I didn’t march on Saturday.
I feel a whole host of different emotions about this. Shame, guilt, embarrassment, envy, frustration, etc.
I wish I had marched.
I wish I had put P. in the carrier and pinned a “Future Nasty Woman” to the front of the panel and taken her downtown to join the thousands of others who cared enough to turn up and protest even though he really is #notourpresident because we don’t have a president.
My Mum was visiting and I wish I’d taken her downtown too, three generations of Nasty Women, ready to roar. I would have left E. at home with Q., not because there was no room for men at the march but because E. wouldn’t have been able to handle the crowd and the noise.
I wish I’d turned up, just like I did at the giant “No” rally before the 1995 Quebec referendum. That protest felt like it really mattered. It felt like it was important that I was there.
I think Saturday would have been the same.
Here’s the truth: I didn’t actually know there was a march in my city.
I’ve been dealing with a couple of issues with P. in the last week or so and it’s led me to stay offline as much as possible, far away from Dr. Google and the scary scary answers you can always find with any search inquiry. I’ve been off social media. I haven’t been reading the newspaper.
I have been, as I belatedly realized late Saturday afternoon, almost scarily ill-informed.
I had my reasons.
But in a world where White House representatives refer to “alternative facts” when confronted with the deliberate falsehoods they’ve put forward, my reasons aren’t good enough.
From now on, I am paying attention.
And when the next time comes, I will march.
What about you? Did you march, even if you don’t live in the U.S.A.?
This post is part of #MicroblogMondays. To read the inaugural post and find out how you can participate, click here.