Lucy Reflects

When I was in college, I found myself in a bit of a precarious situation. I found a bump “down there.” My mind immediately wondered and was convinced I had acquired myself an STD. I was scared shitless to ask my parents to send me a copy of my insurance card. “Hey dad, can you send my insurance card? I think I have genital warts.” A friend informed me I could go to Planned Parenthood. Turns out I had an ingrown hair.

What does this have to do with anything except that was a disgusting story and I can’t believe I just told it? I’ll tell you why.

On January 21, I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to start my trip to Washington D.C. for the Women’s March on Washington. To be honest, my exact reason for going wasn’t even quite clear to me. I wanted to protect my children’s education. I wanted therapy from the prior day’s inauguration and I wanted to be a part of history. And then I thought about my weird vagina bump story. What if that service wasn’t available to women if they found a bump or something worse?

What I never imagined is that I would be so moved by the events that day. It restored my faith in humanity. It made me fall in love with strangers. It made me want to be a part of something even bigger.

Over 500,000 men, women and even children joined in unity that day. All for their own reasons. We talked to one another, we joined hands with strangers, we yelled “LOVE TRUMPS HATE” as opposing protestors moved in on the streets. We chanted “You can’t build a wall, ‘cause your hands are too small (my personal favorite).” And we hugged and hugged and hugged. It was a sea of pink-headed people who all had something in common stand up for what you believe in.

I came home amped up on a natural high. My skin tingled as I told my husband about the day’s events. My eyes teared when I told him how our friend’s daughter ran up to wave to John Kerry. It’s that feeling you get when your heart is so full the only way to release it is to burst into tears.

And here’s when things got difficult. Que the antagonists of my story. Turns out I’m a feminazi, libtard, sore-loser. Someone who needs a pacifier. A snowflake (still don’t get that one because who doesn’t love snowflakes?) Someone who always got a trophy and now I can’t function if I come in second place. Who’s an embarrassment to other women. And just a downright fucking idiot. And by the way, I sucked at basketball my freshman year and never won AND I’m the middle child of a family of six kids, so guess who learned to suck-it- up-buttercup early in life?

There’s extremes to each side of the coin right now. It’s never OK to make fun of children. It’s probably not a good idea to say you thought about blowing up the white house. It’s not cool to say you want to grab women by the pussy. Actually, pretty sure that one’s illegal. It’s NEVER OK to use the “N” word or yell “white power” because your guy won the presidency. None of this is acceptable. Except for Alec Baldwin. You keep doing you, OK?

I’ve needed things like Planned Parenthood and the Affordable Care Act and Public School. I want that available for my kids if they find they need to use those services. What if my daughter, when she’s allowed to date at age 40, finds she needs to visit Planned Parenthood?

That’s why I marched. Because what kind of role model am I to my children if I can’t show them how to gracefully and with pride, stand up for their beliefs?