Generations.

Last week, I went to this fundraising event. Every year, at the end of May, the radical feminist gang i work with sometimes, they have this big ol’ fundraiser that raises about 35K for the transition house. 35k isn’t much these days, but it’s also a very fine picnic. there’s a gang of men who work together to raise money for the organization. they answer to the collective that runs the rape crisis line and transition house. They incorporate public education about male violence against women into every fundraising event they do. They work to address their own sexism, racism, classism and that of other men. and they decorate, cook and clean up for the walk. it’s not really an action, ’cause it’s more about allies gathering together and celebrating another year of work, and catching up with each other.

this year was my 22nd at that walk. I’ve missed a few–when I was mad at them, and wanted to nurse my resentments more than I wanted to address them; or the year my lover and I broke up and she was with the collective still, so she was there and i was with someone else and all twitchy and guilt-ridden. there was the year my dad died, and he got really sick just before that weekend. A couple of times i worked at the transition house instead of going, or did something else but still collected pledges and stuff. Of the 22 years i’ve been associated with that gang, i’ve been to perhaps 17 or 18 of the walks. Probably actually walked the whole way around 4 or 5 times, truth be told.

Oh it was so fun this year. One of my ex-lovers, her daughter was there. with her childhood friend–I’ve known both of them since they were 5 or 6. they’re grown women now, in their late twenties. One is in the training group, the daughter of my ex. She was raised in that collective, and now she’s working there. That’s kind of cool. And it’s kind of not.

Because, you know what, the goal is that we work our way out of a job. That we end male violence against women. We haven’t done that yet. But we will. Then we can have collectives of artists and gardeners and engineers and cooks and builders and storytellers and flute makers and potters and …but whatever it ends up becoming, once we have stopped men from beating the crap out of us and holding all the power and wrecking everything (god bless them), whatever happens, it will remain true that we will need each other; there will still be suffering; we will still have to attend to the well-being of others. We have to be patient, though. How many centuries of male supremacy do we have to overcome? Generations. It will take us generations.

It will take us generations and yet it is absolutely urgent.

what’s the coolest thing about my young friend working there is that it’s proof that we offered her something tangible. Even if we were tired and resentful and angry and sorrowful from hearing all the horror stories and trying all the time to patch women up and hold each other up and make some room for ourselves and our sisters–even with all that, there must have been some hope and light and beauty in there. I remember when she was a child, of course I do. And as much as her mother and I sacrificed and worked “for the glorious revolution”, this girl paid, too. We made a lot of mistakes. We fought a lot. Especially near the end of our love affair. It must have been really hard for her. But we always loved her. And we always loved the women’s liberation movement. I think she knows that.  it’s hard being human.

unofficial tradition of the walkathon is that I suck the helium out of one of the balloons and sing “I’m Just a Gigolo.” This year there was enough helium for that and a couple of John Prine songs.

heh.