I taught my young niece to say "yucky" when I showed her a picture of our President.
An instigator since my youth, maybe the rabble rouser gene has lain dormant all this time.
Oh yes, I voted, every election. I read about the candidates and voted for the ones who I thought would do the most good for the most people.
Oh, my bleeding heart.
I disagreed with some administrations more than others. There hasn't been one sitting President in all this time that I agreed with 100%.
I volunteered for my first political campaign in 2012, because of one particular quote from a candidate for US Senate:
“If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down.”
There's no way I could let this misguided man represent me in the Senate. I called the local county political party office and volunteered. Once a week, I made phone calls - urging voters to elect our incumbent Senator, instead of electing this man whose ideas were far to the right of moderate.
Not that I take any credit (okay, maybe I do, a little), the incumbent was re-elected and the political machinations of the Federal government continued.
Now to the election of our 45th President. I will not say his name, as I find myself throwing up a bit in my mouth as soon as I finish articulating the letter 'p'.
It's only been NINETEEN days, people - have you ever seen such a mess?
When the smoking pen from all the executive orders cooled down, there was a ban on visa and/or green card holders from seven nations that left me disappointed, angry, and showing me an America I did not recognize - and could not accept.
Through the elections I've voted in (my first in 1976), I have never felt the necessity to hit the streets and exercise my First Amendment rights. But now I do.
Clad with homemade signs, we were ready to go.
The Boy and I headed to our Republican Senator's local office, and we participated along with about 1,000 of our fellow residents. We chanted, we talked with fellow protesters (a nice group of folks). The Boy had his Muppet Edna with him (she had all the best chants).
Edna had quite a following. Several people wanted her picture, and a reporter from St. Louis Public Radio interviewed the guy with his hand up Edna's butt for his reasons for attending the protest.
During our time on the sidewalk, I kept one eyeball on the riot vest-attired police officers nearby, their black nylon zip tie handcuffs blowing in the breeze.
Though there were a few protesters who sported Anonymous masks and odd American flags, there was no trouble. A group of immigrant activists were invited into the building to talk to the Senator about the immigration ban.
Our protest, though hopeful and encouraging to me, did not have the desired effect: the Senator supported the travel ban (and he also supported Bet$y DeVo$, billionaire campaign contributor, for Secretary of Education.
I thought I would lose my shit when that vote came down.
I've become a Twitter user (oh, I've had an account for years, but it, like my blog, has been largely neglected).
I've become someone I hate - a Twitter bully, channeling my inner President #45. He's usually my victim, so I take some solace in that - and I totally understand the jolt of positive feelings that occurs when a Tweet is liked or retweeted (perhaps I have some narcissistic tendencies myself).
The Boy is asking when we are going to protest again - I think I've re-ignited a fire in him (it's not HIS first protest), as well as sparked some radical notions in myself. I think he and I will remain active during this time of change. Edna was not available for comment, so I don't know what her intentions are.
When I confessed my Twitter sins on Facebook, Tammy sent me a picture to remind me of possible consequences.
I figure I can coerce the grandkids to slide my phone under the cell Tammy has devised and Tweet myself silly.
I may be late to the party, but I intend to keep dancing.