We weren’t just headed to
the Capitol for us. As always, I was aware that being able to express my political
anger is a privilege and a gift. My check-in person, the friend and neighbor
who has my mom’s phone number and the keys to come in and feed the cats if she
doesn’t hear from me after protests, had said “Thanks for marching. I’ll be at
work, seething.” I’d reached out to my mom directly for support this time, even
though I knew this would worry her, and she said: “I’m confident you’ll be fine…you’re
sensible and strong. Don’t be afraid.” My sister, the kindest and most conflict-averse
person I know, posted on my facebook that morning: “Be safe, and loud!! Love to
you and Amy—thanks for fighting the evil!” It was an honor to look forward to
yelling on behalf of the women who don’t have the luxury of unabashed anger.
We weren’t sure the
protest would go inside the Capitol, but I hoped that it would. I’d seen so
many amazing C-Span videos (Just let the phrase “amazing C-span videos” sink in
and think about how much has changed in the past two years!) of protesters
occupying the Capitol for healthcare, for DACA, against the Muslim bans. I felt
proud and brave to be part of that tradition, and my bitter heart was buoyed a
little.
When we arrived, the
protest was in three different places—one crowd in front of the Capitol, one crowd
on the lawn between the Capitol and the Supreme Court getting civil action
training with the Women’s March, and one group chanting in front of the Supreme
Court itself. I almost immediately lost my cool when I saw a pregnant Info Wars
“reporter” interviewing a protester. I almost jumped into the shot and screamed,
but for Info Wars, where would I even start? I power-posed with my sign in
front of the Capitol and that was the last time I felt festive, felt normal,
for a long time.
There was a MAGA-hatted
couple in the crowd, sanguine and smug, bothering the protestors and being bothered
back. Seriously, who thinks “You know what we should do with our Saturday? Go show
a bunch of rape survivors who’s boss!” WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? (Also,
I know they could have been paid trolls. Somehow that would be comforting.) Having
been on the protest grounds for all of five minutes, I forgot my whole
put-the-kids-first-don’t-get-arrested plan. I turned around and started
following the couple, sign held high, a beyond-grim expression on my face. This
is where I started to scare myself.
I screamed at them. Not
in a crowd, not in a chant that would soon be followed by an impromptu singing
of “This Little Light of Mine.” I screamed at people, at strangers, at a (it goes without saying they were white
and presented as hetero) man and a woman. I wish I could promise that I was at
all articulate. The man started filming me with his phone and I screamed “That’s
right, get it on tape. Share it with all of your racist, misogynist, rape
apologist friends, they need to hear it.” (At least I hope I was that coherent.
My memory slips a little here and there in this story.)
The woman, who looked
about my age, said “I am not a racist. You don’t know my heart.” She said
calmly.
“I can see your heart, it’s
there on your fucking HEAD. Grow some fucking empathy.”
“Grow some fucking
empathy” is what I pretty much always want to be screaming. But on some level,
she’s right. I don’t know her heart. I shouldn’t assume it’s sadism or Stockholm
Syndrome that’s inspiring her to act so DEEPLY against her own interest,
against the interest of human beings in general, against LIFE ITSELF. The
politically self-immolating white woman captured my imagination that day. I
have been railing (RIGHTLY) for two years against over-empathizing with the white
people who voted their hatred in 2016. But that day at the Capitol I grew a new
empathy of my own, one that I didn’t entirely welcome. By the end of the day
and in the discussions that followed, I would realize that #metoo isn’t a
partisan effort at all, and that every woman, even the horrible ones, would
have my loyalty from here on out.
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