It was a Saturday, Inauguration day, and my five year old and I were out for pizza downtown. “Look, Mom!” Amber cried excitedly, “Puppets!” Indeed, huge puppets of George Bush, along with papier-maché missiles, were being carried by protesters as they walked down Pacific. We quickly followed the parade to the town clock, where I tried to explain how every one there was angry at the people in power for putting money into armaments instead of education and health care. For the rest of the day she would ask me, “Momma, can you tell me more about missiles?”
Recently in an interview I was asked how did I plan on teaching my child about gender. Gender? How am I going to teach her about war? That day I tried as gently as I could to tell her about greed, and hatred, and killing, and testing bombs underneath mother earth…And I also talked about anger, and rage, and activism, and hope…
It is one thing to have your child ask about an atrocity, it is another when she asks you what you are doing about it. In the time of Georgie Porgie eroding women’s rights faster than you can say “Oh, Fuck!”, it is a gratifying experience to do some small political act like opening the doors of Herland everyday, and feeling that I serve a purpose. Blessed Be. (2001)
