that before the mid-terms roll around we’ll have identified a more cohesive message. And in the meantime you can still make those phone calls, send postcards, and show up when you can.

And still we persist!

How to Get Out of the Cycle of Outrage in a Trump World

Your Guide to the Sprawling New Anti-Trump Resistance Movement

Elect a Brand New Congress That Works for All Americans

Indivisible – A Practical Guide For Resisting the Trump Agenda

A Call to Action

There were a lot of reasons I didn’t participate in the protest movements of the ’60s and ’70s. In retrospect, most of them still seem legitimate (although boy-chasing might not make the cut), but I do remember being somewhat disdainful of those who did. I was a much more establishment person than my younger sister, but not quite as rigid as my older brother. That’s been the story of my life: Too old for this, too young for that. Middle child, middle path.

I first put my toes gently into the waters of protest and civil disobedience in the late ’70s when I protested the actions of the mayor of the small Florida town where I lived. We marched. We gave television interviews. We wrote letters to the editor. We hanged the mayor in effigy. Our efforts were largely unsuccessful, but at least we hadn’t sat home doing nothing.

So last month when I dragged my somewhat-reluctant daughter-in-law off to D.C. to the Women’s March, I was nearly as new to protest at almost-70 as she was at 40-something. But we did it. We both moved out of our comfort zones (I hate crowds, she hates crowds), and went off to an unfamiliar place to participate in an unfamiliar activity. And even though it very nearly broke my body, I look forward to participating in more actions.

So, how do we find those places where marches and/or protests are taking place? Last weekend after Trump signed and announced his overreaching Executive Order banning people from entering the U.S., demonstrations seemed to happen almost spontaneously at airports across the nation. Since they went on all weekend, it was almost guaranteed that you could show up at an airport and be part of a group protesting no matter when you went. But what about the not-so-obvious protests – how do you find those?

Google is your friend. Type “protest” and the name of your city (or nearby big city) into the search bar. You can also check out the American Civil Liberties Union  and get on their mailing list. Better yet, ask if you can volunteer; they need more help than just attorneys. This Mashable site also has a lot of good suggestions for getting involved. Protest.net has a list of activities by issue as well as several other good resources. You can also search groups on Facebook (some of the Women’s March groups have resources), and send out requests to your local friends on FB who might have information. The more connected you are, the better your chances of finding out what’s going on.

For those who can’t get out, there are postcard and phone call campaigns going on all the time. You can sign up to have a weekly action checklist emailed to you here, or you can just go to the website at your leisure.

If you can’t do rallies or marches, offer to watch someone’s child so s/he can go. You might also offer rides to those who need them. There are many ways to help and all of them are vital.

Trump’s Alt-Facts

I’ve begun keeping a list of information to use to debunk the lies that flow from the Trump White House. I’m starting it here, but will also create a document that will be updated as necessary. Please feel free to disseminate this blog or any other information as you find helpful.

Alt-Fact: The addition of Steve Bannon to the National Security Council is in keeping with the actions of Presidents G.W. Bush and Obama

FACT: http://www.politifact.com/truth-o-meter/statements/2017/jan/31/sean-spicer/spicers-misleading-claim-trumps-national-security-/

Alt-Fact: Trump’s immigration policies are no more restrictive than Obama’s

FACT: http://www.politifact.com/truth-o-meter/statements/2017/jan/30/donald-trump/why-comparing-trumps-and-obamas-immigration-restri/

Alt-Fact: Syrian Christians weren’t able to enter US under previous policy

FACT: http://www.politifact.com/truth-o-meter/statements/2017/jan/30/donald-trump/why-comparing-trumps-and-obamas-immigration-restri/

Alt-Fact: “Millions of people” voted illegally in 2016

FACT: http://www.politifact.com/truth-o-meter/statements/2017/jan/25/sean-spicer/sean-spicer-wrongly-uses-pew-study-bolster-claim-n/

For Further Information

I highly recommend Politifact and Snopes for checking what you read online – and especially before you post something that seems too far-out to be true. Unfortunately, we are in a situation where the unbelievable has become all too easy to believe, but by perpetuating questionable information we leave ourselves open to criticism and disbelief. Better not to post that questionable item than to be unable to defend it.

Finally…

It’s critically important to take care of yourself. Activism is exhausting and outrage can only be sustained for so long. You may find it easier to throw up your hands and say “fuck it” than to continue on your course. Don’t do that, please! We need every voice, every postcard, every body! Here are some tips to help you de-stress, and if those don’t suit you, find someone to talk to or – as always – Google is your friend!

This collection is by no means exhaustive, so please feel free to add to it in the Comments!

Welcome to The Resistance!

Politics, not as usual

Ninety-seven years ago today, my mother was born in the small Central Florida town of Orlando. She was the first child of John and Willie Peck, and her beginnings were humble and inauspicious.

cecilia

(Mom in the front, with her sister and cousins, about 1928.)

Mom’s stories about her childhood were always uplifting, and photographs (of which I have many!) show a happy, playful child, surrounded by friends, cousins, grandparents, and her sisters. Her life was peripatetic, as her dad was a seafaring man and he took his family to his ports of call whenever he could. That life didn’t suit my grandmother well, however, and they were divorced when mom was about 9 or 10 years old. Throughout my mother’s life, she remained devoted to her dad in nearly unreasonable circumstances.

Mom – her name is Cecilia – suffered a variety of illnesses as a child, including malaria, which kept her from attending school regularly, but she studied hard and maintained her grades. In 1934, when she was just 14, she was raped by a young man who was a boarder at my Granny’s boarding house. In order to preserved the family’s “honor,” she was then forced into marriage with a man who was 35 years her senior. George was a bootlegger, and his money and connections likely made life during the Great Depression much easier for the family. Mom’s feelings didn’t matter much, and she resented that forced marriage for the rest of her life.peck-fam

(Mom is the taller of the two little girls; the other is her sister. L to R, back row: her dad, her mom, her aunt, and the man she would be forced to marry. About 1924)

cecilia2

(Teenaged wife of a man older than her mother. Mom’s on the right. About 1935)

Mom met my dad while still married to George, who had been convicted and imprisoned for selling untaxed alcohol, and divorce proceedings were underway. Dad was handsome, mom was pretty, war was on the horizon – they were married February 12, 1941. After Pearl Harbor, dad enlisted in the Navy and was sent to the Aleutian Islands – a harsh environment for a boy who had been born in Frostproof, FL! Mom stayed home and awaited the birth of my brother in early 1943, and then she, too, went to war. Well, not exactly, but she was a version of Rosie the Riveter, working as an aircraft mechanic at the nearby Army Air Base.

Following the war, mom and dad had two more children – me and then my sister – and mom contracted polio in the summer of 1950. The disease would leave her crippled in her left leg, but never in her spirit! She and my dad divorced in 1957, and she was left – at age 37 and with three children – to raise us with very little help. She sold Avon, World Book Encyclopedia, Plymouth cars, and whatever else she could do to keep a roof over our heads and food in our mouths.

I don’t know exactly when or why she developed her interest in politics, but she was avid! Some of my earliest memories after the divorce were meeting with the Mayor of Tampa, State Senators, US Congressmen, campaign signs and slogans, and long periods of normalcy with sudden flurries of activity – based, I assume now, on election cycles. In 1960, at age 13, I was involved in my very first political campaign – to elect JFK to the presidency. You can read more about that and about my young adult aversion to politics here.

In 1974, the Democratic Party held a Mid-Term Conference in Kansas City, and mom was elected to represent Hillsborough County. She didn’t win all of her battles, but she never stopped fighting for what she believed in, and she always believed in the future.midterms

In the late ’70s, mom was diagnosed with osteoporosis, which was exacerbated by her having had polio. She suffered a lot of pain during the last years of her life, finally succumbing to the complications of Post-Polio Syndrome in 1992, just 13 days after her 72nd birthday. I have missed her every day since, and wish I had asked a lot more questions and listened to a lot more answers over the years!

I find myself thinking of her even more often these days, during these tumultuous times. I like to think that she would be proud of me, that she knows somehow that I am carrying the banner on her behalf and on behalf of women everywhere. That I, too, feel a strong sense of leaving a legacy for my children and grandchildren to point to with pride, just as she did.

Happy Birthday, mom. I love you.