Why we marched: Because we refuse to go back

I do not speak up comfortably.

Any situation that requires speaking UP and over a powerful voice or strong ideas makes me shaky and feel physically ill. It takes so much strength for me to say those first words that I become an emotion balloon, and all logical reasoning and retort power feel like they’ve been sucked out of me.

I’m not quick with facts; challenge my ideas, and I will forget my supporting argument and doubt speaking up in the first place. I will fear that I have done my cause more harm than good because isn’t this what “the other side” wanted? To prove that what we believe is empty, hollow, nothing but a Mississippi snowflake that will melt as soon as it touches the ground.

When I was growing up, there was a powerful voice in my house. A voice that could never be wrong. To disagree meant being shut down as misguided, naive, silly, stupid. My voice had no power. Every time I used it about something that mattered to me, I only got hurt. I learned to keep my ideas to myself, to stew quietly, to tell my truth to paper so I wouldn’t explode.

Later there was another powerful voice, a man’s voice again. The voice belonged to my first boyfriend, who had a strong grip on my life for four-and-half years. He was the truth scrambler. I gave him my words, but when they came out the other side of the scrambler, I didn’t recognize those words anymore. They were my words but different. They confused me, and if I had been given a little quiet, I might have been able to sort through them and put them back together in a way that made sense. But I never had that quiet. The scrambler was like a pitching machine, and the words flew out at me faster and faster. It was all I could do to dodge and not get hit. I didn’t even remember walking into the batting cage, and I certainly didn’t bring a bat. There was no time to stop and look for one because the shots were relentless.

I learned to approach the scrambler with supreme focus. When I entered a conversation, I kept my eyes on the truth I was telling. I was like a ballerina, spotting a point on the wall, spinning, spinning, spinning while focusing my gaze on that one steady point. I thought I was doing a good job, but then the scrambler turned out the lights. My steady point disappeared, and I not only lost the truth, I also lost myself. He kept me in the dark for so long that I forgot I ever had a steady point, forgot I had eyes to see it, forgot I…

We have a president who doesn’t want me to speak.

If you disagree with him, he doesn’t want you to speak either.  He can’t handle it. He is not strong enough to hear it. Disagree with him, and you speak to his anger, his deep insecurities, his overpowering fear, his aggrandized views of himself.

He loves you most if you agree with everything he says and lavish him with praise. Change that tune, and you may be out. He will try to discredit you. He may threaten you. Tell him you feel hurt by him and rather than hear you or apologize to you, he tells you YOU should be the one who feels bad and should do the apologizing. Excuse me, I should be apologizing for my feelings?

I’ve had two important men in my life who couldn’t handle my voice. Who couldn’t handle my honesty, even when speaking the truth in love. Who could never let me out of a disagreement without sending me the message that I was wrong, that I was brainwashed, that I was selfish, that I was too sensitive, that I was ungrateful, that I was not enough, that I was too much.

I made myself smaller and smaller for them because I was tired of hearing their voices. I was so tired of hearing their voices, and it was easier to disappear.

Now I’ve surrounded myself with loving voices for eight years. I have a husband who never lets the sun set on a day without letting me know how amazing he thinks I am. I have family who tells me how proud they are of who I am and of the work I’m doing. I have friends who have loved me through times when I couldn’t stand myself. Those affirming voices are gradually becoming the dominant voice in my head. It’s hard to reprogram the way you talk to yourself.

Our president is coming for my voice, and I know this game too well. I’m ready this time. You see, I’ve had two men try to take my voice from me and replace it with their own. I’ve felt their voices force-fed down my throat, swallowed like a fat snake that ate me from the inside out. Now I have a sixth sense for when people are trying to feed me their own parasites. It comes out of them like a parseltongue that they don’t know they’re speaking. I understand every word. And I’m ready to talk back.

Some people wonder why we needed to march.

Everyone marched for their own reason–for human rights, for the environment, for dignity, for love. We marched for our families, for our neighbors, for ourselves. We marched to feel less alone. We marched out of sadness, anger, fear, disbelief, and hope. Don’t take for granted the fact that simply marching was a bold act of resistance for someone. Making and holding a sign expressing their views publicly was a new event, an uncertain and scary thing for someone.

There are women who are not ready to speak up on their own yet. But when they come together with hundreds or thousands of other people strong who will back them, they feel safe. They feel like their truth is less scrambled. They feel real.  They are one step closer to being able to speak on their own.

The march was a message to our administration and to our country that we are here, that we are real, that we are watching, that we will stand up for each other, and that we will not go away or back down. This was so much bigger than politics. Some of us speak because we can’t stay silent anymore. We march into who we will become.

Photo credit: Christopher Guider