It’s crazy how much time women spend marching. Men march, but they march off to war, looking to conquer and kill in the name of peace.
When we march, we are marching to save lives. To raise up our voices. To find community and strength. We march to build a future, not take them away.
Five years ago, I marched at Seneca Falls, seeing what was about to happen and trying desperately to stop it. Now, today, five years later, we march again.
Twenty years ago, I marched. Twenty years before that, our foremothers marched. One hundred years before that, our great grandmothers marched.
Today we are rising up and marching again across the nation, speaking out-no SHOUTING OUT- that we demand respect and autonomy when it comes to our bodies and being women.
I can’t march due to health issues, but I am there in spirit. I wrote this for all women, but especially the ones on the front lines. You got this.
Thank you.
*****
*Tomorrow’s Song*
The timeless song of eternity
calls from the womb to set us free.
Woman—and all we’re defined to be.
The seeds of our discontent, our success
no longer dormant within our genes.
From our first breath
to our last sigh
we battle and conquer predator and foe.
We wake up each morning, determined and alive—
sometimes faltering, but still we go.
Secrets faceless and fathomless
plague us before we utter a word.
Secrets not meant to be shared;
Secrets meant to be hidden in the dark.
While surface-wise we walk the walk,
talk the talk,
pretend to not care when people balk.
Pretend there’s no danger when we’re stalked.
And yet.
Days pass to years, and yes, some things change.
Yes, surface-wise nothing looks the same.
And so we keep on playing their silly games.
Ignoring the whisper we refuse to hear
Our Sovereignty is just one vote away.
It’s always just one vote away.
We march, we shout, we weep, we scream.
We face our nightmares, manifest our dreams.
We birth our babies, we cook our meals,
we clean our homes, we seal our deals.
We fight in boardrooms, bedrooms, and wars.
We drink and drug to hide our scars.
We drink and drug to hide our scars.
Until at death, by our own hand or by Fate,
we weigh and measure
and scrape our plate.
Then we pass on our mantle to the empowered and strong,
hoping they will rewrite tomorrow’s song.
Janine Phillips
May 14, 2022
Janina Grey 