Draft 2 of Walking Manifesto #4--But I Will Walk, Part I

So yesterday, I wrote the first draft posted it and thought all day about the fact that it was missing something. I profoundly pondered the difference between being wounded and being angry, which is the feeling that my activist black sisters and other sisters "of color" are really expressing with regards to the Women's Marches of 2017. So here, it is. And I also added the perspective of mostly white and middle class sisters, for good measure.

Walking Manifesto #4--But I will walk, Part I, Draft 2

There is a dawn coming to my town

And my eyes cannot stay shut

Wondering what colors it will bring

The fire forging new brave hearts

For the journey that may be dark

Or the pyre of precluded prayers

From spirits already slayed

My sister says she cannot walk with me

- She says she can’t sleep

Too tired from everything

That should have been done yesterday

- She says she can’t come

Too wounded from everytime

No one came to walk with her

When she sloshed in the silt

Of drowning dreams

- She says she can’t stay

Too broken under the burden of the world

- She says she got her ticket out of town

A long holiday weekend, you know…

And who wants to deal with this crowd anyway

But thanks, and glad to hear later what happened

- She says she won’t come

Too angry about clueless people

Who don’t even see what’s wrong and

Won’t self-educate

And she sneers

At the invitation to participate

In a pale copy of what she is

And what she had created

I fret about who’s left to walk with me

I plan the route where they tell us

We must go only on our feet

They say to carry only the smallest bag

That will not fit enough food

They say to write on your skin

Who will save you if you fall

And no one recognizes you

In the belly of this anonymous beast

They say all the words that will

Wreck my walk

But I will walk

I never was the woman to run

When the world wrecks

I will carry on my skin

The names of all my sisters

And in my belly all the words

They wanted to scream

And those they forgot existed

I am a VONA (Voices of Our Nations) Fellow, as of 1/15/17

2017 promises to be a rough year, the first of the next four, for progressive people. Like many others who may not have been Hillary Clinton fans, I still woke up with a sense of history on November 8, 2016, and went to the polls excited about voting for the first time in DC and seeing the dawn of a new era with the first American Woman President. I did not even really track the results throughout the day, confident the American people could not really choose to elect a man who campaigned on a platform of xenophobia, sexism, bullying, and so on. I had heard people around me, some of my family included, talk about how much they just did not like Hillary Clinton (which was really surprising to me, I was not a fan, but I actually don't dislike her, more just not super excited by her) and how they actually liked Trump for his economic message. The best clue would have come when my male senior colleague said two weeks before the elections, he talked to many people in power in DC, and don't be surprised if Clinton doesn't win, there is too much feeling that she screwed up too much (after the last set of email investigations, which indeed probably nailed the coffin to her presidential aspirations). Around 9 pm, I finally glanced at the results, and was shocked to see she was not leading. I started sending comforting messages on my FB, already getting a bad feeling the worst was going to happen. I went to sleep relatively early, by 11 pm, already crushed by a sense of doom. I got texts after midnight from women in my family, crying about Trump's win. We all knew how bad it would be for the next four years and mostly, what a slap to all our faces, by all the people who voted for him and said, we did not matter, at least no more than their pocket books. I lay in bed unable to sleep the rest of the night. I could not sleep for the next two weeks and frantically read more news articles about the transition, painfully aware, indeed, I was too lax before, too trusting that other people would take good care of things, and I could rest. No more. The activist artist in me had a rude awakening and is back in operations. Around Thanksgiving, I was writing like crazy, editing for my family project, blogging on the transition, and getting deeper in my poetry. Among other things, I really badly wanted to be a VONA/Loft Fellow, joining Voices of Our Nations, a platform for artist-activists from communities of color, and returning to my literary roots, MN/The Loft. I applied in the midst of Thanksgiving chaos and was accepted. So happy and relieved, others thought I had something worthwhile to write for the world. MLK weekend of 2017: we met, we became family, and I am happy to move forward with a good network of kindred spirits and hearts.