Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: We Marched.

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Girl Warrior. Sometimes a Girl Warrior’s gotta do what a Girl Warrior’s gotta do. Here’s my story.

On January 21, I did something I’ve never done before. Something so deeply marrow wrenching and profound that I believe it has changed me. Irrevocably.

I marched.

Shockingly it took decades for this to happen. If ever there had been a quintessential time, surely it was during my budding feminist years in university. But no, I did not march. Not even then. Truth is, I don’t even recall there being any marches in our neck of the woods. But then again, we were pretty backwoods. The university’s claim to fame at that time was their male-oriented Forestry Program. Says it all.

My feminism came in the form of a monthly subscription to Ms. Magazine and a huge secret girl-crush on Gloria Steinem. I read it in my room and kept my thoughts to myself. Thoughts like, I don’t want my mother’s life; I want to get the hell out of this town; I want to go to Paris; I want a career; I want to write; I want to make a difference and be a part of changing things for the better, especially for women. But I also had thoughts like, I want to fall in love; I want a family; I want a nice home with two cats in the yard; I want to be part of a community; I want to teach and have a positive empowering impact on the hearts and minds of youth, especially girls.

Most of that happened. Not all at once and not nearly as quickly as I thought it would. It’s taken a lifetime to unfold and there have been many twists and turns, surprises and derailments along the road. I still haven’t been to Paris and I’m okay with that.

Up until my mother died sixteen years ago, for the most part, I was still that young girl in her room reading Ms. Magazine and keeping her thoughts to herself. But after she died, things started to change. At first it was a slow steady percolation, a burning and churning inside my head, heart and gut. Then five years ago, I unleashed my Girl Warrior spirit and spoke. And I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Girl Warrior blog posts, Girl Warrior books and now a Girl Warrior production company and website.

With two strong ferocious daughters, a granddaughter and a daughter-in-law I learned close-up and intimately what courage looks like. Inspired by them, I was compelled to speak up and use my words to help bring about change, at least in my own small way. Now I focus all of my attention on the last two thoughts at the end of both lists that I created all those years ago.

Take all of that in for a moment. Then think about the horrifying spectacle of the current American political scene with the rise to power of the unqualified and unfit DJT & Friends. What you get is the perfect storm for this Girl Warrior. And the biggest reason in her entire life to march, shoulder to shoulder, and in support of her American sisters, and all women across the world.

The Women’s March was magnificent in its purpose, resolve and scope.

There we stood in the crowded overflowing square, side-by-side, one-voice-in-many, wholly united and carrying signs with messages like Nasty Women Unite, The Future is Female, Ally to All Slave to None Let’s Unite, Trump Violence Against Women, A Woman’s Place is in the Revolution, We Will Not be Silent, Women’s Rights are Human Rights, and I’m With Her. There we stood and joined forces with other women, children and men – all ages, all different stages of life, and diverse backgrounds and beliefs. There we stood fighting for a cause that touched all of us, affected all of us and was far, far, far bigger and more important than we imagined. And we knew it. We felt it on every level, and with every fiber of our collective souls. Now was the time.

And now is the time Girl Warrior to fight for all human rights, to respect our natural and fragile habitat, to remember our prevailing humanity, to restore our faith in each other and our shared decency, kindness and goodness, to extend compassion and grace at every turn, and most importantly, to grow our capacity to always love divinely in the face of ugly hatred.

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