Shelter Me
One hundred and fifty-two years ago yesterday, Susan B. Anthony cast her vote, illegally, in Rochester New York. She was subsequently arrested, but so began a movement. I read about this two days ago with my group of rowdy fourth grade boys. We did the math together: 2024-1872=152.
Eight years ago today I woke up to the feeling of the rug ripped out from underneath me. But I quickly pivoted to anger and found my footing. I marched.
Four years ago today, I woke up to my husband whispering to me, before his usual early morning departure, “Joe won.” I exhaled a breath I had been holding for four years, and fell back to sleep with a smile on my face.
Today, I woke up a little after he left for work. I knew. I knew because he didn’t wake me this time to tell me the world was ok. It took some time to work up the courage to check the news on my phone. I tried to cry, but it came out as a dry wailing, and I didn’t want to wake my teenage son.
I hadn’t realized it along the way, these past few weeks, but I had allowed a hope to grow inside me. It was a warm, glowing thing, that swelled comfortably inside my ribcage, tucked just below my heart. This morning I felt it pulled out all at once, leaving a jagged cavern. Immediately a biting, screaming, cold blast tried to push its way in. It didn’t ask permission. It felt entitled to the space.
In that moment, I was too world-weary to fight. My hands felt to fragile to form into fists. I was sure they would crumble, like cracked teeth in a nightmare.
But then I reached, my hands shaking, for the two books on my nightstand. I don’t even remember making the decision to pick them up. I was able to read the words. I was able to turn the pages. I didn’t feel whole again, but I found some shelter from the storm. I read for over an hour.
The cover of Foote, by Tom Bredehoft, is the green of Appalachian ramps. It’s about a small town detective from West Virginia who also happens to be a Big Foot.
Spark is a collection of essays about how fanfiction and fandom can ignite creativity. It was edited by Atlin Merrick, one of my favorite writers. Its bookmark is an index card that Atlin sent me in the mail, along with a crisp dollar, for contributing to her press’s newsletter. It was my first paid writing gig.
They didn’t need to be inspirational, life-changing words. I just needed to hide for a while. When I put them back on my nightstand, I didn’t feel all better. But I was able to get up, get a shower, feed the dog, take my son to school, and take me to work. Those fourth graders and I still had more reading comprehension work to do for the story about Susan B. Anthony.
Maybe someday I’ll tie on my marching boots again. Maybe I’ll turn into the most radical, feral, totally-jacked, female rage machine the world has ever seen.
Today, though, I couldn’t manage the laces of those boots. Today, not even one whole day “after”, I just needed to take shelter.
Dearest readers, for as long as you need, allow yourself to be sheltered. Hold your book, and be held in turn.