At the first Women’s March we were driven by Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Alexander Hamilton — If you stand for nothing, what will you fall for?…Rise Up! We were encouraged by Hillary Clinton’s concession message to girls — Never doubt that you are valuable, and powerful, and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world to pursue and achieve your own dreams. We channeled our Carrie Fischer grief with images of Princes Leia — A women’s place is in the resistance. The new administration was only a day old. We had our fears, but it was hard to comprehend the reality.
I had knit a hat, but wasn’t sure about it. I figured I’d take it and give it away. My 10-year-old daughter convinced me to wear it. She had her own with cat ears that I made for her when she was in kindergarten. It was a little too small, but I was impressed with her enthusiasm. I suggested something simple for her sign like Fight Like a Girl, but she chose Rosa Parks — The only tired I was, was tired of giving in.
It was an unusually warm and sunny day for January in the Heartland. The march was bigger than we expected — a lot of people for a tiny blue dot in a big red state. The mood was empowering and the sense of community was overwhelming. We left feeling high on unity, passion, and hope. A week later our high came crashing down when the president signed an executive order many of us saw as a Muslim ban.
2017 was an exhausting year: Charlottesville, #MeToo, Paris Agreement, Las Vegas, Little Rocket Man, Harvey/Irma/Maria, executive orders, tweets, and so much more endless breaking news. Processing everything was hard as an adult. Watching my daughter process it was even harder. Being a kid today is so different than when I was growing up. Cable news didn’t exist until I was in college. The news ticker didn’t start until September 11th. Breaking news wasn’t pushed to a phone in my pocket. These days I mute, turn off, and try my best to limit her exposure. Then I wind up glued to a screen in my hand while hundreds of think pieces shame me for not being a present parent.
Over the summer my daughter turned 11 — officially a tween. She went from elementary to middle school, the oldest kid to the newest one, knowing the ropes to learning locker combinations. Even though we held off on the big social media websites, she used Google for homework, watched videos on YouTube, and had chat in Minecraft. We talked about sponsored posts, online ads, and the dreaded comment section. One morning she received a news alert about Matt Lauer. Just another thing I had to turn off.
Generation X may have felt like we had the weight of the world on our shoulders, but children growing up these days really do. While they are discovering their sense of self, dealing with hormones, and navigating bullies, they’re hearing about shootings at schools, trucks crashing into crowds, and explosions at rock concerts. I remember watching The Day After in eighth grade and thinking how impossible it all seemed. Now the president tweets threats to a dictator with nuclear weapons.
At this age, children begin using the critical thinking skills they learned in elementary school to analyze and question the world around them. When my daughter was younger, I promised her I’d never lie to her. These days that means self-editing breaking news on the fly into words and concepts that are age appropriate, like explaining the recent media interest in the first lady:
Me: Stormy Daniels is to Donald Trump kind of like how Maria Reynolds was to Alexander Hamilton.
Her: Oh. [thinks a moment] Oooohhhh.
Sometimes I admit I don’t have an answer. Too often I tell her she may be better off not knowing. Most of the time she wants to know anyway. Subjects that seemed difficult to talk about last year seem so commonplace now. Sadly, the more you practice talking about sexual assault, mass shootings, and terrorist attacks, the easier the discussions become.
Getting ready for this year’s Women’s March felt different. She wanted to go, but getting up and away from the computer seemed like a chore. We had gathered our things by the door, but at the last minute she decided not to wear her hat. It was too small, “made her hair look weird,” and looked too childish. The weather was cold and dreary. It matched the mood of the past year. But then we started to see friends. We laughed at smart and witty signs. The singing and clapping lifted our spirits. After a year of questioning how I was raising this young person in our crazy environment of current events, I felt like I hadn’t screwed up. I was doing an OK job.
We left the march early because middle schoolers shun coats for hoodies. As we walked back to the parking garage, I offered her my hat. She protested it was her arms and feet that were cold, not her head, but reluctantly took it. After glancing at her reflection in a store window, she mentioned it didn’t make her hair look weird. A few minutes later she decided she liked it (and that it was, indeed, warming her up). I watched as she walked a little ahead of me, seemingly lost in thought. I snapped a picture to remember the moment.
By the time we were at the car, she decided she wanted one of her own. A grown-up hat for herself, for next year. “Maybe after the 2018 elections we’ll have something to celebrate,” she said. I hope so. There is no doubt this year will bring many changes, more growing up, more learning as a parent, and much more navigating our crazy politics. One thing that won’t change is the sign I march with — Here’s to strong women. May we know them, may we be them, may we raise them.
