Pleasure Notes

There is a march in Washington, D.C. on October 10 that is dear to my heart. I will not be able to attend, but perhaps, given this advance notice, you may choose to go. It is a gathering of like-minded people, of all persuasions, who believe that the fight for equal rights didn’t end in 1865 or 1920 or 1964 or 1973. It is a National Equality March.

Designed by Shepard Fairey

Rachel, from Mom in Real Life, puts it very eloquently:

“We are not marching for gay marriage, we are not marching to hate on the Bible, we are marching to get federal rights for all of America’s citizens. We are marching so that a person who fights and risks their life for their country should be able to carry a picture of their partner in the uniform. We are marching so that when a gay man gets beaten and tied to a fence post to die, it is considered a hate crime. We are marching so that a good teacher will not lose her job because she loves another woman. We are marching so that a senior citizen can honor the wishes of their partner of 50 years when they get seriously ill and be allowed to stay by their bedside to provide comfort.”

You can find the rest of what she has to say at mominreallife.com. It is worth a read.

Now, you may wonder why I’m bringing this up. After all, still having to fight for equal rights isn’t exactly the most pleasurable of subjects. But here’s the thing. I believe that love is pleasurable. I believe that companionship is pleasurable. I believe that freedom of choice is pleasurable. In fact, I KNOW all this, because people who came before me ensured that, as a white, single, heterosexual, educated woman in 2009, I can act on my beliefs and experience the benefits of acting on them. Hallelujah!

How could I possible wish anything less for anyone else, anywhere?

So, while I won’t be able to hit the pavement in D.C., I will certainly be there in spirit.

Let me know your thoughts on this subject, whatever they may be. And do tell me if you’re spending the second weekend in October heading toward the west lawn of the Capitol. I’ll be cheering from the long state on the other coast, the one that has given the innocent number 8 a very bad name.

For about five days in early November, 2008, I had a leaky eye problem. Every news story made me reach for the Kleenex. It wasn’t allergies. It wasn’t grief. It was profound joy and absolute relief. The same affliction came over me this past weekend, and has developed into a full-fledged crying jag today. Barack Obama has turned me into a complete sap.

By Shepard Fairey

I am like a PTSD victim. I had no idea of the weight put on my heart and brain over the past eight years until it was lifted.

By Jill Dryer

I recently heard James Taylor say – and I am paraphrasing here – he’d gotten so used to feeling out of step with the world, it was a shock to wake up and discover he was no longer alone. That is exactly how I feel. I got so used to constant, impotent rage at what was being done to this country and the world in the name of Patriotism and National Security and Moral Certitude and, most dreadfully, Democracy. The fact that we now have a President whose voice is not like nails on a chalk board, whose statements are coherent, whose intention is to make the world and our country a better place rather than just to make his dad happy and get good seats at sporting events, allows me to finally breathe again. And, let me tell you, I am taking deep breaths.

By Michele Roohani

So, while the leaky eye problem is a bit of an embarrassment, I must extend to Barack Obama, and every single person who voted for him, a most sincere “thank you.” I’m not expecting perfection for the next four or eight years. I just want to continue to breathe.