Why march?

After a week at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, I joined the Families Belong Together march in Iowa City before driving home. On Saturday morning, the ‘heat dome’ was still firmly in place as the crowd gathered behind the Old Capitol, and I wished I had brought a towel with me; I was drenched with sweat before the march even began. I knew I had to march; I had to do something. Contacting my representatives was clearly not enough. 

I have been marching since the 1992 March for Women’s Lives in Washington, D.C., when hundreds of thousands of women gathered to speak up for reproductive freedom. Feeling solidarity with others and speaking out have always been energizing. 

Still, last Saturday morning, I wondered if marching would make any difference. Sure, the turnout was large, and the signs were clever, moving, angry, funny. We marched through town, past the Farmers’ Market, where a band played “This Land is Your Land” and “We Shall Overcome” and cheered on the marchers. 

But, in our current political climate, would this protest do any good beyond making us feel good about ourselves? On my drive home past rolling fields of corn and across the Mississippi River, I wondered.  

The march began behind the Old Capitol. 

Eventually, I turned on the radio. On This American Life, I heard an attorney describe the excruciating process of getting information for her client, a father separated from his twelve-year-old daughter. On All Things Considered, I heard reports from marches all around the country. 

And I imagined the alternative. What if we had all been silent instead? What if the streets had been empty and quiet, everyone sheltering in the hum of air conditioning? Continuing to tune out the injustices that have gone on so long? What if the press had no resistance to report? The idea was chilling. 

We still have the right to assemble, to speak out, to hold our government accountable. The press still has the right to report on these events—and the press continues to do this even in the face of violent attacks and threats. We have these rights—for now. To keep them, we must exercise them, reminding ourselves and our government that our silence is not an option. 

This sign was a reminder to the marchers.

The march ended in College Green Park.

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Your experiences, favorite chants and signs, and other comments are welcome below.

Falling in Love with a Place

Recently, going through some files on my computer, I came across this fragment of a blog entry that I had written last summer, when I first started toying with the idea of blogging.  I’m posting it for Valentine’s Day, a day dedicated to love.

 

August 5, 2011

Last night, when I said “Iowa City,” I found myself smiling in that involuntary way I used to when I was first in love and had an opportunity to say my partner’s name: Marilyn.  Just saying her name was a joy, a delightful reminder of the new thrill in my life.  I would feel shy and happy and self conscious all at once.  It was as though in saying her name, my love, our love became visible.  Simultaneously, I felt myself enjoying a secret thrill, a physical sensation that no one else knew was occurring.  I’m realizing that one can fall in love with a place in the same way: with the same thrill at the newness, the same slow discovery of loveable quirks, the same pleasure at talking with someone else about the new love.  That this new “love” of mine is Iowa City is unexpected and even a little amusing.  I live in Champaign, a Midwestern, Big-Ten university town, so Iowa City, home to the University of Iowa, should not have been novel.  And I arrived there at the beginning of the heat wave of 2011, so I did not explore it as much as I had thought I would.  But here it is: a shy smile when I name the city in casual conversation.

Part of what made this experience unusual was driving west by myself to a place I had never been before.  I am not used to driving long distances alone, so I was both excited and nervous.  However, after I drove around Peoria, which was prettier and more urban than I’d remembered, I grew excited.  Approaching the Mississippi and then crossing it felt momentous.  I saw a sign for the official Iowa Welcome Center just on the other side of the river, so I got off Route 80 to take a break—and to make sure that I was headed the right way.  As I walked around the Welcome Center—a large, unremarkable, pale yellow building that could have been a medical practice in another life—I delighted in the art gallery and the free coffee and even updated my Facebook status to describe these amenities.  The art gallery was simply a section of the Center set aside for a current exhibit, and the oil paintings of the Midwestern landscape were filled with bold colors and large brushstrokes.  The rest of the Center was a store that had some merchandise specific to Iowa, while the rest was a blend of museum-store-type treats and Cracker-Barrel-like knickknacks. 

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That’s as far as the fragment went in my first attempt at blogging.  I no longer feel a thrill when I say “Iowa City,” but I have fond memories of the Iowa Summer Writing Festival (http://www.continuetolearn.uiowa.edu/iswfest/), where I enjoyed a week immersed in words and surrounded by writers.  I hope to return some day.  I’ll end this post with a few photos from Iowa City at the height of the heat wave of 2011, when it was often 101 degrees Fahrenheit at seven in the evening.

At the Iowa City Public Library

This little girl knew how to handle the heat during an evening concert.  Me, I savored an ice cream cone from Whitey's and listened to the music.

I enjoyed an Italian lunch while reviewing the work of a fellow workshop participant.

On Thursday evening, the clouds foreshadowed a break in the heat, which came on Saturday, my last day in Iowa City.

A souvenir of the week.

It was too hot for dinner, so I ate dessert instead.

I loved coming across quotes from literature on sidewalks all over the city.  This was one of my favorites.

The art museum, located on the river, was closed after the floods of 2008.

Words in the most unexpected places.

I had to get a couple of these for my eight-year-old nephews, who are big Harry Potter fans.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.