Mixed Metaphors

How marching with the pink pussyhat power posse of my family and friends — and people from all over the world — helped me mourn and mark the anniversary of my mother’s death.

My mother’s favorite color was pink. I grew up in a home in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s that boasted a curvaceous coral pink sectional couch. Our bathroom was always painted pink, with bubble gum pink towels, little pink perfumed soaps, and plastic pink flowers. Mom always dressed in pink, including the day we buried her. At the visitation, our family wore pink in her memory; pink flower sprays adorned her white casket and flanked her like honor guard sentries. When family members returned home after the funeral service and burial — the sky was resplendent in pink — a message from our mother wishing us safe travels.

I mention this as a contrast to the day just over a week ago, Friday, January 20, 2017, when Donald Trump was inaugurated as our 45^th President. It was a day that many of us may have considered wearing the traditional color of mourning, black, or black arm bands, a symbol of mourning a death, or in protest of going to war. Instead, a small group of violent agitators dressed in black threw stones through windows in Washington D.C. while a large contingent of elected officials refused to attend the ceremony.

Many of the bleacher viewing seats were left empty. Crowd numbers at the inauguration, especially the number of people populating the Washington Mall, sparked a ridiculous debate initiated by Trump and his spokespeople the rest of the week. The sky remained gray all day until it too faded to black.

The following day, Saturday, January 21, 2017, was a new day. Women, men, and children, all over the world, began assembling in streets and queues, gathering peacefully, carrying signs and banners, and wearing Pink Pussy hats crocheted and knitted by mostly women, their handiwork a symbol of how we have reclaimed words and actions and turned them back on our oppressors.

From an article in Bustle about the Pussyhat Project, “…the attempt to reclaim the word “pussy” as a term of empowerment was especially meaningful, considering the man who was inaugurated as president of the United States the day before the march was once recorded saying that when you’re a celebrity, you can do “anything” you want to women — like “grab her by the pussy.” Many women fought against that offensive assertion not only by proudly wearing their pussyhats, but also with signs asserting that in 2017, “Pussy Grabs Back.”

The crowds the day before were red, white, and blue, and mostly somber. Saturday, the crowds were vibrating in pink, the color expressing compassion, caring, and love and commonly associated with the female gender. From color expert Kate Smith and her blog, Sensational Color, she describes the physical effects of the color pink on the body, “Bright pinks stimulate energy and can increase the blood pressure, respiration, heartbeat, and pulse rate, encourages action and confidence. Pink has been used in prison holding cells to effectively reduce erratic behavior,” its meaning around the world, “The pink ribbon is an internationally recognized symbol of hope and awareness in the fight against breast cancer,” and finally, its political significance, “A pink triangle is frequently used to represent gays, lesbians, and bisexuals. The origin of the pink triangle goes back to when Nazis labeled their prisoners in concentration camps. In more recent times, this symbol is a sign of pride.”

A Mother’s Legacy

Growing up a baby boomer in a blue-collar working class family, I witnessed firsthand how hard both parents worked to raise and support their family of six kids. My mother, Ethel, first worked as a carhop at Red’s Drive-In in Racine, Wisconsin. She sported her uniform of navy blue Bermuda shorts, white Peter Pan collar shirt, matching navy blue vest and knee socks. Mom was a sight to behold with her blonde pin-curls and poodle haircut. In later years, instead of her uniform of navy blue, odds were good she’d be wearing her signature color, pink!

For many years after, in between giving birth to six children, five daughters and one son, she worked at a small motor factory, Motor Specialty, first on the assembly-line and later as a supervisor, overseeing the same women she had worked alongside. Because women were more skilled using their hands for precise technical work, and paid considerably less than men in manufacturing positions, Mom was successful at coaching and mentoring “the women on the line.” As the eldest, I grew up listening to my mother “talk shop.” She would never call herself a feminist, but at heart she was. She always spoke softly without raising her voice, yet she chose her words carefully and we always listened. She used to laugh, “I didn’t talk much for the first 25 years of my life, but once I started, watch out!”

Both of my parents did a good job, like many families of the nineteen-fifties, sixties, and seventies, of imparting working-class and democratic values. They encouraged us to be whatever we wanted to be, do well in school, and find a vocation and pursue it to the best of our ability.  If we worked hard, we could achieve anything. This message was communicated equally to both their daughters and son.

My parents were lifelong Democrats and they always posted yard signs on the prime real estate of our corner house supporting their candidates. When Hillary Clinton first ran for President against Obama, Mom was 100% behind her, and though she was happy when Obama was elected instead of a Republican, she hoped Hillary would run again. Mom would often say, “We need a woman in the White House!”  

Marching with the Pink Pussy Hat Power Posse

It was no coincidence that on the day of the march I marched with my sister, Tami, my niece Gemma, age 12, and Tami’s friends, including our chosen-family friend, Susan and her contingent from Illinois, who joined us for the Women’s March in Madison, Wisconsin. I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived at our rendezvous point at Library Mall at the foot of State Street that my nephew, Quinn, age 14, opted to join as well. It was a family affair, to quote a disco song from the 1980’s, “I had all my sisters with me!”

We stood for at least an hour, not moving, yet energized as we read the signs, took photos, and discussed the significance of the crowd and the power it generated for change. The weather was mild for Wisconsin in the mid-forties yet it was damp and misty.  My bones were aching and I was restless to move, so we tried to make some progress forward along the perimeter of the crowd. What we learned later in the day was that the crowd was estimated to be between 75,000 to 100,000, had completely filled the march route from Library Mall, down State Street, to the State Capitol.  It was reported when the crowd count was tallied for cities in the U.S. and compared to each city’s population, Madison, Wisconsin at 41% was ranked second behind Washington D. C. This was due to people from all over our state and nearby borders joining us. It was an empowering day yet just the beginning, action needed to follow the march.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mourning

The next day, I joined my family in Racine to celebrate our mother’s life. She died on January, 23, 2016.  Unfortunately, my sister Tami was unable to join us, but we were surprised when my brother, Rick, flew in from Colorado and joined members of our Wisconsin family.  Rick’s visit was a gift for us all, especially our 87-year-old father. We wanted to support him and each other on the eve of the anniversary of his wife, our mother, grandmother, and great grandmother.

As I’ve written before in this blog, our family’s nickname is “The Loud Family” because when we gather in the small confines of our family Cape Cod home our emotional exuberance of being together pumps up the volume.  We’re storytellers and talk competitively, often multiple stories occurring simultaneously, so as listeners, we learn to tune in to parts of competing conversations.  It’s overwhelming to new members when welcomed into our family.

We shared a meal and stories, about our lives today, and memories of Mom. We wagered on the Green Bay Packer – Falcons play-off game (yes, sadly we lost!). Mom was present with us in our laughter and tears, in the joy we experienced in simply being together.

The Meaning of It All

The meaning of it all is pretty simple — to mix metaphors — life marches on.  Dad endorsed Tami’s announcement with an “atta-girl” that family and friends were marching together. Mom was marching with us too in spirit. If Mom was still alive and before she lost the sight in one eye, she would have knitted or crocheted Pink Pussyhats for all of us including herself.  I think I’ll prop one up on her headstone this spring, like the flags that adorn veterans’ graves. Passersby’s will know — here lies a woman — a wife, a mother, grandmother, and great grandmother — who lived her life with love, respect for and tolerance of others, and compassion for her family and the people she encountered in her life.    

 

Related Reading from Mixed Metaphors, Oh My!

The Loud Family Loses a Loved One

Drinking from a Glass Half-Full

The Toilet Zone: First Flush

Red Letter Days (and Nightmare Nights)

Ode to Blue-Collar Workers

The Vibrator Story