I had a blowout convo with both parents the other day. It went down the wormhole of “Why go to a women’s march? What does that do?” … and then devolved quickly from there into my invoking p-grabbing and calling Kelly Anne Conway a zombie. Then I got called out for name-calling. And then I hung up.
After two nights without sleep, I connected with my mom to find out where dad was, and then my dad. I was able to convey that the initial convo felt like attack more than inquiry. I outlined how I am not theoretically concerned, but specifically concerned about women’s choices, abortion and health care access (through Planned Parenthood, which I availed myself amply in my twenties, and which so many people rely upon now), pipelines barreling over lands they will pollute (and which do not “belong” to them), and the data clampdown from the EPA, an anti-science move if ever one existed.
I am glad that they listened. And maybe my father will also research some of these specific legislations that are unfolding daily on my feed alongside the numbers of the representatives I must call to voice my response to them. I live in a windtunnel of information and action-calls, and they are judiciously giving Trump a chance and being grateful for peaceful transitions. I agreed with the gratitude, but relayed that Trump’s actions were taking real chances with my own health, my children’s health, and my friends’ health.
My father and I apologized to each other. Not for believing in what we believe, but for perceived insults. We shared I love yous and re-established connection. My dad says he has been asking other women why they were at the march, and that he has been gathering that information among friends his own age. I hope the data collection continues.
So while they might be on the 100-day-chance plan and I might be on the lives-are-being-risked-right-now plan, at least we managed to connect today.
And now hopefully I can get some sleep.