It’s inauguration day of our 45th President and I am sick to my stomach.
My wife and many of my dearest friends are in Washington DC and tomorrow, will march for women, for diversity, for health care, and for me. My coworkers in Chicago are making signs, printing shirts and knitting pink hats preparing to take the mission to my city.
And I am at home writing this.
Ever since the night the election results went from bad to worse to un-fucking believable, I have been in state of shock. Paralyzed by the reality that regardless of partisan fundamentals, somehow a near majority of voters condoned the bigotry and misogyny from a rich, entitled asshole who bullies people like it’s his job. And now, he will make it his job.
Since night in November, my emotions have been on a tilt-a-whirl between anger and unbelief. I can’t stand to watch SNL any more because the parity in front of me is so real that it is anything but funny. I’ve turned away from social media not just because our president-elects inane tweets, but from the ubiquity of disgust at the incoming administration’s every move. Because it is exhausting.
Perhaps it’s because I want to live in my urban, accepting bubble where gays and women aren’t second class citizens. Perhaps it’s because I want to continue to fight sexism the best way I know how: by being an outspoken woman who deserves a seat at not just the table, but the boardroom table.
So even though I am not marching alongside many of the strongest advocates I know, I promise to do my part.
I will mentor more young women struggling to have her voice heard in the boy’s club that is the advertising business. I will be a voice of optimism— because the people I choose to surround myself with celebrate diversity, fight like hell for those who less fortunate, and think paying taxes is a responsibility we all share. Especially our President.
So even though I am not marching this Saturday, I hope I do my part. Because together words and action can do anything.