[Description of coloured photo below: Thousands of people are flocked onto a tree-lined and flag-lined Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C. The Capitol Building appears prominently in the background. Many of the people are holding signs about issues such as immigration, reproductive justice, and LGBTQ equality.]
Philosophers Reflect on the Women’s March
By Shelley Tremain
On Saturday, January 21, 2017, the day after the inauguration of Donald Trump to the presidency of the United States, millions of people in cities and towns worldwide took part in the Women’s March, an unprecedented public event organized in opposition and resistance to Trump himself and the implementation of his ideas, which also drew critical attention to the persistence of white supremacy, discrimination against disabled people, reproductive justice, violence against women, and LGBTQ rights, among other urgent social and political issues.
This involvement on the ground was augmented by activity in the popular press, on television, and across social media. For throughout the day, the latter especially was abuzz with: live streaming of speeches from Washington, D.C., the epicenter of the event, by (among others) Angela Davis, Janet Mock, and Scarlett Johansson; news reports from around the world, including crowd estimates from far-flung locations; selfies of marchers; and the articulation in these venues and other fora of divergent perspectives about the very occurrence of the event, its significance, its potential consequences, and its shortcomings.
Numerous philosophers travelled to Washington to participate in the flagship Women’s March. Other philosophers took part in satellite marches in cities and towns across the U.S. and in other countries. Many more philosophers watched the screens of their various devices as the actions of the day unfolded.
In the days following the Women’s March, philosophers engaged with their colleagues, friends, and the wider public about the merits and demerits of the event. To continue this discussion about the Women’s March, extend the energy of the day, and encourage further reflection on this momentous occasion, I invited several philosophers to contribute their views to a forum on the topic. Here are their impressions and insights.
Some Thoughts on Affect, Action, and
White Women Who Marched
By Megan Dean
I’m a white, cis-gender, (often) able-bodied woman from Canada who has been living and studying in the D.C. area for about four years. I went to the march with my partner. We arrived as the rally was about to start, but couldn’t get onto the National Mall because of all the people. We found a spot nearby where there were large speakers broadcasting the event. We stood there for about two hours listening to the speeches and songs. There was intermittent cheering and chanting, and people tended to smile at each other as they passed by, though for the most part I felt the mood was more grim solidarity than celebratory. (The mood may have been coloured by the fact there were counter-protestors (Westboro church types) near us, with signs disparaging Black Lives Matter, queer people, and telling “Rebellious Jezebels” to get “back to the kitchen”).
After two hours of listening, we spent about 45 minutes searching for a bathroom in vain (the lines were hours long everywhere we looked). In addition to having to pee, I have chronic back pain and needed to lie down, so we decided to go home and watch the rest of the rally online.
[Description of coloured photo below: Marchers on Independence Avenue at Ninth Street, Washington, D.C. In the foreground, several white women with pink hats. Some marchers are holding homemade signs. Counter-protester signs appear in the background to the right.]
I find it difficult to gather my thoughts about the March. Though it was only a little over a week ago, so much has happened since that day. I feel overwhelmed and incapable of making sense of even a small sliver of it, a profound epistemic disorientation that has been with me since the election. I keep reading and reading as if I could find someone to explain it all to me (or that if they could explain it, somehow that would make it better). I am also in a state of constant low-level panic that keeps me skipping from story to story and one form of media to another, unable to pause, feel, or reflect on any one thing for too long.
I’ve been trying to remind myself that affects are often produced by structures of power and serve to reinforce those structures. I think this is relevant not only to my disorientation and panic but to the feelings of many white women marchers who were hurt, angry, or ashamed in the face of criticisms from women of colour, disabled people, trans women, and others. I understand these feelings because I, too, have felt this way when others have pointed out my inadvertent racism, homophobia, transphobia, and ableism.
But who benefits from these emotions and the actions that they often lead us to take? When pain, anger, and shame lead white women to lash out at those whom they should use their privilege to support, or decide to withdraw or ignore or abandon the struggle, it’s white supremacy and heteropatriarchy that win. It’s women of colour, trans women, queer women, and disabled women who get hurt—and not just their feelings. Similarly, as others have argued, it’s the current U.S. administration who benefits from the disorientation and panic that it’s (likely intentionally) sowing. And we all (with the exception of a few rich white men) get hurt.
Importantly, knowing this about these affects doesn’t make them go away. But it can allow us a little critical space to reflect and alter the way that we react. Since the next four years promise to be full of many bad feelings, created both by the government and by legitimate criticism of strategies and tactics of resistance, I think it’s extremely important for white cis-gendered women, especially, to learn to use this critical “elbow room.” We can’t let the ways that oppression has shaped our affects or made us vulnerable to emotional manipulation prevent us from being in meaningful solidarity with others.
Unity and Exclusion in Daytona
By Melinda Hall
I joined a “Sister March” in Daytona Beach, FL, because I wanted to express my disgust with regard to ongoing crises and failures of justice, including but not limited to: police brutality, the denial of disability rights, voter disenfranchisement, restrictions of and interruptions in reproductive justice, and immigration restrictions. I did not feel the primary meaning of marching was protesting the inauguration of Trump, although that event was never far from my mind and was the immediate reason for my presence. Rather, I meant to express solidarity with members of my local communities and the ongoing work of movements like Black Lives Matter. I chose Daytona rather than Orlando, a nearby, larger city, because I thought my presence would make a bigger difference in a smaller crowd.
When I arrived at the meeting point—just a few miles closer to the beach than the Daytona International Speedway—I was glad that the group appeared diverse, reflecting in some ways the community in Central Florida. I noted racial diversity, young families, visibly disabled people, older community members, and people arriving by foot and bike as well as in new cars. There were about 500 protesters.
The first protestor that I spoke to, a white woman in her fifties, struck up conversation with me and said she hoped that we would “go high” like “she” (referring to Michelle Obama) said we should. I asked her what she meant, although I felt I knew that she was referring to BLM; but she said that she just hoped we would be peaceful. I said that it was important to make ourselves visible. What I didn’t say is that it is frighteningly easy to deploy the former First Lady’s comments against Black people. Later, as we marched our way to the coastline, many participants worriedly enforced the group’s need to stay on the sidewalk and “follow the law.”
Some protesters held signs asserting that we should “be kind” and “stay classy,” while others noted that Bernie had never “grabbed a pussy.” Mine, which said “No Justice, No Peace,” received a couple of long looks from fellow participants, but also a few enthusiastic responses. It was only after we began to march that I received some angry shouts from onlookers who may have been offended that I was not, exactly, marching for peace. Those who marched alongside me, however, sported similar messages. My partner’s sign said, simply, “Anti-Fascism.” A colleague in my department carried a sign reading: “Peace Through Strength” - DT = Totalitarianism.
Multiple exclusions in the agendas and organizations of Marches across the country, especially with regard to disability and race, are glaring. I’m also concerned about unity of message—what are the next steps for a group with so many different, and even discordant, motivations for marching? Critiques of the March along these lines are accurate, vital, and need to impact the next political action, and the next, that resistance movements take up.
Since I am teaching Feminist Philosophy this semester, I saw a parallel between the debate over the political impacts of anti-essentialism regarding gender among thinkers like Butler, Bordo, and Martin and the question of unity of message at the March (see Nicholson’s discussion in Jaggar and Young 2000). While Bordo and Martin expressed concern that anti-essentialism is subtly conservative, in that it removes a rallying point for political action, Butler embraced the confusion as a political issue, rather than a logical one that opens the possibility for constant resignification. The inauguration provided a rallying point for the March, but the March typifies an imperfect and incipient progressive movement that needs to be continually renegotiated in order to engage in productive political resistance.
[Description of black-and-white photo below: Melinda, a white woman, stands in a grassy parkway, on a sunny day, holding a sign that reads: “NO JUSTICE NO PEACE”. She is wearing large sunglasses and a scarf is wound around her neck. Other protesters and palm trees can be seen behind her. One protester is holding a sign that reads: “MY BODY MY CHOICE”.]
Not This March
By Tempest Henning
November 8, 2016 will forever be etched into my mind as a day of betrayal. A day that confirmed my deep-seated suspicions (despite hoping otherwise) that when push came to shove, white women would champion their whiteness over our potential sisterhood. They would cling to their white privilege at the expense of me and other women of color. The majority of them would vote for a man who ran on a platform of explicit bigotry.
Hillary Rodham Clinton was your nasty woman. Your leader in the pantsuit-nation vision. Your feminist triumph. Whatever glass ceilings that were shattered throughout this past election cycle, were not the same glass ceilings that oppress me.
But despite HRC’s remarks regarding black youth, her "missed opportunity" to address these remarks, her "all lives matter" statement within a black church, or her years of support for anti-crime legislation and welfare reform that negatively impacted the black community, I voted for her along with an overwhelming majority of black women. I voted for her while standing in line with white women wearing white, but cringing inside. I voted for her knowing that these women saw this as a triumph for women’s suffrage, yet that movement was never intended for me. I voted for her knowing that police brutality against black women would still continue and go unnoticed (#sayhername), black women’s reproductive justice would still largely go unaddressed, trans black women would still be murdered at alarming rates, and our girls would still be ignored within the school-to-prison pipeline debates. But I voted anyway, in the name of solidarity.
So when I heard about the Women’s March on Washington, I actively decided that I would not participate. The thought of walking in feigned sisterhood was frankly too much of a strain on my mental health. I am tired. I am tired of black women and other women of color picking up the banner for white women’s foibles. White women is how we got here.
[Description of coloured photo below: Protesters mill about in an open area. Three white women wearing pink pussyhats are standing on a ledge, taking selfies. In the foreground, Angela Peoples, a black woman, sucks on a lollipop and holds a white sign that reads: "Don't forget: White Women Voted for TRUMP." All the words are in black marker, except the word Trump which is written in red marker. Photo credit: Kevin]
I am tired of being called divisive, angry, uncooperative, unphilosophical, or combatively argumentative when I call for white women’s accountability. I am tired of hearing time and time again that "we need to wait our turn" or "next time." And I am tired of being tired.
And yes, I know that no movement is perfect, nor will any movement ever be perfect. But calling out the imperfections of a movement, criticizing it, being cynical, does not mean that I am unwilling to collaborate. Black women and women of color do more than our fair share of compromising and collaborating. I compromised and collaborated when I cast my vote. I acted in solidarity. But if your solidarity is reliant on never confronting uncomfortable truths, then it’s bullshit. If your solidarity avoids having difficult conversations with your fellow white sisters, then I’m not here for it. And I will not give cookies out to each pink pussyhat-wearer, because "they showed up."
I will still reach across the aisle to meet you in collaboration, but I will not put my needs aside. Nor will I remain silent. I will still continue to do the work that I do, but my goal is not to merely get a slice of the pie. Let’s expand it and add cake, cookies, chocolate, and other things. I will still carry with me a sliver of hope that we can collaborate with a substantive foundation and understanding of one another, because while one of us is in chains, none of us are free.
However, know that I do it cautiously and with a weary and heavy heart. A pessimistic hope, if you will. I will work with you in solidarity, but, in sisterhood? Not right now.
Call me next time.
By Catherine Hundleby
The point of protest is to resist or create change. Sometimes the public presence impresses upon the government or administration the urgency and seriousness of our concerns; but often it doesn’t. It’s not likely that the Women’s March on Washington (WMW) and the affiliated marches directly impacted the Trump administration. But these Marches exhibit a different sort of power, at the grassroots, that crystalized in the Pussyhat Project.
Public protest brings together people with shared concerns, helping them feel less isolated. Marches and rallies are uplifting. We share jokes, music, chants, and personal space. Sometimes it gets very up-close and personal, as it certainly did in Washington where it was mostly impossible to move. People shared food and information. U.S. citizens teared up at the outpouring of international support, and at the mothers’ participation in Janelle Monae’s #blacklivesmatter song Hell You Talmbout. Interpersonal connection continues now as our photos flood Facebook and we plan future, more pointed actions.
Demonstrations also show power; they flex social muscles. More important than the WMW exact numbers (a million in D.C. and maybe 5 million worldwide) may be the immense spread: 673 separate marches around the world springing up with only two month’s notice, and generally organized by novices.
The larger that the March became, the more urgent became the question “what next?” The March’s fluid organization seems to have helped attract participants with a range of different concerns aligned with women’s rights. The potential for change rests in the hands of people who had been involved in no previous political demonstrations, and whose concerns arise from their own experience rather than an institutional affiliation–though it draws support for the ACLU and Planned Parenthood. Michael Moore urged us to write officials and run for office, and the official WMW page directs us to take “10 actions for the first 100 days.”
The power of grassroots writ large can be viewed in the success of the Pussyhat Project, fighting Trump’s political infotainment with street theatre. I was immediately drawn to the Project’s comedy: the wordplay between cats and vaginas that mocks Trump’s crassness by wearing it on our heads! After this, nobody can say feminists have no sense of humour.
[Description of coloured photo below: Crowd of protesters, some holding signs. One sign in the photo reads: “RESIST HATRED”. The Capitol Building can be seen in the background. In the foreground, Cate and two other white women, wearing pink hats and glasses, smile for a selfie. ]
I also appreciated the simple genius of the pattern, and the moving mission statement: (1) to make a visual statement at the March(es); and (2) to allow those who cannot march to represent their connection with the Marches. I was tickled at the very idea of a hat pattern with a mission statement. I made so many I had to ice the injury to my wrists–I am a martyr for the cause!
Designers Krista Suh and Jayna Zweiman explain the symbolism of the hats. Beyond the various plays on femininity, the hats manifest individuality within community. As the hats are handmade, each has its quirks. My crochet buddy Lori slyly reassured me over some errors in one hat I’d made, “that’s not a mistake, it’s a feature.”
Before the March, hats were centrally gathered at mailing addresses and yarn shops, but I began to see Pussyhats everywhere: over a week before all around Michigan State where I gave a talk (and where the museum will host a Pussyhat archive), and days before on my flight into Baltimore. I distributed hats by mail to friends and family, to my group of twelve D.C. marchers from Canada and Switzerland, to people on the streets of Baltimore, and on the morning of January 21 at Baltimore Penn Station. It took a lot of planning to have people working weeks in advance on these hats, stitch by stitch. But more than that, it demanded time and faith, trust from the knitters, crocheters, and sewers in the people who would march–mostly whom they’d never met, in a protest with a mandate that was broad and initially unclear, if ultimately well-articulated. Each hat that I gave was received with corresponding delight (though they certainly they aren’t to everyone’s taste).
The success of the Pussyhat Project lies in sharing and adopting a multiply ambiguous symbol of grassroots resistance and solidarity. Zweiman estimated that over 60,000 hats were made by hand by the end of December, and since at that time word was just spreading easily twice that were made and shared by January 21. The sea of pink hats that we dreamed of and achieved showed how one stitch at a time a powerful message can be sent and a politics created. Each hat and each stitch symbolizes the power that individual actions have to larger social impact. The hope remains that the March and the Pussyhats may inspire further grassroots work on social justice issues. It may affect fashion too, and I’m curious to see how that plays out, but that of course will be mostly beside the point.
By Tracy Isaacs
On Saturday, January 21, 2017, the day after the surreal inauguration of a reality-TV-star as the most divisive, politically-inexperienced U.S. President and espouser of hate, I and about 1400 others in London, Ontario joined a few million people worldwide in a show of solidarity with the Women’s March on Washington. I’d been away for a few weeks and was not aware of the local event until a couple of days before. For a few weeks, I’d been following the developments around the Women’s March on Washington. As it gained momentum. As it attempted to address the challenges around inclusiveness that skeptical women of colour in my circle and others voiced by adding as co-chairs Tamika D. Mallory, Carmen Perez, and Linda Sarsour. And as the “pussyhat project” took hold.
Last week, a non-academic white man seeking “expert” input from a feminist academic asked me: “What do you make of the fact that 53% of the white women who voted in the U.S. election voted for that man?”
A lot of the news and social media around the march was about the signs that people carried. The signs that hit me hardest said: “White women elected Trump” and “53% of white women voted for Trump. Call them out” and “Black Lives Matter.” Many U.S. women of colour whom I know were skeptical about the march because attempts at “intersectional feminism” have not been all that successful in the past. The echo of the suffragettes advocating not for all women’s right to vote, but rather only for white women’s right to vote lingers. White feminist insistence that when they say “women,” they really do mean all women, comes across as little more than empty words when we consider the facts about how the majority of them voted in November.
Granted, the overwhelming majority of the white women who showed up at the solidarity events across the U.S. voted for Hillary Clinton. But that doesn’t mean that the women’s movement hasn’t failed women of colour. The pussyhat project was taken up as a galvanizing symbol of the event. I experienced extreme ambivalence and even resistance to this symbol. Maybe I missed something, but it struck me that only white women got excited about the pussyhats; so, it felt as if the diverse and inclusive pull of intersectional feminism got lost in the enthusiasm over pink knitted hats. As one friend and colleague asked: “Are they knitting brown pussyhats too, because last I checked…?”
Despite mixed feelings, I experienced a strong need to participate, to be with people, to stand in solidarity on Saturday. Canadians like to hope that we would never elect such a person. But just last week a similar character announced his candidacy as potential leader of a major national political party. We cannot afford complacence. When I showed up at Victoria Park in our little London, Ontario there were over 1000 people of diverse races, ethnicities, sexualities, ages, abilities, genders, and economic circumstances gathered peacefully. Anyone who wished for an opportunity to speak was allowed the mic. Organizers had made a point of inviting a diversity of women ahead of time—and the speakers I heard included two Black women, a Muslim woman, an Indigenous woman, and two white women of diverse ages.
I felt proud to know lots of people at the event, from an unusually diverse cross-section of London. Not just from the university and social services. People had their kids and their dogs with them. Signs about inclusion and love, against hatred, discrimination, racism, and bigotry. I invited some women to join me who had never been to an event like this before (and, I think I successfully recruited them to join in Take Back the Night in the fall). I felt buoyant and uplifted afterwards.
When I got home and started hearing all the reports about solidarity marches in other places, it felt like something was happening that could have a longer-term, positive result. But I worry about “feel-good” activism. The real work is day in and day out. As anyone reading this post will be able to see, I’m glad that I came out on January 21st, proud of what I saw at my local event, and heartened by the show of political solidarity in multiple locations. But it’s been a demoralizing week since then. And, as a recent Vox article points out, the doubts about inclusive feminism are rooted in history. The way that the gauntlet has come down more squarely on immigrants and refugees this week makes it more clear than ever that if feminism is to remain relevant, it must evolve into a movement that does more than pay lip-service to intersectional analysis. That work cannot be left entirely in the hands of women of colour.
[Description of coloured photo below: Marchers on the street with their backs to the camera, some holding up signs. One black and white sign reads: “I’M WITH HER,” surrounded by arrows pointing outward. A red and white sign with black letters reads: “UN-AFRAID”. Tracy, a woman of colour with short blond hair, walks behind these marchers. She is wearing a black coat and a grey and black knapsack.]
Thoughts on the Women’s March
and the Demand for Justice
By Jason Burke Murphy
I. My family went to Boston to march. Organizers had planned for 25,000 people and got over 170,000. A social movement is on the way. (Like people all over the US, we went the next week with the Council on American-Islamic Relations to the airport near Hartford, CT.)
The crowd in Boston led to delays which, promoted dialogue. One poster said “Lean In”. This slogan comes from Sheryl Sandberg’s project, which focuses on girls and women asserting themselves. Their material avoids discussion of anything other than personal attitudes. The woman holding that poster was in a friendly conversation with one holding a sign that said “Homophobia holds up Sexism. Sexism holds up Capitalism.” I so often hear that people who believe in “Lean In” are opposed to deep critique. That is not what I saw. People are talking.
[Description of coloured photo below: Group of protesters in an open area, surrounded by leafless trees. Many of the protesters are wearing pink hats; many of them are holding signs in the air. A multi-coloured sign in the foreground includes statements such as "TRUST WOMEN, "DEMAND EQUALITY," "'DEFEND THE CONSTITUTION."]
Let’s have more conversations like that one. Let’s fight back against all the mockery and slights. Let’s push questions about who has assets and who does not. Everyone should be able to live. Everyone should be heard. Everyone should be an independent member of society. No one has a right to the stuff you need to reach these goals.
I remember Donald Trump mocking the journalist Serge Kovaleski, who has a congenital joint condition. (“Now, the poor guy, you gotta see this guy…”) Clinton put that bullying performance in her ads. I can see why. It remains that if progressives do not convincingly talk about assets, we will continue to be defeated by the right.
Elizabeth Anderson, in “What’s the Point of Equality,” urges us to focus on those capabilities that enable us to stand as an equal in society. For example, we do not need someone who is Deaf to show they are less fortunate. We should acknowledge that we have built much of our world without keeping Deaf people in mind. We should secure assets to make sure Deaf people are in equal standing. Philosophers can be very helpful here. There is a big difference between the ways we have been treating justice and the ways that these conversations tend to run in the rest of the public sphere.
The majority of my students are women from working-class immigrant heritage families and are the first in those families to go to college. Most of them are very dismissive of attitude critiques. A lot of them think that “feminism” is mostly just having their vocabulary corrected by students from more elite colleges. Others have said that feminism portrays women as over-sensitive. This perception of “liberals” comes from right-wing propaganda but also from my students’ own experience. They grow up in a world in which slights are borne in order to secure assets.
So many of my students have worked for men like Trump or dealt with customers like him. If they leave good tips and leave, they barely care. If they offer better opportunities than a well-behaved employer, they will pick the better job. That have very strong reasons to dismiss bad attitudes, which they face very often, when assets are on the line.
II. Throughout the march, I thought about basic income, which I work on a lot as a philosopher and as an activist. Everyone would have a share, an asset. Right now, when disabled people need income support, they are forced to prove to someone that they are no longer able to hold a job. People finish these processes demoralized. With basic income, you can work when you are able and not lose this share. You can decide you need to stop working and not lose this share. There are so many different sorts of disability, many of which were completely invisible when our current system was devised. A basic income, implemented without massive cuts in important services, would counter the asset divide that we see along class, race, sex, sex identity, and disability lines.
Supporting basic income says that we want you to have equal standing in society. Leaving your income in the hands of a bureaucrat or employer who decides which people deserve a job or income support does not convey the same message. The idea of basic income gets some conservatives to rethink their worldview.
Most essays right now present basic income as a future answer to technology-induced unemployment. Disabled people are denied their share right now. Think about the intersectionalities of race, sex, and class and we can see how most disabled people (indeed most people in general) have even more reasons to demand a share.
Wider Participation—The Online Disability March
By Kevin Timpe
I wasn’t able to go to the Women’s March on Washington, nor one of the sister marches. In many ways, I would have liked to. But D.C. was too far away to be feasible. And with the complexities of having three young children and not finding out about it until the evening before, even getting to the nearest sister march didn’t happen. I have some reservations about the platform of the Women’s March. But I think that ideological purity sometimes gets in the way of important social movements. I think that in the present political climate, there is a real need for lots of us to unite, despite some (even important) differences, in a public action against the present administration. And so I had a desire to participate in some way.
But about a week before the inauguration, my friend Zac Cogley contacted me. His partner, Andrea Scarpino, was helping organize an online Disability March with the following mission:
We stand together in solidarity with our partners and children for the protection of our rights, our safety, our health, and our families—recognizing that our vibrant and diverse communities are the strength of our country…The rhetoric of the past election cycle has insulted, demonized, and threatened many of us—women, immigrants of all statuses, those with diverse religious faiths particularly Muslim, people who identify as LGBTQIA, Native and Indigenous people, Black and Brown people, people with disabilities, the economically impoverished and survivors of sexual assault. We are confronted with the question of how to move forward in the face of national and international concern and fear. In the spirit of democracy and honoring the champions of human rights, dignity, and justice who have come before us, we join in diversity to show our presence in numbers too great to ignore. The Women’s March on Washington will send a bold message to our new administration on their first day in office, and to the world that women’s rights are human rights. We stand together, recognizing that defending the most marginalized among us is defending all of us.
As a parent of a disabled child, a disability advocate, and someone who cares about standing in solidarity with all those groups that stand to be unjustly harmed by the new administration, it was pretty obvious to me that this was but a small step that I could do to show solidarity. And so I gladly signed up to participate. My post on the Disability March can be found here.
[Description of black-and-white photo below: Close-up of Kevin and his son, Jameson, who has blond hair. Kevin, who has a moustache and goatee, is holding Jameson who has his right arm around his father's neck and is pointing downward with the index finger on his right hand. Their heads touch as they peer down into the lens.]
While my involvement in the Disability March was primarily about my concerns for how individuals with disabilities are likely to be treated under the new administration, in no way do I think that is limited to them. The goals of ending unjust violence, racism, and discrimination; the need to take steps to reduce the harm to our environment; the need for affordable childcare and more supportive work environments; the need for “protections for all citizens regardless of race, gender, age or disability”—these goals and needs are for women. They are for my daughters. But they are also the goals and needs of others. They are, for example, for my disabled son.
And, so, I participated to join my voice with others. I participated for roughly the same reasons that I’ve been involved in other kinds of activism—because I think that issues we face as a political community are ones that matter.
Thanks to Megan Dean, Melinda Hall, Tempest Henning, Catherine Hundleby, Tracy Isaacs, Jason Burke Murphy, and Kevin Timpe for contributing their writing and photographs to this forum. Readers and listeners of the forum are encouraged to continue the discussion here and elsewhere. Comments here will be moderated.