From Sadness to Euphoria

"They say that these are not the best of times
But they're the only times I've ever known
And I believe there is a time for meditation
In cathedrals of our own.

Now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover's eyes
And I can only stand apart and sympathize
For we are always what our situations hand us
It's either sadness or euphoria."
- Lyrics from "Summer, Highland Falls" by Billy Joel

If November 8th brought great sadness to many Americans, then January 21st delivered euphoria in the form of the greatest single-day protest in American history. One of every 100 citizens took to the streets  across the U.S. I added my body to the numbers in Washington DC next to my friend, Heidi, and a cohort of friends and neighbors who were swallowed up by the crowd of 680,000.

From an airplane virtually held aloft by the cheers and exultation of marchers, through the DC airport full of pink-hatted people, the journey from Denver activated feelings of sisterhood and solidarity like I've never experienced. We laughed and shared stories and motivations without fear of censorship. We were marching for our children, our parents, our cherished beliefs and our hopes for the future. Love for country, for constitutional rights, for our planet, human family and for each other filled the air. The Southwest gate agent in Atlanta took numerous photos and videos of the gate area, completely full of women marchers, as we cheered and forgot the inauguration on TV's behind us.

We met women  from Georgia, California, Alabama, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Washington and Oregon. Later we made friends with people from Massachusetts, Ohio, Texas, Florida, Hawaii, New York and New Mexico. Our Colorado contingent was strong, even as we left 200,000 marchers back at home to step out in the Denver march, which was the fifth largest in the country.

On the flip side, it was obvious that our day of euphoria failed to connect with others in the city. When we arrived at the Chinatown Metro and took the escalator up to the streets, which had recently been full of inaugural visitors, we were lifted up while our gazes slid across people going down. Eyes snagged on contrasting uniforms: red, white and blue beanies and scarves with the name of our new President warmed well-dressed women who stood directly in front of black-jacketed protesters carrying white flags with a circle and a line around the new president's face. "Not my president" shouted the flags, even as the people kept silent. Then a group of red mesh-cap wearers, men bearing posters and other souvenirs, were briefly blocked from view by a bevy of pussy-hatted women in hiking boots. Though it should have been a day of celebration for Trump supporters, they kept low profiles, and seemed less buoyant than the protesters who rapidly moved to fill the open spaces in the wet streets. Bemused, we asked an officer if the crowds had been big. "Not too bad," he replied, "we're expecting more tonight and tomorrow."

Through the gracious hospitality of Rob's cousin, Scott, and his fiancee, Cyndi, we were able to stay in the Shaw neighborhood of northwest Washington, DC. As we walked to dinner on Friday night, we dodged puddles and wonky sidewalk bricks as tuxedoed men and ballgowned women teetered on fancy heels toward the inaugural ball at the convention center. Police blocked off streets, waved on armies of black limousines, as the ballgoers were forced to walk from the cordoned area to the party. A group of pink-clad women with roller bags asked directions from a policewoman as a black-and-gold gowned dame swept by, lowering her eyes to the slippery terrain as we made our way to dinner. An invisible divide.

At Thally's we met three young people who came from Los Angeles to march, and they took our picture while sharing inspiration for poster designs. Before dessert we hashed over the common question of marchers everywhere - how did this happen? Why did the Trump voters' euphoria deliver our great sorrow and our time of uplift engender their denial and disapproval? We felt like our march was for everyone, for the planet and its people everywhere.

In Billy Joel's song, "Summer, Highland Falls," he goes on to say,

"Now we are forced to recognize our inhumanity
Our reason coexists with our insanity
And though we choose between reality and madness
It's either sadness or euphoria."

It appeared that we chose different realities,  were moved to sorrow and exultation by different factors. But the divide was forgotten in the plans for the march, the messages and photos from friends preparing across the country. More on the day of euphoria in the next entry.