Pandemic Jean Jacket Done!

 I should have been out walking. I should have been working on my memoir. Instead I slid into the comfort of cross stitch, a talent my dear grandmother gave me back in the 1970s.

Mr. J gave me a jean jacket for my birthday. A nice one. And then, just a week afterward, we were in lockdown.

So I went to work.

EXHIBIT A: GRITTY IS THE CENTERPIECE

I actually got permission to use this design from its creator.

It says "No Grit No Glory." The green strip just above the bottom is my name, with a snowflake. More about the Phoenix in a moment.

After I finished Gritty, I thought, "It would be really cool to make this jacket monster-themed." And that's what I did.

EXHIBIT B: RAT FINK

I'll bet some of y'all remember this hot rod mascot from the 1960s. This is an iron-on patch, and I must say they adhere better than they did in the past. Technology isn't totally a waste. To the left of Rat Fink you'll see more snowflakes. They are buttons I sewed down the front.

EXHIBIT C: PHOENIX

Iron on patches are kind of cheating, but I could never have done this amazing Phoenix on my own, on a jean jacket. I have plans to add some words above it, but other projects come first.

EXHIBIT D: MOTHMAN

I really enjoyed working on Mothman. Above him is my WVresist button I got from the Women's March on Washington and my "My Heart, My Soul, and My Grave Are In Appalachia" pin. Under the arm is a pin that says "Tax the Rich."

EXHIBIT E: MURDER HORNET AND CTHULHU

My daughter The Heir drew the murder hornet. It is straight-up embroidery. Above it is a pin featuring Otter the River God (long story), and a Jersey Fresh pin. Cthulhu is a patch. And I've never been able to spell his name without looking it up.

EXHIBIT F:  FRONT OVERALL

So this jawn has pins and more pins on it. In no particular order, Union Yes, NJEA PAC, BLACK LIVES MATTER, SEPARATE CHURCH AND STATE, and the others previously mentioned.

When my daughter The Fair was snapping these photos, we totally forgot to take a picture of the Flying Spaghetti Monster patch I sewed on the back at the top.

There's one last monster, and it's the absolute worst of all.

EXHIBIT H: HORRIBLE MONSTER

This says, and I quote, "Any protesters, anarchists, agitators, losers or lowlifes who are going to OKLAHOMA please understand you will not be treated like you have been in NEW YORK, SEATTLE, or MINNEAPOLIS. It will be a MUCH DIFFERENT SCENE."

Followed by the monster's name, the date, and #notmypresident.

Counted cross stitch and embroidery had gone by the wayside, being considered an obsolete granny-driven art form based on platitudes and pretty flowers. But a new generation has taken it up and given it a whole new direction. I'm so glad, because it never would have occurred to me to bend such a floofy hobby to novel ends.

I haven't done this one myself yet, but it's on the radar. Don't you love it?

And fuck the Smithsonian Institution too. To me this post screams "pandemic diary."

Women's March on Philadelphia 2018

If you sit on the left side in the elevated train from New Jersey to Philadelphia, there's one place where you can look out the window and see the skyline of Philly all arrayed just two or three miles away. On a day when the sky is clear, it's a sight -- not Manhattan, but a vast, gleaming city nevertheless.

Growing up in the mountains, I never, ever expected to spend most of my life a stone's throw from Philadelphia. But as I looked out of the train on Saturday morning, I couldn't help but feel grateful for the opportunity to become a citizen of the Great Blue Northeast. I even teared up a little bit. Sheesh. I'm a sentimental slob.

When I was young I thought the government taxes were too high, and I thought that through hard work and bootstraps and all that, anyone could become rich and successful. Moving to the city (first Baltimore, then Detroit, then Philadelphia) changed my worldview. Perhaps if I had stayed in Appalachia I would be like so many people living there now: conservative to a point where they don't even vote in their own best interests.

Instead, I live in the suburbs of Philadelphia. So on Saturday, January 20 (a day that will live in infamy), I got on the el with my tambourine and my fairy sweater and my Pagan jewelry, and I rode into Center City, Philadelphia. There were lots of other suburban white women on the train, even though I went in two hours early. Lest anyone sneer at suburban white women, please remember that we are a demographic that gets courted by politicians of every stripe. It's up to us to do the right thing, which is never a given.

I disembarked the train at 13th and Locust and got myself a breakfast sandwich at a little cafe called Jean's on Walnut Street. Then I walked around City Hall, in the opposite direction that I had come on New Year's Day with the Mummers, and walked down to Logan Square, across from the Free Library of Philadelphia (where Gumby works! I'm proud of her.) I had learned that a group called Drum Like a Lady would be forming at the fountain, and I wanted to get there before it got too crowded to see if I could find the drummers.

It's easy to find drummers. Have you ever noticed? They give themselves away. And in this case, the leader of Drum Like a Lady is not only an accomplished drummer, she's almost a goddess in human form -- tall, beautiful, vigorous even in a leg brace, and ready to do some upbeat leadership.

I joined the circle just as it began to gear up, and what a phenomenal experience it turned out to be. These lady leaders knew what they were doing. They had designated one person as the heartbeat (more circles should try this ... it's the essential piece so often missing). Drawing on the heartbeat, all sorts of women with all kinds of percussion were able to play along. I think we had it all, except for those hella heavy djembes and dun duns. I'd thought about taking my doumbek, but the tambourine turned out better, because occasionally I danced -- and the tambourine can keep an easy beat and fill in some spaces.

When we lady drummers got our groove going, we were sending energy to the sky. It was a very multi-racial and multicultural group, all in happy harmony. The leader, LaTreice Branson, took turns addressing the crowd through a bullhorn and playing a small djembe.

The crowd got thicker and thicker, pushing our circle in on itself. Only once did I have to ask a tall, young white boy to take his camera elsewhere when he pushed in front of me to get photos. Mmm mmm, yeah, they are always around. But at least he did as I asked.

As I said, the drum circle's diversity was awesome. No one would have mistaken me for anything but a Pagan in my fairy sweater, with my acorn necklace dangling. There might have been one or two other Pagan women there, judging simply by attire and hair. Readers, we all sounded great. And we drummed for two and a half hours.

We led the march (sort of), but in the throng we kind of got spread out a bit. All of a sudden I felt a tug on my elbow, and there was Gumby, grinning from ear to ear! We hugged, and I hugged Gumby's boyfriend (I really like him), but I had to move on to keep up with my circle.

Once we got to the Art Museum, we drummed for another long stretch before the speeches started. Then the leaders left, and the minute they did, all the rhythm went with them. It was okay, though. There were plenty of speeches. Dozens and dozens. I stayed for them all.

When the whole thing was over, I walked alone back to the train.

Quite a few of my teaching colleagues had gone in a group. Both Olivia and Gumby attended. But on this day I elected to make my own way and find my rhythm sisters and make a noise for the Resistance. It turned out swell.

It sure looks like we'll be marching for years to come. I can take it. I'm a Mummer.

Resist.
Persist.
And rise!

Another March

My my, I do get my exercise! Another year, another march.

The good thing about being appointed president (rather than elected) is that no one knows what I look like. I'm therefore free to mingle with the citizenry. I will do so in Philadelphia at this year's Women's March.

Last year my daughter Gumby and I went to Washington, DC for the Women's March on Washington. Gumby put me through it, I tell you. She wasn't satisfied until we got all the way to the White House ... from RFK Stadium, a round trip of 8 or more miles.

EXHIBIT A: GUMBY AT THE WOMEN'S MARCH ON WASHINGTON, WHITE HOUSE

Learned my lesson, for sure! Can't keep up with Gumby! As I understand it, both of my daughters will be attending the march in Philly, but I'm not going with either one of them.

Instead, I will be joining a troupe called Drum Like a Lady . I am totally stoked. I can't decide whether or not to take my doumbek, but the tambourine is portable and can keep a heartbeat. Being part of the drum corps means I'll get a front seat at the speakers' podium.

I don't care about front seats, but drumming up some energy ... well, that's the ticket.

Judging by how many of my friends and acquaintances are attending this march (12 in rough count), it is going to be a vast throng of humanity.

And what is the purpose of large political rallies? Solidarity and sisterhood. Sending a message. Considering how thin-skinned some elected presidents are, it's got to be a thorn in the side.

I hope, wherever you are, you'll set aside a few minutes on Saturday to petition the Goddess Columbia for a safe end to the madness. Take a minute and bang a pot in front of your house. Or put up a sign.

EXHIBIT B: THE PRAYER WARRIORS HATE THIS GODDESS

EXHIBIT C: ANNE'S TO-DO LIST

1. Make a sign or bring a drum.
2. March
3. Campaign
4. Vote

We resist. We persist. We rise.

What a Day!

You've got to understand. I grew up in a different century. We knew how to protest, all right, but the whole taking pictures thing? Not so much.

I went to the Women's March on Washington. I was surrounded by a sea of people, and the pussy hats were a great touch. But my experience of the event was limited by the crowd, by being literally stuck in one spot for two and a half hours and then being lugged by the determined Heir all the way to the White House.

I walked eight miles and stood for 150 minutes. Holding my working wand in one hand and my Heir in the other. I didn't take many photos, and the ones I took didn't turn out.

Words must suffice. Sort of.

Heir and I boarded a rally bus in Martinsburg, West Virginia at 7:00 a.m. We were each given a WV Resist button that I will treasure forever.

EXHIBIT A: On the Bus

As we rolled down the highway toward the capital, the road became chock-a-block with rally buses, from all over the place. The closer we got to DC, the more buses we saw. And then, gosh, the lot at the stadium! Acres and acres of buses, all alike! More than 1200 of them. This would become an issue later.

My eldest daughter is The Heir. I have learned this about The Heir: She wants to dig in and get the most out of any extreme experience.

We walked from behind RFK Stadium to the Capitol building. And that's when it became surreal for me.

I live very near Philadelphia. It is an historic city. I am used to historic buildings either being modest little brick structures like Independence Hall, or Victorian extravaganzas like City Hall and 30th Street Station. I hadn't been to DC in a decade, and I had never walked all around it.

The buildings are huge. They are imposing. They are gigantic. And they're all epic. Half of them are built to look like Ancient Greece. They lie across the landscape like sleeping giants. When your historical compass is set on Independence Hall, the Capitol building seems like an entire planet.

EXHIBIT B: Independence Hall, Philadelphia

EXHIBIT C: U.S. Capitol Building, Washington, DC

Well, I guess you had to be there. It just felt monstrous, this great big building that I'd only seen in pictures before, or maybe once when I was in grade school I went to see my senator.

Heir is big on surreal stuff. She saw the stage, and a crowd that even Godzilla wouldn't attack, and she waded right in. I got out my working wand (I carry it everywhere) and held tight to the sleeve of her coat. And in we went, right to the thick of things.

I work with a co-teacher in one of my classes. She, like me, is politically active. She and her daughter took a bus from New Jersey. Before we went our separate ways at school on Thursday, she teased me about running into her, predicting that I would. In all that crowd. And damn. I can't believe it.

EXHIBIT C: What Are the Odds?

See the pussy hats in the background? They made the march. If you see a crowd of a half million people, and the crowd shot is mostly pink, that is beyond a doubt the Women's March on Washington.

Heir and I bused in with a good friend of mine from West Virginia, and then we ran into my colleague and her daughter, but Heir was not in the socializing spirit. She wanted to DO THIS THING. So we went our way and wound up gridlocked on the far side of the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian. There, people were climbing the trees to scope out the crowd. Heir found a high spot that wasn't in a tree, and we camped there for a long time. We couldn't move. The people around us couldn't move. We did what we could to ferry the people who were panicking to a less gridlocked area, but there wasn't much we could do.

There were no police in the crowd.

When you're stuck in a mob for hours, a lot of things run through your mind, especially if you're an anxious person. Like, what if someone sets off a bomb? Or, what if everyone has to run from something? Or, how can I get out of here and back to my bus?

But it didn't matter. We were all in this together. Everyone was polite, everyone was kind. Lots of people were very old! I couldn't believe all the senior citizens, the retirees. (One sign: "I did this in the '60's! I'm Back!" And of course: "Now You've Pissed Off Grandma."

Almost everyone had a sign. My favorites were "Never Underestimate the Power of a Faggot with a Tambourine" and "Resist, hon ... Baltimore." I also saw about a dozen people in various iterations of vagina costumes (head, whole body). Some folks will be creative!

You know what I may mostly remember about the Women's March on Washington? Talking about curriculum and standards with three retired teachers from Connecticut. We had lots of time to bond.

Finally, around 3:30, Heir reported that she saw movement. The pack started to break up a little bit. Some people went one way, some another. Someone told us that the march part of the day had been cancelled because there were too many people. Heir wasn't hearing it.

We surged off toward Pennsylvania Avenue, me clinging to Heir, and in 30 minutes we found ourselves marching and chanting right up the route the Orange Menace and his poor, sad spouse walked the day before. We knew this because the bleachers were still standing, and they were full of pink-hatted, screaming, chanting, sign-waving protesters.

Here is what we chanted:
*This is what democracy looks like.
*My body, my choice.
*Hey ho, hey ho, Donald Trump has got to go!
*Donald Trump, go away! How do you like your first day?
*Black lives matter.


 Heir and I walked the whole way to the White House, and we even saw it off in the distance through about six fences. We left our signs there.

EXHIBIT D: We Left Some Reading Material for the Orange Menace

That's my Heir. Isn't she beautiful?

By this time we had marched four miles. All that remained was to retrace our entire route in time to get back on the bus at 6:00.

Heir seemed to know where to go. We walked and walked. Then Heir said, "Oh, look!"

It was the Environmental Protection Agency.

I had been near tears many times during the day. But this is where I lost it. I took my working wand, and I held it to the building, and I spoke intentions into the bricks. Stay put. Stay put. May all those working inside stay put. (I hope you'll add the EPA to your spell work as well.)


EXHIBIT E: Anne Doing Spell Work at the EPA

You can tell that's me because of the gold sneakers. Those are the shoes I wear to the Mummers Parade. I was sure I could walk miles in them, because I've done it before.

It got dark while Heir and I walked back to RFK Stadium. By the time we got to Lot 7 to find our bus, we had done eight miles or more. We had a tough time finding our particular rally bus, but with the help of my WV friend we finally collapsed into a seat, clutching the peanut butter sandwiches and water bottles the bus captain was handing out. Heir and I were the last ones back to the bus.

We rode back to West Virginia. The traffic was bumper to bumper almost the whole way. Heir and I were totally exhausted. We did it, though. We rallied, and we marched. I even did a little magick.

Sunday, Heir and I took the scenic route home. We passed my great-grandmother's house, which has not hardly changed at all from the old pictures from 100 years ago. We stopped by Baltimore, hon, to see Heir's grandmother. Then it was a long drive home in super heavy traffic, and then it was over.

Heir and I prepared for the worst. We wrote Mr. J's phone number on our arms in sharpie marker. We wore bandannas to protect our faces from tear gas. We didn't know what might happen. When push came to shove, though, I never saw a more benign crowd. Everyone was kind and gentle. Everyone drew energy from everyone else. In a crowd that size, such good will is essential. Any nastiness would have produced unparalleled mayhem.

Where do we go from here? As for me and my house, we will use our talents to oppose the Orange Menace. I imagine I'm preaching to the choir here. Please climb aboard.

Why I'm Marching #4: Cosplay Time!

You know what I love but have never been able to do? Cosplay.

I can't sew. My hair is thick and unruly. And -- probably the biggest reason I've never done cosplay -- I don't interact with anime. At all.

Nevertheless, I do have a screen character that I have idolized for most of my adult life. I have loved the actress and the role so much that the opportunity to attempt a cosplay of this character is too good to pass up.

I've been reading everything on the Internet about the Women's March on Washington, and don't ask me why, but the organizers really want us to bring signs.

I gave the sign a lot of thought, since I'm a teacher and I know my way around those punch-out alphabet letters you get for bulletin boards. What in the world could I put on my sign that would simply and totally express my deepest wishes for this nation?

And then it came to me. I will cosplay.

I've got my piece of white cardboard. I've got a black marker. This, this is my sign.

Now, to really cosplay this properly, I would need the sleeveless t-shirt, white high-rise jeans, orange ear buds, and whatever that is around her waist. But I do think the sign says it all for this character.

And for me, too.

Why I'm Marching #1: Production for Use

I thought I would give my reasons for marching in order of importance. I've changed my mind on that. There are so, so many reasons to brave freezing temperatures and a long day on flat feet in Washington, DC for a march against the Republican juggernaut. No use to front load all the big ones.

Here's a reason that I would put on the lower end of the "Why I'm Marching" scale -- probably because I live in a state with tough gun laws.

I'm sure you've heard the saying, "Guns don't kill people. People kill people."

Well, folks, I don't believe that. Here is a meme I had to make myself, because apparently no one else has thought of it:

What is a gun? It's a tool. What does this tool do? It shoots bullets. It has been produced to shoot bullets that can kill things.

Gun owners can spend their whole lives shooting tin cans off fence posts, but bottom line, the whole reason for gun production is to be able to kill another human being. You shoot at the tin can so your aim is good when the time comes to use your tool for its primary raison d'etre.

I call that "production for use."

President Obama called constantly for comprehensive background checks as a precursor to gun ownership. Candidates Clinton and Sanders were both anti-gun. Candidate Trump enthusiastically endorsed gun ownership.

A government run by Republicans will be very tolerant of rampant gun purchases with little to no oversight of the individuals purchasing the tools.

What is overlooked in the heated discussion on the free purchase of firearms is how profitable they are for the factory owners who make them. Each weapon costs a lot of money. Someone is making bank. And there are those who profit from the sale of ammunition and the rental of target practice facilities. Somewhere out there, a person is living large on the profits of these tools, while other people are mourning the deaths of loved ones when the tools were put to use. Don't ask me how these people can sleep at night. They must have "Guns Don't Kill People. People Kill People" written on their mirrors with shaving cream.

I will be marching on January 21, 2016 in Washington, DC because I believe that no individual who is not on active duty in the military should be allowed to own a semi-automatic weapon. This is my reading of the Second Amendment of the United States Constitution. Guns should only be in the hands of "a well-regulated militia."

I've written a lot about this, mostly after senseless shootings of unsuspecting, innocent Americans. Today was one of those days.

My Next March Won't Have Satin Parasols

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson -- white, female, worker.

In 17 days I will be heading to Washington, DC to participate in the Women's March on Washington. The very day I heard there was to be such a thing, I signed up to go. Since then I have read everything on the Internet about the march, both positive and negative.

Day before yesterday, I read a negative. It is called "The Women's March on Washington Has Already Failed."

Long story short, the article suggests that the march lacks focus. What is the main aim of this protest? There are so many factions! For some people, it's about women's health. For others it's about health care in general. Some people are worried about the environment. Some people are opposed to tax cuts for the rich. There are LGBTQ folks and Black Lives Matter folks and gun control advocates and opponents of charter schools. So, who's in charge here?

Who's in charge? Who cares! Look at all these concerns! Which one is more important than the next? Do we need to prioritize them?  Okay, then. I offer my own humble prioritization:

1. climate change
2. social safety net
3. human rights

This is just my opinion. I mean, really. This is just me.

It would be really nice if the only purpose for the Women's March on Washington was the preservation of women's individual rights to choose what happens to their bodies. One issue! Great! Except that, all at once, all of these huge issues are crashing down simultaneously. To choose one, and focus just on that one, would marginalize the others. And that goes for any one of the concerns listed above.

Plenty of people will line up to tell you that protest marches have no lasting effect on public policy. The marchers gather, shout, disperse, and that's it. No one needs to pay attention to silly marches. They don't matter.

Bamp! Wrong.

Let's run the highlight film of the twentieth century, shall we?

Oh my goodness! This march on Washington had no lasting impact on public policy! Heck, the guy in the photo wound up getting shot! (*Anne being sarcastic*)

Marches can, and do, change things. The changes don't happen overnight, the moment the tired protesters go home and take off their shoes. But the changes do happen. Marches can become defining moments in history. Not all of them do, of course, but enough of them do.

I suppose when some cheeky reporter tells me that a women's march has already failed, I just have a hard time believing it. Yes! Maybe on January 22, 2017 the march will look like a failure. But maybe, over the long haul, gathering 200,000 (or more, I'm hoping more) citizens in the nation's capital, for a dizzying array of serious issues, will influence public policy in the decades to come.

Does this march need a unifying theme? A focus? I don't think so. In fact, the more voices we get, and the wider diversity they represent, the better. Not one issue, not one person, should be left along the margins.

Over the next two weeks, I'll be giving you all of my many reasons for marching. When I'm all through, maybe you can help me decide what to write on my sign.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends. Will I see you there?