Life's Not Fair

I'm supposed to be working right now but I'm finding it hard to concentrate. This morning I woke up to find out that twenty two people had been killed at a music concert in Manchester by a suicide bomber. Amongst those killed were children and teenagers. If I stopped writing this to concentrate on my Excel spreadsheet, maybe it will stop the urge to cry. But from experience, too much time on Excel can kill other signs of life.

I've tried to avoid most of the news today. In spite of this, I've heard the words 'terror' more times than I care to. I am not scared though. It's something else that is bothering me.

I should be used to waking up to catastrophic news by now. When I woke up to Brexit, I was shocked. Such shock that there was no room for tears but instead, profound grief. For I sincerely believe that it's a decision that will change the course of world history for the worse.

After that Trump was a breeze. I cried but more from anguish than pain.

Months later when the guy bulldozed pedestrians off Westminster Bridge right outside my work place, I made a point of walking across the bridge many times to and from work thereafter.

Brussels, France. France again. Germany. Idiots sacrifice others for misguided reasons. This has always happened of course. Right now, political instability, rising nationalism, a 24-hour news cycle and social media are the forces working to create a playing field fueled by suspicion, worry and protectionism. If continued, the Hunger Games may become non -fiction in years to come.

Maybe it's disingenuous of me to lament this latest tragedy because it is closer to home. Manchester is my patch. More so than places like Syria, Sierra Leone or Papua New Guinea where many young people endure unthinkable suffering and die every day.

Last night I checked on my six year old before I went to sleep. She looked so peaceful in repose. Such a contrast to her high energy antics during the day. I stared at her sleeping face and was struck by her vulnerability and also my own. It occurred to me that someday in the future we would be parted. I felt a physical pain in my chest and snuck out of her room.

It was an Ariana Grande concert those kids were at. I can imagine their excitement, going to a concert with their parents or unsupervised with their friends. I remember going on my own to my first concert. It's a rite of passage, something I hope my daughter experiences one day. You don't go to a concert expecting to die. Until recently this wouldn't even have been in the lexicon of 'concert going.' But with Bataclan and now Manchester, it is becoming so.

Walking home from school yesterday, my six year old told me about her day. They had been learning about an African animal that was becoming extinct.

People kill it because they think it brings bad luck.

What does it do that is so bad? I asked

Nothing. They just think it is bad luck.

So the animal does nothing but they kill it anyway? 

Yes.

That's not very fair.

Life's not fair Mum. Don't you know that? Life's not fair.


It certainly isn't.

Women's March London 2017

About a week before Trump’s inauguration I started acting like a cat does before a storm arrives. Hair on end. Pacing around the room. Eyes darting nervously, looking at something invisible that no-one else can see.

Cat before a storm. This was me.

'What is wrong with you?' asked the Husband as I stalked from room to room.

'I don’t know,' I screeched. 'I feel possessed!'

The Husband after watching me pace concluded:

'I think you’re tapped into the zeitgeist,' he muttered. 'Business as usual.'

He was right. I had managed to block out the reality of Trump’s presidency all throughout Christmas and New Year. Our family’s return to work and school had kept me preoccupied for the first few weeks of January.

But around mid- month, media attention surrounding the inauguration meant I could keep my head in the sand no longer. It was about to happen and I was pissed off and on edge. A storm was brewing. In the form of a radioactive orange Oompa Loompa with a mean little mouth and unnecessary hand gestures.

Change the wig to yellow and there he is

In November, I’d registered to attend the Women’s March in London. This march originated as an invite from a Hawaiian grandmother to forty of her Facebook friends to march on Washington, as a reaction to Trump’s election victory.  When she woke up the next day, the event had gone viral. Soon thereafter, sister marches were being arranged in cities all around the world as an act of support and solidarity to the Washington march. I wanted to attend the London march for it was a means to act in accordance with my beliefs rather than do nothing and despair at the erosion of civil liberties.

The last time I felt compelled to march was post Brexit last July. The time before that was twenty years ago when I was an environmental campaigner. Those years as a campaigner showed me the power of well organised and persistent grassroots action. It showed me that a small group of determined people working together can change things.

Women's March Global Logo

Logo from Women's March London

My intent was to attend the march alone. But to my delight, several other women I knew from Dragon’s school were also attending. Soon a small gang of us arranged to attend the event together.

The day of the march dawned bright and beautiful. The clear blue skies served as a welcome omen that our march was a force towards positive action. A tangible sense of excitement and electricity fizzed in the air as we assembled in Grosvenor Square opposite the US Embassy.  We knew that there were 600+ sister marches scheduled to happen all around the world and that we were there to represent the UK. The night before, I’d watched Trump’s inauguration which only heightened my determination to march for human rights, amongst other infringements which Trump represents. By this time, I considered it a civic duty.

A beautiful day for a march

There is a lot I can say about the march but in summary, the gang I marched with found it an overwhelmingly positive experience. The mood of the event was friendly, inclusive, peaceful and determined. We marched alongside a diverse demographic; old, young, men, women. I got the sense that like me, people felt moved to act because it was vital to take a stand against what was happening in the world. Brexit shook our foundations and Trump tipped us over the edge. The march was a vessel through which to funnel our charged emotions and say, No way. It's not OK to the powers that be.  The other big bonus of the event was the emergence of witty, creative protest placards such as these below:

Afterwards we found out we had helped make history. The final numbers have yet to be confirmed but the approximation is that over five million people participated in the global marches. From Antarctica to Sydney to Chennai to Antigua, people stood up to protect core values of respect, equality and individual freedoms. It purportedly was the largest turnout for a global march led by women in history. Ever.   

We Made History!

 And it’s only the beginning.

It’s a week after the march, and myself and the group I attended with are still on a high. We’ve bonded over this shared experience. People who said to us, 'What can a march change?''* underestimate the power of taking action. We feel energised. We feel hopeful. We feel a part of the movement working towards tipping the balance back to a just and open society.  For several of us, there is a dawning realisation that the march was just the beginning of our involvement in what is being referred to as the Resistance. Like Dorothy on her journey along the Yellow Brick Road, we’re not quite sure where this path will take us. Somewhere for the common good is my hope.

A quote by Gloria Steinem sums it up:

Sometimes we need to put our bodies where our beliefs are. 

Sometimes it is not enough to press send.

*Ever heard of Gandhi?  And if you are a woman, how do you think you got the vote?

Donald Trump: President of the United States of America

What, the fuck?

Only time will reveal the consequences of this choice, not only for America but the world at large.

Some people I have spoken to are hopeful that it won't be that bad. 

Others are more despairing. The first American I encountered post result was masquerading as Canadian. Given the fact that the Canadian immigration website has crashed, it seems that it is the Mounties that need a big wall built to keep out the flood of US emigrants.

Hope is a good thing. Denial is not. There's a fine line between the two.

I sat with Dragon and we watched Trump's acceptance speech together.  I cried and she asked me why. I explained that I did not like him. I listed the reasons. Maybe I should not have explained sexism and racism to a young child who has had little exposure to these realities. Let her stay in her bubble for a little while longer.

It was not a normal morning though. And I have always tried to answer Dragon honestly, if appropriately, when she asks any question.

Later on that evening, we watched Hilary Clinton's concession speech together. I cried again. And then Dragon turned to me and said:

I wish I was white. That I had white skin.

There are moments in life when time stands still. This was one of them. The emotion I felt was cataclysmic.

Why?

Because Donald Trump is unkind to people who are not white.

Despair, regret, pain, fear, compassion, fortitude, anger, sadness. I cannot articulate how that moment felt.

The Western first world has changed and it will be Dragon's generation that bears the legacy of the decisions being made. I do not want her to grow up burdened. I do not want her to grow up unprepared.

I do not have the answers but I have no choice but to unravel my way through this maze we now face.

Courage. We will need it.