Friday Fictioneers: No Words

I was late last week with my “nasty” story, but appreciated the comments; thanks all y’all! That was one of my favorite photo prompts ever! Out of the park, Liz! Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Check out her blog for more details, or to join in.

Big changes at Huffington Post, and my piece about the March on Washington was not published until last week. Delayed, but still much my thoughts. Some great photos from DC! As always I appreciate honest, constructive feedback; please leave a comment.

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© Sarah Potter

 

No Words

Jordan stared out the open window, watching the snow fall. The house was silent, and the flakes landed with a soft whoosh, wrapping her in icy peace. She blew out softly and watched her breath disappear in a vaporous cloud.

When Doug told her he was leaving, she was silent.She remained mute as he left–– unable to plead, apologize or seek reconciliation.

There was no point; he’d left her long before he said the words. She smiled at the beauty that mocked her grief, and closed the window.

The house was silent, her heart as cold as the dark night.

(Exactly 100 words)

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GIPYKAPOW!  I didn’t meet the 2016 goal for Likes on the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page; missed it by 14! So this year, I’m not setting a goal. I’m grateful for each Like I get. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.

©2017  All content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit and Link back to my work; plagiarism sucks!

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Friday Fictioneers: After Work

What a prompt! When I saw it on Wednesday, I knew just where I’d go. This photo from Liz Young really haunts! However, we were away for our 30th anniversary, and no wi-fi or electronics except in our room… we were too busy to sit around long enough for me to write and post. So, I’m sending this in late, and looking forward to seeing what others did with this one. As always, thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running this weekly group of Kool Kats. Stop by her blog for more details. As always, I welcome honest, constructive feedback. Please leave a comment.

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© Liz Young

Lilly smiled as she handed the man his burger-deluxe. He winked and she blushed; Lilly wasn’t sure how to respond to older men. He gave her the creeps, but she smiled again, politely, and handed him his change.

Four hours later, Buck Johnson wiped his hands on a Burger House apron. As the sun sank, he kicked dirt over the petite brunette’s naked body, and zipped up his fly.

“Stupid bitch–– shouldn’t lead a man on.”

Lilly stared off into the pale sky, a frozen smile on her lips. She’d never known how to deal with older men.

(98 words)

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GIPYKAPOW!  I didn’t meet the 2016 goal for Likes on the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page; missed it by 14! So this year, I’m not setting a goal. I’m grateful for each Like I get. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.

©2017  All content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit and Link back to my work; plagiarism sucks!

 

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Friday Fictioneers: What’s Left

(Aaaand, once again, I forgot to add my post to the link up!)

I missed a week, recovering from my trip to Israel and the March on Washington. Hard to wrap my brain around so many things right now…

Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for rallying whatever, whatever the mood or weather! Find details on her blog and join us! Thanks to Roger Bultot for the wonderful inspiration.  As always, I welcome honest, constructive feedback.

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© Roger Bultot

 

What’s Left

Your footsteps echo on the empty street. Even as I hide behind the curtain, the smell of you lingers in this room. I cry out, a silent scream–– please don’t go. But you disappear around the corner and emptiness fills the space.

How did we drift so far, that I didn’t see your empty smiles and vacant eyes?

The cat rubs her back along my leg, and a guttural sob erupts from my constricted chest. Stop! Don’t touch me.

The cold coffee shakes in my cup, and I pour it into the orchid you once nurtured–– both of us abandoned.

(100 words)

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GIPYKAPOW!  I didn’t meet the 2016 goal for Likes on the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page; missed it by 14! So this year, I’m not setting a goal. I’m grateful for each Like I get. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.

©2017  All content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit and Link back to my work; plagiarism sucks!

 

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What Really COUNTS: A Sea of Pink Pussy Passion

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I decided to go to the March on Washington, as a promise to myself that I would never let hopelessness define me again.

This past Election Day I woke up, literally and figuratively, to the realization that as a 53-year-old woman, I’ve never truly believed I could be or do whatever I set my mind to– that my insecurities and fears, which have followed me since childhood, were driving the train, not me. I woke up, and for one blue-skied, incredible day, I felt a giddy sense of hope, which had become foreign to me. By the end of the day, those feelings seemed crushed beneath the shocking outcome of an election that blindsided so many. For the record, I’d spent weeks believing Donald Trump would win– not because I’m smarter than pollsters and experts, but because I sensed, on a very deep level, that this horrible man, in all of his offensive behavior and arrogant rhetoric, had tapped into something Hillary Clinton could not defeat, with all of the competence, grace and intellect she demonstrated. So many people told me I was wrong– I didn’t understand polls and stats, and it would be a landslide victory for Clinton.  I allowed those voices to lull me into the incredible, but brief thrill, of believing she would win. Election day morning, I woke up, took a hard look in the mirror, and grabbed on to that hope. It was humbling; thrilling, and then hurt so much more, when it all came tumbling down, twelve hours later.

On November 9th, my hopelessness felt validated. It was tempting to give in to old feelings and believe hope was foolish; we will never really have equality in this country, and I was right to hold on tightly to my fears. Feminism is for other women, not me. If you learn as a young child that disappointment and loss are inevitable, it’s hard to believe in miracles and possibility. However, I also felt empowered by those twelve amazing hours, when the most wondrous things seemed viable. I felt empowered by all of the incredible women around me, who had truly believed. While I’d been talking the talk, while (unknowingly) quietly holding on to my fears, they had boldly walked the walk. Within a week of the Election, I knew that I couldn’t go back to these feeling I’ve had all of my life. I wanted to walk too, and when I saw a chance to March, I plugged in.

A simple Facebook post inspired reminded me that there were others who were reeling from this horrible wake-up call, and there was a place to funnel my passion, shock, and angst. If if you look up the word angst, it’s exactly what I’ve felt since November 8th. Talk about a March pulled me out of those dark feelings. I was excited, and inspired do more than just complain. I’d already booked a trip to Israel, to visit my daughter, son-in-law and grandson, so when the date for the March was announced for January 21st (halfway into my trip), I waited to see if it would really pan out. I wasn’t willing to leave the lights of my life, without certainty this would happen. But once the idea became reality, I changed my ticket, and put all my eggs in one incredible basket.

I wasn’t invested in this as a singular battle cry against Trump alone, or because I think Donald Trump is a horrible person–I do, with no hesitation or doubt. Far more troubling has been the realization there are so many Americans who don’t care about the vile things he’s said and done, and who have willingly added fuel to his fire. For months, each time Trump said something I believe crossed a clear line, that would require an accounting: suggesting all Mexicans are criminals and rapists, and more incredibly, we should build a wall to divide us; that women can be judged as fat, ugly, or there for the taking- grabbed, for his pleasure; that all of the brilliant scientists who have committed their lives to studying our fragile planet, are wrong, and this arrogant man knows better than them– Each time I thought “well this will wake people up,” things went back to usual, leaving another piece of my faith shaken. These things have made it hard to sleep, since November.

I changed my tickets, and I began to anticipate Marching beside other people who stand for a different message. I wanted to be part of something bigger than my angst, and feel the power of people who are willing to stand and say: NO! This is not acceptable! This is not who we are, as people or a Nation! There were countless delays coming back from Israel; I missed flight connections, and several times it looked like I wouldn’t make it at all. The entire flight from Israel I felt waves of grief wash over me– knowing I’d left the people I love but would likely miss the March. Feeling the reality of Inauguration day sink in, as I sat on a plane full of people where no one said a word about what was happening, moving toward events in a time zone behind and ahead of us, was surreal and lonely. In Toronto I’d been rebooked for a flight Saturday– too late. I dug in and battled the airlines, and finally got them to book me on a late flight to DC. I may have said: “I write for Huffington Post; I must be at that March–” two truths, that equal a white lie, but it worked. The two Canadian agents urged me help fight “that man,” as they urged me to hurry. After a 12-hour flight, with no sleep, I had to run through customs, get my luggage and go back through departures; I was determined not to miss this one flight out. I tacked on 5.5 miles on my Fitbit, and arrived at the gate sweaty and exhausted. Then, at the waiting area, I saw a women wearing a pink pussy hat and knitting another, and I my heart swelled with the hope and excitement I’d been holding back for months. All around that departures lounge I recognized the faces of other women, headed to the same destination, with the same determination on their faces, and I began to believe that we could really make something of all this pain.

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Much has been written about the March already; it’s taken me days to digest my thoughts, to process all of the incredible moments that came out of months of shock, then grief, anger, and planning. In the massive crowds, I was unable to reach my high school friends, who had driven from Boston to meet me. Texts failed, with cell towers strained to the limit, and it was obvious from the moment my group got off the train, and were crushed by the massive crowd trying to get out of the station, that this was going to be something much bigger than anyone had anticipated. But they carried a picture of me with them, and we reunited later. We’re Boston strong; we carry on! Luckily I was with four fantastic, young people, who I love– the children of old friends, who stayed with me all day. The sea of pink “pussy hats” as we came out of the station was staggering; the energy was electric. Becky made each of us a pink hat to wear, and I instantly felt a part of something enormous. We arrived very early, and were fortunate to get within three blocks of the stage, on Independence Avenue, and right beside a giant screen. Everywhere I looked were passionate faces, determined women and men, and an energy that seeped into us all. It’s taken me days to get home, process all of this, and write something– knowing, that no one can truly express what it was like to be there.

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The protest and March opened with stirring a Native American song and drumming by Norine Hill (Oneida Nation) in an Indigenous language. It was haunting, empowering and ran right through our bodies! Then, America Ferrera shared passionate words about the March. From then on it was one amazing moment after another: Gloria Steinem- eloquent, wry and brilliant as ever; Alicia Keys- with her anthem of fire; Scarlette Johannson- passionately defended Planned Parenthood and every woman’s right to manage their own body; Michael Moore urged us to not stop with a March and to make phone calls; Ashley Judd electrified with her challenge to remain “Nasty” and her spotlight on President Obama’s successor’s hypocritically nasty behaviors; the iconic Dr. Angela Davis shared her wisdom on indigenous lands and people, women’s rights, the environment and more; Madonna was Madonna and stirred things up, on a day we were all stirring things up; and so many other inspiring women spoke about things that matter. They spoke until the crowd began to chant “Let us March, let us March!”

The two most electric moments for me, were when Janelle Monái brought the “Mothers of the Movement–” the mothers of slain Black men: Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, Jordan Davis, Mohamed Bah, and Dontre Hamilton on stage. She had us all sing “Hell You Talmbout” and then shout “Say their names, say their names!” Each mother then shouted their dead child’s name to the crowd, in what was by far one of the most powerful moments of the day. The March embraced the Black Lives Matter movement and this was one of many incredible moments, when the issues that Black Americans have painfully fought against, were finally embraced and supported by masses. It’s long overdue. Hearing those mothers cry their baby’s names, and the crowd call them back– hundreds of thousands of voices joined in grief, will be with me forever.

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The other incredible moment was when six year-old Sophie Cruz stood on stage, faced a sea of faces, and with confidence and love spoke for the rights of immigrants. Her words were simple and sincere: “We are here today, creating a chain of love, to protect our families!” When she addressed the children, there was not a dry eye: “I want to tell the children, not to be afraid, because we are not a alone! There are still many people who have their hearts filled with love and tenders, to snuggle in this path of life.” She then said the entire speech again in Spanish, without missing a beat.

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Despite the fact that there were so many people that we filled the March route, making it slow and challenging, we finally Marched– an endless sea of mostly women, but men and children as well. Our legs and feet hurt from standing for hours, and no one knew where to go, but we all felt so fired up; the energy was palpable, contagious and consistently positive! We moved slowly; it was disorganized for the challenging move to Constitution Avenue. Police and National Guard had blocked parts of our path, but were good natured and supportive. Four separate police officers told us, in very authoritative and firm tones that they “were dealing with 1.2 million people!” While we heard many other numbers later, and the familiar whining of Trump that the Inauguration crowds were bigger, that is not what we heard from so many DC natives, who saw both events. Storekeepers, restaurant people, bus drivers, and others told me over and over, that the March surpassed Friday’s numbers by a huge gap. While I can’t give figures with authority, or even “alternative facts,” I can say that I’ve never seen anything like this incredible sea of positivity! Whatever number is finally settled on, there wasn’t a single arrest!

 

People wore their battle cries on their clothing, carried them in signs, and shouted them for miles through the city. There was a constant roar as we sang (watch this for chills) out our messages in sing song and syncopated rhythms: “Tell me what Democracy looks like- This is what Democracy looks like!” “My body, my choice; HER body Her choice!” “Black Lives Matter!” “We will not go away, welcome to your first day!” “We want a leader, not a creepy tweeter!” “Say it loud, say it clear, refugees are welcome here!” “A movement united, will not be divided!” “Education, not deportation!” “Women’s Rights are Human Rights!” And the old standby “hey, ho, ho, Donald Trump has got to go!” We sang, “If I had a hammer,” the Civil Rights song. The signs people carried were a true highlight of the March. They ranged from simple statements apparently thrown together last minute, on cardboard or paper, to spectacular works of art; they were every where! The next day, thousands of signs were left abandoned around the city– lined up at the White House, around memorials, and walls of them left outside Trump’s new hotel.

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On Monday, I won a golden ticket and gained entrance to the National Museum of African American History; it was one of my goals for this trip. I spent nearly five hours there, and didn’t see the entire museum! It was a powerful reminder that Black Americans have been fighting this fight for 300+ years in America, and so many of the messages in the museum echoed the ones we shared in the March. Near closing, I met a dynamic woman, Sondra, who had traveled to the March alone. We got talking and decided to walk to the MLK, Jr. memorial together. Standing there, as dusk set, was sobering and powerful. Sondra said, “I think Dr. King would be really proud of what we all did this weekend,” and I believe she’s right. Sondra had been right up at the stage, and we compared notes on the energy and inspiration we both felt, her feelings as a Black woman, mine as a White one, and those that were universally shared in the experience. At dinner, we agreed that in the end, the energy and inspiration we both gained is what we are taking home.

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I went to the March seeking renewal and healing, to move forward and hold onto the new hope I feel. I went there to March with other Americans who do not accept the America that Donald Trump has put forth. I went to be part of something bigger and bolder than I have known. I went there to own the word feminist, activist, and human with an open heart. I came home with everything I went for… and so much more.

If you were unable to attend a March, but want to help, please get involved! These are important things you can do to fight discrimination, the attack on our environment, support women, fight for health care coverage for so many Americans who can’t afford it, and much more: Follow Michael Moore’s lead and call your Representative or Senator (just give your zip code) 202-225-3121. Support freedom of the press, by subscribing to paper or online news; more than ever, it’s vital! Donate to Planned Parenthood and JOIN them. Donald Trump has already promised to defund them, and so many lives depend on their incredible services; it is not just about abortion rights! Donate money to the NAACP, ACLU, Souther Poverty Law Center, and the many environmental organizations who are under attack right now. Help these incredible organizations combat change that will impact us all.

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Any photos which are not my own are used with permission; thanks to: Becky Salomon, Emily Salomon, Kim Stoloski, Marjorie McGilvray & special thanks to Sondra Brown- a sassy woman, who I’m glad I met! All of the close-up photos of speakers/celebrities, are hers.

Were you at the March on Washington? Or did you March in another city? What was the best part? Why were you Marching? Please leave a comment; I’m listening.

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GIPYKAPOW!  I didn’t meet the 2016 goal for Likes on the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page; missed it by 14! So this year, I’m not setting a goal. I’m grateful for each Like I get. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.

©2017  All content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit and Link back to my work; plagiarism sucks!

 

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A Stream of Conscious Grief

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I’m sitting on a plane, flying from Tel Aviv, Israel–– after visiting my daughter, son-in-law and my beautiful 17-month-old grandson. Leaving them is always brutal. While I’m there, I lose myself in a beautiful world of baby laughter, love and endless possibility. A daily reminder of the beauty in colors, trees, birds out our window, a tiny rock that fits in his perfect palm. When I leave, it’s like taking all that joy I’m feeling and having it ripped away. Stop. I know it isn’t actually ripped away. Don’t write to me and tell me that. I know. But it feels that way. For weeks I see this little boy, who has become the light of our life, and we bond and build something… and I take in all of his amazingness–– watch him take things in, and figure them out; watch him laugh at what he finds funny; it’s magic, just being with him. And then, I have to leave, and I know he will wake up from his next nap and wonder where I went. And there’s no explanation that he will understand or get. I will get on that plane and be taken further and further from him, until we can spend time again. And I know I will miss him so very much that it is a constant ache. I’ll have to be happy with Skype again. But it’s not the same. (Sorry, no pictures allowed)

This time, I was leaving in time to attend the Women’s March on Washington. I’ve been planning and waiting to do this for weeks; I have good friends, from high school, who are meeting me there. I have other dear friends, from all over the US, who are heading there too. I knew I’d have to leave my beautiful boy, and his parents to do this; I knew it would be hard. But I believe in this. I have felt so shaken, so shocked, so incredibly horrified, for many, many months, but it was clinched on Election Day, when the brief hope I felt was crushed. Crushed is not an over-statement. I haven’t cleared my head since. I haven’t really slept well, and each day, when I wake up and hear something about the state of things, I am dragged right back into that dark reality.

It’s not just that I think Donald Trump is a horrible person–– I do, with no hesitation or doubt, but far more troubling is the realization that there are so many people in our country who don’t care about the horrible things he has said or done, and who add fuel to that bonfire. They roast marshmallows ‘round the pain and humiliation of others. Each time Trump said something that I thought had crossed some line, that would require an accounting for: suggesting all Mexicans are criminals, and more incredibly that a wall should be build to divide us (can you even imagine if Canada said the same of us? I wouldn’t blame them); that women can be judged as fat, or ugly, or there for the taking– grabbed for that matter; that all of the brilliant scientists who have committed their lives to studying our fragile planet, but this arrogant man knows better than them–– each time, I thought “well that will wake people up,” things were back to usual, but with another piece of my faith shaken… Man, I am just repeating myself. I am just saying what everyone who feels like this is saying. But these are the things that make sleep hard.

And because this is a stream of conscious grief, I want to clarify: it’s not about whether I think Donald Trump will be as destructive as I’ve imagined, or as so many more intelligent people than me have speculated; I’ve seen other scary things come and go. I know we are a nation that has overcome, and that continues to overcome–– racism, prejudice, inequality, destruction of our Earth–– not always fast enough, not always the right way, but I hold onto the belief that we are capable. If Donald Trump is as destructive as I believe he is, then Americans will call him out. But for now, it feels bleak, and scary, and… hopeless, some days. On a very deep level, there have been moments when I’ve felt broken, by what feels like so much insanity.

So I was inspired when I heard about the March. I felt like there were others, and there was a place for my passion, shock, and angst. That word, angst, seems silly, but if you look it up, it’s exactly what I’ve felt. I was inspired and excited; I’ve been waiting and planning for this March. I wrote about it; I shared it with others; I’ve channeled my passion in that direction, to stave off hopelessness. I left that beautiful boy early, so that I could go to Washington, DC and stand beside so many other disillusioned and shaken people, who want to stand up and express these things. I wanted to be part of something bigger than my angst. I want to feel the light and love of those people who are willing to stand and say: NO, this is not acceptable. This is not what we are.

I got to the airport, sad to be leaving the lights of my life, energized to do something bigger, and my flight was delayed by 90 minutes. Ninety critical minutes, thrown in my face, after weeks of waiting. The airlines, in their concern for my ability to make the connection, rescheduled me on a flight tomorrow; they assured me that I’ll arrive in Washington, DC by 9:30 the day of the March. The March starts at 10am. And as I finally departed Israel, watching the city below me move off–– knowing that my joy is temporarily ripped from me, and my passion is now delayed, that I am thwarted, I feel such grief. I feel so alone, on this plane full of people, knowing that in a time zone that I’m moving toward, a man who represents everything I’ve spent my life believing was wrong, will represent the country I love.

I have my headphones on. I’m listening to music that means something to me, played in a random order. But right now, This Must Be The Place by the Talking Heads, a song that always brings my children’s faces to me and feels like… home–– right now, it crushes me. I’m surrounded by hundreds of strangers, wondering how many of them hate Mexicans; and don’t trust Blacks; and think that as a woman, I am less; and believe that our Earth is a limited source of whatever makes them rich; and that all Muslims are terrorists; and that Donald Trump will really make us Great Again. And I’m horrified at what that Great might look like, if it means all of these other things. One of my very favorite songs, Peter, Paul & Mary’s The Kid comes on. None of the music feels random today. Of the several hundred songs in my library, why these ones? The Kid has always seemed written for me, but in these moments of grief, it only makes me feel naïve and foolish, even as the beautiful vocals remind me of all that I believe in: I’m the kid who has this habit of dreaming. Sometimes gets me in trouble too. But the truth is, I cold no more stop dreaming, than I could make them all come true.

More music mocking me: Eddie Vedder, Society; Aimee Mann, One; Beethoven; Sia, Breathe Me; Joan Baez, Diamonds and Rust (the original, really!?), and Peter Gabriel, In Your Eyes and I Grieve, back to back. I have tons of dance songs, and happy tunes in my library. Really, I do. Stupid “random” setting.

For these hours and hours, where all that is waiting when I land is suspended, the grief washes over me. I can’t shut it out. When I arrive in Toronto, I’ll run through the airport. My 53-year-old, out of shape legs will burn. I’ll hope that my original flight to DC is still there–– that the weather that has thwarted me today, will have held up that flight too. I’ll run to the Canada Airlines desk and fight to get back on the original flight. If it’s gone, I’ll make my way to a hotel near the airport, and not sleep well, because jet lag and restlessness will thwart me further. For these hours, flying high above the dark Atlantic, this is my conscious stream of grief.

But if I don’t make my connection, then tomorrow I’ll be at the airport by 5am, and I’ll make my way to the March when I land in DC… at whatever point it’s marching. I will try to find my friends, who are also coming from all over, for this. I’ll play music that fires me up. I’ll remember what is important to me. I will March, and I’ll re-channel all of this grief into a mighty NO, THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE TO ME. THIS IS NOT WHO WE ARE! THIS IS MY AMERICA TOO.

Stay tuned…

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GIPYKAPOW!  I didn’t meet the 2016 goal for Likes on the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page; missed it by 14! So this year, I’m not setting a goal. I’m grateful for each Like I get. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.

©2017  All content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit and Link back to my work; plagiarism sucks!

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Friday Fictioneers: Make Us Great Again

I am writing this and posting, but know that I’ll have little chance to read and comment on other stories this week. Thursday is my final day with my gorgeous grandson, before I leave Tel Aviv (Friday) and head for Washington, DC for the March on Washington, on January 21st. Something tells me I’ll be a wee bit distracted. I totally understand if you others don’t read my story this week. Thanks to those who do. If you want to read about why I’m headed to DC, this is currently featured in Huffington Post.

I’m grateful each week to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for her boundless energy and commitment to Friday Fictioneers. If you’d like to learn more or join in, check out her blog Addicted to Purple. Thanks to Dale Rogerson for this week’s photo. As always I welcome honest, constructive feedback; please leave a comment.

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© Dale Rogerson

 

Make Us Great Again

From loss we came together. Through passion, we created and found cause and purpose.

Curled in the darkness you took root and grew. We felt hopeful again.

Waiting and counting, we loved you and grew strong again–– knowing that you would change everything and make us whole once more.

Then you came. Out from the darkness, unfurled and precious, you slipped.

And we were there to greet you, with hearts full and grateful.

Hope, passion, and truth, you are.

Defiance and strength, we shall call you.

So we came together, and Marched in your name, and we were whole again.

(Exactly 100 words)

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GIPYKAPOW!  I didn’t meet the 2016 goal for Likes on the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page; missed it by 14! So this year, I’m not setting a goal. I’m grateful for each Like I get. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.

©2017  All content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit and Link back to my work; plagiarism sucks!

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You Can’t Keep A Good Woman Down (We’re Coming for You, Trump!)

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As we speed toward January 20th, and the inevitable inauguration of Donald Trump, I find myself increasingly numb. Somehow, I imagined that the disgust and shock I felt on Election night would soften with time. While I felt certain that I would never feel good about the outcome of this election, I somehow believed that things would simmer down and perhaps Mr. Trump would make an effort to act… well, more presidential. In my mind, that would include not reacting to every thing he doesn’t like; or not tweeting ridiculous things day in and all night, and it would mean working on reaching out to all Americans, as he promised to do. None of that has happened. In fact, since the election, Donald Trump seems determined to shock, incite, and agitate, more than anything else. And the more he does this, the more I feel committed to stand up.

For a man who promised to “drain the swamp,” he seems determined to make the waters even murkier. Though I never agreed with his tactics, I understood why some Americans were disillusioned and feeling hopeless. If nothing else, this election brought so many issues to the forefront of our nation’s awareness, as demonstrated by the Bernie Sander’s movement, Hillary Clinton’s campaign, and Donald Trump’s rise and win. The drain the swamp slogan was brilliant, in that it galvanized so many people. It’s a term that people could run with, and they did. But how do Trump’s supporters feel now that he’s about to take office. How do they feel about about all of the super wealthy (billionaires!) cabinet members Trump has named? Is there any concern that he pursued Hillary Clinton relentlessly for ties he claimed she had to Goldman Sachs, and now Trump has nominated Steven Mnuchin, a former Goldman Sachs top partner, as head of the US Treasury?  Do Americans who voted for Trump really really believe that the close friends and financial supporters he’s chosen are better, or less self-serving than the people they wanted out? The hypocrisy is staggering!  Witnessing these things, I can’t sit quietly or just complain to friends.

The issue of the Russians, and their potential role in our national election, and ties to Trump, is beyond disturbing and should be to anyone who believes in American freedom. As a 53-year old woman, who grew up during the final years of the Cold War era, I am utterly gobsmacked that all Americans are not demanding answers. While Trump initially, and repeatedly, stated that he didn’t believe our country’s national Intelligence Agencies’ findings, last week he turned around and threw the Russians under a swamp boat, after accusations surfaced regarding very unsavory behavior by Mr. Trump in Russia. It’s dizzying and disgusting on every level, to keep track of the accusations against the president elect, and the excuses he throws out there. But where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire, and clearly no one ever taught him that the more you protest, the guiltier you look.

Each time disturbing accusations about Trump are revealed, he uses the same whiny responses: “It didn’t happen,” “not fair,” and “fake news.” He is entirely incapable of showing the most basic levels of integrity or self-control. There are no apologies; there is no humility. It’s like watching a toddler… who has not had their nap… and is hungry… and has dirty-pants… without the cuteness factor. It’s disgusting; it’s deeply disturbing, and it’s about as far from Presidential as anyone can defend. This, from the same man who has leveled countless attacks and accusations at others! The fact that so many Americans and the Republicans are willing to dismiss audio tapes of Trump, talking about “grabbing pussy” and having sex with a married woman is shocking enough, but that the Russians are talking about “golden showers,” and hookers, in terms of our incoming president, is just stunning. Again, his response is one of complete denial, but if a portion of our country was so up in arms about the “birther” accusations that Donald Trump lodged against President Obama, how can all of this filth be ignored? I can’t ignore it the ramifications; can you?

image7I’m stunned over and over again, that so many Americans are willing to pretend that Trump didn’t openly and unflinchingly taunt a reporter with physical disabilities, on tape and with no apologies. It troubles me; I can’t un-see that recording. It’s hard to condemn hate crimes or express concerns about teens committing suicide, from cyber bullying, when our next President and the Republican party who nominated him, let this kind of thing slide? It’s unbelievable that voters were willing to ignore that Trump taunted John McCain, a former Vietnam POW and political icon, and the Kahn family, who lost their son in service to this country. Now he’s attacked John Lewis, highly respected Representative and Civil Right’s icon– ironically, just in time for the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr holiday. Trump supporters chose to ignore the fact that the man they hoped would drain the swamp has talked about their daughters and wives in the most disgusting terms– and I firmly believe that when he talks about any woman the way he has, time and time again (calling them fat, or sex objects and conquests), every American woman is assaulted. How do those voters look at their own daughters and dismiss this behavior as a joke? How do they teach their sons that this is wrong on every level, when their future president laughs at and dismisses this garbage as “locker room talk?” Is the “great again” voters want? Each of these events make us all look ridiculous, given that we’ve chosen him to lead our country. I am not ridiculous, and I can’t sit quietly and pretend these things are harmless.

It doesn’t matter that Trump lost the popular vote to Hillary Clinton by 2.5 MILLION votes; he won the election in Electoral votes. He will be our 45th president– an office I have always respected, regardless of my political differences. However, Donald Trump stands for everything I find reprehensible. He does not represent my idea of America, and while he will legally be our nation’s president, I will not use his name or that title together, for the next four years. It’s a small and simple protest, but one I can do to acknowledge all of the things that outrage me, as an American. His indifference to the state of our planet and environment, and denial of global warming is horrifying. His intention to ignore promises made to the world, as a nation, at the Paris Climate agreement, makes all Americans look untrustworthy and small. His lack of concern for Americans who are struggling to access health care and make a living wage, and for anyone who isn’t as wealthy as him– short of empty promises, that will not be very hard to fill, is sobering. I believe that the spike in Tweets this week, from Trump voters who are just realizing that they will lose critical health coverage, is a sign of much darker things to come. These Americans struggling to meet health costs deserve better, and I believe Trump is completely cut off from any reality outside his gold-gilded home. His arrogant disregard for our Constitution, as demonstrated by his endless conflicts of interest in business, and his position as president, is something that will no doubt be as source of endless analysis over the weeks and months to come. I can’t help but think that while so much damage is already done, it will only escalate, and we as a country will face humiliating laser focus from around the world.

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When I heard that women were organizing a Million Woman March in Washington, DC, for January 21st, the day after Trump’s inauguration– to stand against all of these things, and protest the election of Trump, I was instantly intrigued. It was empowering, in those shocking hours just after the election, to know that others felt the same concerns, and were already organizing. I had already purchased airline tickets to visit my daughter, son-in-law and grandson overseas, and would not be returning until after that date, and I wasn’t willing to change my tickets until I was sure it would happen. As soon as the March was confirmed, that’s what I did. I won’t sit quietly; I will not accept what I find unacceptable; or simply boycott an inauguration. Instead, I’m flying home on January 20th to attend the March on Washington. I’ve traveled enough to know that my middle-aged self will be bone-tired and jet lagged, but I’ll be wearing my pussy hat and marching along side men and women from all over the country who feel these same things. I’m marching to show my opposition to all of the hateful things that Trump has said and done, and for all of the behaviors that I believe diminish us as Americans. I know that our country is better than the things Trump paints us as. I believe there’s a middle, where those who wanted change, and those who are disgusted by the messenger, can meet. I embrace every incredible word that the great Meryl Streep uttered, at the Golden Globes last week, and I will March to stand for those principles, on January 21st.

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I’ll be marching to stand in support and solidarity of women, Muslims, Blacks, Native Americans, and other minorities that have been impacted or targeted by Trump’s ignorance and hateful rhetoric. I’m marching for immigrants– who have always been an integral part of the American fabric and who are especially vulnerable right now, having been attacked and threatened by Trump, over and over. I’ll be marching in support of the Press, in the hopes that they will hold this man accountable, and stand firm and in witness of behavior that attacks or defiles American freedoms and rights. I am marching for my self and my commitment to be a person of integrity and conviction. I’m owning the title feminist and embracing my role as a woman- who is a daughter, sister, mother, and wife, and who has felt assaulted and traumatized by Trump’s abhorrent behavior and remarks to and about all women. I’m marching because this is something I can and must do.

I know that I’m fortunate to be able to make this trip; not everyone can. While there will be marches in many US cities, in support of these same things, I’m excited to do it in our nation’s capital. I want Donald Trump to hear us, and see us in that important center of American history, and know that we are watching him, and that we are not backing down. I’m excited, anxious, scared, energized and empowered by the decision. It will be electrifying to join arms with hundreds of thousands of other Americans, who stand for these same values. I’ve joked with friends and family that I planned my return ticket for three days after the march to: A) get out of jail; B) get out of the hospital, or C) to visit museums. I hope it’s the latter, but either way: Mr. Trump, we will not sit back and be silent. To borrow some advice from the divine Betty Davis: buckle up; you’re in for a bumpy ride.

Are you marching on January 21st? Where do you stand on these issues, and the new president? Share your thoughts in the comment section; I’m listening!

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GIPYKAPOW!  I didn’t meet the 2016 goal for Likes on the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page; missed it by 14! So this year, I’m not setting a goal. I’m grateful for each Like I get. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.

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