Here’s something that I said yesterday: “Being a mom is the closest you’ll ever get to feeling like a superhero.” I said it in response to something that Christy Turlington Burns said about the remarkable experience that one has, when one becomes a mother, of suddenly finding oneself able to move figurative mountains, that moment or series of moments when one realizes that, as impossible as it seems, one can feed other human beings with one’s own body and go days without sleep and lift multiple children in a single arm and just keep going, even when you’re exhausted and overwhelmed and your heart and brain are exploding, you can just keep going. Christy was making a point about how the work that we do as mothers lends itself to other work, more global work, the work of making the world better place. We can do this, she said, we do do this, because it’s just what we do.

We were talking about this, because we were speaking on a panel at the WIE (Women, Inspiration and Enterprise) Symposium on the topic of moms and social change, and, of course, one of the obvious questions that comes up when you talk about mom s and social change is how does one do it? One does it by doing it, obviously, but when we talk about just doing it (do it because you want to make the world a better place for your children, do it because you want to help other moms, do it because becoming a mom made you recognize just how lucky you are, do it because your grew three sizes the day that you had children and you just need to put that heart-power somewhere, do it because it matters, do it because it’s urgent), are we not, maybe, complicating the discourse of motherhood a little? (Continue reading this post at Bad Mother Confidential…)

I need your help. Well, not me. This woman. She’s supposed to be in San Diego this week, receiving an award from BlogHer for her important work, and she might not be, because of her important work. It’s complicated, but also not: Yoani Sanchez is a blogger, in Cuba, and her work is important, and part of recognizing how important her work is involves fighting for her to receive that recognition.

Here’s the story, from my dear friend Ana, who has been working tirelessly to get Yoani to San Diego:

About 6 months ago, Elisa Camahort from BlogHer asked me to join the committee that selected the recipient of the International BlogHer Activist Award. I was honored by the invitation and accepted without a doubt. It was a great opportunity to explore the blogosphere in the world, the bloggers who passionately support a cause and move masses.
I was inspired to find so many women out there making a difference through their blogs. I was thrilled when I learned that my fellow committee members agreed to grant the award to Yoani Sanches from Generacion Y. For those of you who don’t know Yoani, she’s a Cuban Blogger who has literally shaped cyber-journalism. Yoani has received prestigious awards such as Premios Ortega y Gasette in 2008, New York Times Top 25 blogs in 2009, Premio Principe Claud in 2010. Even this year, Yoani received the International Women of Courage Award from the U.S. Department of State.

I called Yoanni with excitement to give her the news. This joy ended after a few seconds, when I learned that Yoani had been denied the “permission to travel” 15 TIMES.

My initial reaction was: “¿Qué, qué? How can they deny you a visa when you’re invited by Hillary Clinton? If the Secretary of State didn’t make it happen, then BlogHer will be a mosquito for the U.S. Embassy.”

Yoani explained that the denial didn’t come from the U.S. Consulate. It actually came from the Cuban Department of Interiors. Again: “Qué qué? I don’t get it. Why would a country hold the right to do something like this? In 2011, in the American Continent? Are we living in the same world?”

…

I’ve had several conversations with Yoani. I’ve also inquired about the process and how a “permission” can be granted. ”Yoani has criminal records!”, was the first answer I received. However, her criminal record consists in her courageous blog, her daring tweets and her public meetings where she records the Razones Ciudadanas videos. There has never been a formal process against her, Yoani has never been sentenced. So why is Yoani considered and treated as a criminal? What is a “delito contra la revolución”? (crime against the revolution). Which revolution? Are we talking about the past or the near future?

I NEED HELP:

To understand – from my fellow revolucionarios who confronted our wounded parents and dared to admit that we agreed with the Cuban revolution. This was despite of the chancletasos (beatings) we often got for been so malcriados (rebellious). I don’t want to stop believing that el pueblo really wanted this back then. I also want to see the transition to the new needs of el pueblo. Ideally, in a civil and peaceful manner.

To grant permission: from Raul Castro, who is starting to open up many doors in Cuba. Leading the country through a peaceful transition. I know it’s not going to be easy. Please understand that you have a group here that will mediate between our angry parents and your angry activists. We believe that the solution is in the middle. Allowing Yoani to come to receive a blogging award at BlogHer will be a gentle sign of collaboration and openness to us, el pueblo. We’re not a government, we’re not necessarily involved in any political parties (I know I’m not), we’re simply – The People.

To support: from my fellow bloggers who know what it means to have the freedom to write whatever we want on our blogs. Those who can imagine what it means to feel prosecuted and judged by our words (in our own ways, we have all been there). Those who know how much it hurts when our own words are misinterpreted, manipulated and used against us.

If you have ever experienced the magic of a BlogHer, our own LATISM conferences or any other Social Media conference, and felt the power of the blogosphere, please help me bring Yoani to BlogHer. She deserves to have that experience. She has everything at this point (a visa, a plane ticket, hotel, a huge community that loves/welcomes her). All she needs now is for Cuba to grant her permission to leave the country for one week. You can help by asking the Cuban Department of Interiors to let Yoani come. Let’s blog and tweet using the #YoaniBlogHer hashtag.

Yes, let’s. Let’s not take for granted our own freedom to write and blog and speak and travel. As we wring our hands over our small anxieties and our minor worries about leaving our kids for a few days and braving the social media crowds in San Diego, let’s also remember that for some, just doing exactly that is a radical act.

Let’s do what we can to support Yoani in her radical act. Because we’re all bloggers. These are our freedoms. This matters to all of us.

(If you write a post, please add it to this blog hop, at Latism. You can also help by tweeting and retweeting all the messages with the #YoaniBlogHer hashtag. Ana tells me that Yoani goes tomorrow for a final answer on whether she’ll be allowed out of the country. Please blog/tweet/holler tonight and tomorrow. Let’s be heard.)

This is a horrible, horrible story:

On Saturday the 4th of June ago a well known Spanish children’s psychiatrist, Dr. Ibone Olza, who also works for the main organization in Spain that campaigns to protect the rights of women and children at birth, “El Parto es Nuestro” (Birth is ours). Informed some of us via Facebook that a Moroccan mother, Habiba had been separated from her 15 month old daughter while she was in the care of a shelter, IMMF Instituto Madrileño del Menor y la Familia (Madrilean Institute for the Minor and the Family), she had accepted to go to this shelter due to her bad economical situation. Apparently this shelters have a psychoterapy/maternal habilities program that involves taking medication to stop the milk production, as breastfeeding is considered “chaotic” and “damaging” and also because it will make more difficult putting the child for adoption if this need arises.

When Habiba refused to follow this regulations the centre decided to separate mother and daughter, without following any legal procedure, without allowing her to say bye to her daughter and without communicating to her where were they taking her baby. After this and since the shelter is is a centre for parents with their children, since she longer had no child, the centre put Habiba back on the streets.

Habiba has only very limited access to her daughter now, and during the brief periods of time that she is allowed to see her, she is not allowed to nurse her. I feel sick for her, and for her daughter, and for any mother who has been forced to wean her child, at risk of losing that child, in Spain, or anywhere. Horrible.

You can read more about the story at Amor Maternal, where you can also find links to other posts on the story (in Spanish), and there’s a petition at the site that I cited above (this site also has a full explanation of the story, and links to Spanish news coverage of the story). There are also two Facebook groups in support of Habiba – this group in Spanish, or this international page with other translations.

Please consider lending your name in her support. And please pass this story along.

Mother’s Day is this coming weekend, which means that I will, this week, be thinking of something to do for my mom, and for my sister, and for other mothers that I love, and that I’ll be telling my husband to get me flowers instead of chocolates and maybe a reservation for a nice night out somewhere, and that I’ll be clearing a space on my desk for the inevitable happy onslaught of bespoke Mother’s Day cards from my children. And it means, too – or would mean, any other year – that I’ll publish a post or two about the awesomeness of mothers in general and the awesomeness of mothers in our virtual community in particular and lo, the warm fuzzies will be brought.

I’m not going to do that last thing this year. Not because I’m any less convinced of the awesomeness of motherhood and the awesomeness of our mothering community – if anything, I’m more convinced – but because this year, I want to deploy my mother-celebrating energies in a different direction. I want to celebrate the mothers that don’t have the same advantages that we have. I want to celebrate the mothers of these children. I want to celebrate mothers like Mammope.

I want to celebrate mothers like Margaret. Margaret mentors HIV positive mothers in Kenya. Margaret herself is HIV positive. Margaret underwent PMTCT (prevention of mother to child transmission of HIV) treatment when she was pregnant and gave birth to a baby boy who was HIV negative. Margaret’s son died when his father took him away to traditional healers. Margaret turned her grief into a passion to help other mothers, to be an example to other mothers, to be a mentor to other mothers.

This is her story:

Margaret’s message to mothers living with HIV is a powerful one, and one that is, I think, relevant to us all. If you are a mother, you are a mentor. You are an example. The stories that you tell, the community that you build, the examples that you set, the love that you share; it can make all the difference to another mom.

This week, I, along with a group of amazing mom bloggers who fully deserve the title ‘mentors’, am going to be posting stories from mothers like Margaret, because their stories are stories that are too rarely told, and because they are examples that we can and should all take inspiration from, and because we have the platforms on which to share those stories and celebrate those examples. Our blogs, for some of this week, will become their blogs. Throughout the week you’ll find their ‘posts’ at Dooce, at Alpha Mom, at Mom It Forward, at Mommy Niri, at Latism, at Love That Max, at MamaPundit, and elsewhere (stay tuned!), and we’d love for you to participate by helping us share their stories and spread their example. Tweet or post or send carrier pigeons!

We’re doing this to support mothers2mothers, an organization that I’ve mentioned here before. mothers2mothers has created an entire organization around the philosophy that if you support a mother, you can change the world. They train mothers like Margaret to be mentor mothers, and then employ them in that capacity, and in so doing they both empower these women and the women that they mentor, and they foster a culture – in Africa, and beyond – wherein the idea that supporting mothers, and mothers supporting mothers, is key to not only building a HIV-free world, but to building a better world in general. We want to celebrate them, and the mothers that they’ve empowered, and we want you to be inspired by their spirit. Consider making a dedication to a ‘mentor mother’ in your own life – a mother (maybe your own, maybe not) whose example and/or support and/or love have been important to sustaining and inspiring you in your own motherhood – at the mothers2mothers Tree Of Hope dedication page, or at your own blog or Facebook page, or all of the above. Just, you know, spread the love.

Because as Margaret says in the video, “it’s our prayer that you are going to be examples to others.” It’s my prayer, too.

That’s me, at the Rogers Centre in Toronto – which is, let it be known, a stadium – with a spotlight on me, and a microphone. And a tutu, of course. And a toddler, who couldn’t understand why Mommy got to stand right at the ice in the spotlight and he didn’t, because, seriously, if anyone is going to address the crowd in the stadium and maybe drop some chocolate nibs at the rink edge it should be him, so.

(The show – Disney On Ice Presents Toy Story 3 – is running all this week in Toronto, and a portion of proceeds – use the code TANNER – are going to Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy in Tanner’s name. Please come. You don’t even have to wear a tutu, or eat chocolate ice cream nibs. YOU COULD EAT HOT DOGS. And if you’re not in Toronto, you could just go ahead and make a donation to Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy, because they’d like that. Or do none of the above – that’s totally fine, too, because we don’t all have the same causes and missions – but whatever you do, or don’t do, hug your kids and love on them and on anybody and everybody who you cherish, and let that be your good. SPREAD GOOD, LIKE BUTTER.)

Today, I’m flying to New Jersey, because New Jersey is awesome, but also because Johnson & Johnson is there, and I kind of work for them – as a social media ambassador slash advisor on all things related to moms in social media using social media for social good, which is one of those job descriptions that sounds like a caption on an Oatmeal comic, but there you go – and we’re doing a thing this weekend – we’re calling it a salon – strategizing and brainstorming with a small group of moms-in-social-media type persons about using social media for social good, etc. And I’m excited, not only because New Jersey is awesome and who doesn’t want to go to New Jersey in February, but because some of the causes that we’ll be discussing are near and dear to my heart and I love talking about them and thinking about how to help them and I would totally work to help them out for free. Don’t tell J&J that.

One of those causes is PMTCT (prevention of mother-to-child transmission of HIV), and in particular, the work done by Mothers 2 Mothers in that area, work that I saw in action when I was in Lesotho last September working with the Global Fund/Born HIV Free campaign. I met the co-founder of Mothers 2 Mothers, Robin Smalley, at TedWomen (M2M is supported by J&J, who was also a sponsor of TedWomen; I attended as J&J’s guest), and we got to talking about what they might do for a social media campaign around Mother’s Day, and then we talked about it more after TedWomen, and then we moved past to talking to doing, and now we have something in the works, which I’ll probably talk about in New Jersey, and which I’ll certainly hit you all up to get involved in, which you will, I hope, because this is important. The biggest hope for turning the tide on HIV resides with women, who will walk – who are walking – across mountains to make sure that their children have an HIV-free future, and Mothers 2 Mothers does extraordinary work supporting them in that effort to protect those futures.

Her future:

I keep coming back to her, because she represents, for me, exactly that hope, the hope for – the expectation of – a future in which anything is possible. Her story – as limited and partial as it is here – is the story of that hope. And there are other girls and other children and – per Mothers 2 Mothers – other women, mothers, whose stories are stories of hope. Many of those stories are also stories of pain and fear – I told you about Mammope, whose naked fear broke my heart into a million jagged pieces – but they are, all of them, end of the day about hope. And even the tiniest bit of hope can be everything.

And anything I can do to support that hope, I want to do. Not because I’m some super good person who thrives on selflessness and do-goodery. I’m not. I’m self-centred and cranky and prone to random bitchiness. But keeping those million jagged pieces of my heart together requires more than just duct tape. It requires doing something. So I’m doing something. Or, at least, trying.

From my sister:

I read and reread the comments to all of my sister’s posts about Tanner. I do follow them but have never made one myself.

I am a strong woman and a mother… I thought I knew what I was capable of, I thought I could beat my demons by pushing my body and spirit to the limit… but I have been brought to my knees, again.

This isn’t meant to be melancholy or seeking sympathy, more an exercise in exorcising myself of pain… and to urge others to be compassion. I have to watch my child die, slowly and surely. As so many mothers and fathers do… Yes, there is always room for prayer and faith but sometimes you lose that… parents that face what I am facing know that. I don’t think life is unfair, nor am I complaining, it is what it is and there are lessons to be learned, but given all of that, it does not take away the pain.

Tanner’s diagnosis has brought me a lot. It has taught me to love better, live more freely and just laugh. EVERY SINGLE MOMENT COUNTS. Hug your kids. Tell your loved ones you adore them. Make a total stranger smile. He has taught me courage and dignity, something I always thought I had but I have learned so much more from him. He is slowly dying, being robbed of his independence, day after day . Yet he smiles – most of the time – and faces it. Faces the future that we both know, and faces it with grace and dignity and spark. That in itself gives me strength because I cannot possibly understand what he is going through in his mind, day by day, losing muscle after muscle.. As his Mom, I would lay my life down to spare him this, yet he never complains… he cries sometimes but he never complains. I cry often lately but on my worst worst day I cannot possibly compare it to with what Tanner goes through, or any other sick child. Their courage and strength astounds me.

With all of my heart, I ask that you take the time to consider another child, another mother or father that has to face life and death. Reach out, if with nothing more than a smile and a hug. It means something. We have been absolutely blessed by the support we have received… And my heartfelt thanks goes to all of you that made a tremendous difference in my son’s life… there are too many to name but if you are reading this you know who you are. I only hope that we can do the same for someone else.

My sister sent this to me last week. I wasn’t going to post it, because I thought, this is not the week. This is the week of Blissdom; this is the week of inspiration and hope and rah-rah-rah and rah-rah-rah just doesn’t sit well with enveloping clouds of dark. I thought. But then I thought again… this isn’t dark. This is – my sister’s words are – the very embodiment of light and hope. This is why we do this, why we share our stories, these stories, his story: so that we can move each other and be moved to care. And to act. And to love. So I posted it. Please drop her some love.

For her. For me. For them.

Once upon a time, in an Internet far, far away – which is to say, 6 months ago – I tweeted about Air Canada. I tweeted about them a few times, actually – I tweeted that they’d broken my nephew’s wheelchair, and I tweeted that they were working to replace it, and then I tweeted that they hadn’t, in fact, replaced it and had instead left Tanner stranded, immobile, while his mother and I scrambled frantically to reach someone at Air Canada on the telephone and did anyone out there have a number that didn’t start with 1-800 and end with ‘we’re sorry, ma’am, but you’ll have to call back on Monday’? – and it kind of started what is often colloquially referred to as a shit storm.

I’ve never written about that shit storm. I’ve never written about it because, frankly, by the time it was over I was sick of the whole thing. I was sick of the whole thing during the whole thing, actually: I was sick of what it did to Tanner and my sister; I was sick of how it took hold of us and shook us and demanded that we explain ourselves, dammit; I was sick of how it spilled TV cameras and reporters into the hall outside our room and how it pulled them along behind us on the sidewalk and in the park and on the subway and demanded that they ask, again and again, does this demonstrate the power of Twitter? Does this demonstrate the power that Twitter gives the little guy? I was sick of trying to explain, yes and no; it’s complicated; this is a triumph, and also not a triumph, and could you please leave that little guy alone? Because that little guy is scared and confused by all of the attention and this isn’t helping.

All of which is to say, that whole thing that happened on and through Twitter and the Internets wasn’t, at first blush, a triumph of the little guy, or at least, not a triumph of our little guy, not in ways that mattered to us and to him personally, and it was hard to articulate that, and so I gave up trying.

Then, this week, a friend of mine wrote a post about feeling slighted by a retail store – a store selling mattresses, specifically – that was inaccessible to her in her wheelchair, and the trolls descended, accusing her of fabricating her distress, and of abusing her social media influence in complaining. “You wrote this post to gather enough support for a Twitter campaign that might possibly net you some material good will from the Mattress store,” said the troll. “Because even though there are a whole lot of people in a much worse situation than you, YOU CAN start a campaign and get free shit. Like HerBadMother, like others, who see any opportunity to slam a company as a way to get something for nothing.” And my head blew off, which is to say, I realized that I couldn’t not write about what happened this past August.

It wasn’t the first time that I’d heard that argument. That argument abounded in the hours and days and weeks after the Air Canada debacle, in comments on the news stories and in blog posts and comments to blog posts, etc, etc. It was everywhere: typical privileged mommy blogger, taking to Twitter to harass a company until it gives her stuff. And: it’s disgusting, instead of dealing with company privately, she complained publicly in the hope that she’d get something. And: this is the problem with the Internet, it makes people feel all entitled and stuff. It’s the same argument that was leveled at Heather Armstrong when she complained publicly about Maytag. It’s a very popular argument among those who hate seeing others – especially mothers, although that is another topic entirely – raise their voices about anything. But here’s the thing about this argument: it contains some truths. It’s true that I’m privileged. It’s true that I was motivated, in discussing publicly what was happening with Air Canada, to get something. And it’s true that I felt entitled to get something as a result of that public discussion. But those truths don’t add up to the conclusion – that I was engaged in a selfish and nefarious enterprise, that anyone who complains about anything is engaged in such an enterprise – that the critics were (and, relevant to Anissa’s case, are) asserting.

Let’s start with the latter two truths: that I was, in discussing publicly what was happening with Air Canada, motivated to get something, and that I was entitled to get something as a result of that public discussion. My initial tweets about the destruction of the wheelchair were completely spontaneous – the chair had come to us in pieces, Tanner was distressed, my sister was huddled in a corner of La Guardia, sobbing – and, as I do pretty much reflexively when something extraordinary happens, I tweeted it. Air Canada killed Tanner’s chair, I said. They killed his chair. And they had. It was horrible. Tanner, who is unable to even sit upright without proper support, was balanced precariously and painfully in a collapsible hammock-style chair while his own, $10,000 custom chair sat in pieces before him. Hell yeah, I tweeted it. I wasn’t motivated by anything other than the need to express my alarm in a manner that didn’t involve sobbing at the baggage handler, but still. I tweeted.

But when Air Canada management showed up to address the issue, I calmed down. And I tweeted as much: Air Canada is dealing with it. Taking deep breaths. I told Twitter that I was giving Air Canada a chance to resolve the problem. It was only when Air Canada failed to resolve the problem as they’d promised, and in fact had made things worse by stranding Tanner with neither a repaired chair nor a replacement chair, that I went back to Twitter and pursued, again, the discussion. But even then, I didn’t do so to complain; I did so to get help. I went back to Twitter to ask Twitter if anyone, anyone, could help me find a phone number to reach someone at Air Canada who could help. The numbers we’d been given were going to voicemail, and Customer Service was decidedly un-servicey, and we were stranded with a disabled, terminally boy who didn’t understand why he couldn’t get out bed to use the toilet. So, yes, I took to Twitter. And I was motivated to get results. I was motivated to get help. And hell yes I felt entitled to that help. Air Canada had promised it. I had a means to pursue it. I intended to – and did – use that means, and use it hard.

Which leads us back to the first truth that I cited above: that I was, that I am, privileged. I am absolutely privileged. I had a means to pursue that to which I felt entitled. I had – have – a substantial number of Twitter followers, and friends (not least, this guy) with even more substantial numbers of Twitter followers, and the advantage of a very large and very social media engaged community following Tanner’s story. I can get a story out there, and when the story is one that someone like Alyssa Milano is following, I can get it even further. Not everyone can do this. I was and remain painfully aware of that fact. Painfully, because it’s unfair, and because the implications of that unfairness are distressing. If this had happened to my sister and Tanner when they were traveling on their own, they would have been shit out of luck. There would have been no social media recourse; no Twitter followers would have arranged for replacement wheelchairs to be sent to their hotel; no local restaurateurs would have sent meals while they were stranded; no Canadian politicians would have seen the story on the Internet and intervened to talk to Air Canada executives on their behalf. I received thousands of emails while we were in New York, and in the days following, and to this day, from disabled persons who had had similar experiences with airlines and other companies, who spoke of damaged wheelchairs and walkers and oxygen tanks and of inaccessibility and of shame, who asked if I could help them, if I could support their causes and campaigns and efforts to just get back that walker that was lost in baggage.

I can’t help every such person. Even if I could wave a magic wand and make the community of tutu-clad fairy god-nerds grow into a vast and powerful army of advocates (I wish, I wish), there would still not be enough virtual megaphones in play to ensure that every person gets the opportunity to have their voice heard, as they deserve. And therein resides the nub of the issue: we are all entitled to have our voices heard. We all deserve to have our voices heard. But there aren’t (yet) enough virtual megaphones to go around, and not enough virtual podiums to stand on, and not enough channels of broadcast and exchange accessible to enough people to allow for those voices to rise on their own. So those of us who do have access to those megaphones/podiums/broadcast channels have an obligation to use them, and to use them well, and to seize any opportunity that we can to use them on behalf of others. We just do.

The promise of the Internet and social media for public discourse is to make it possible for everyone to be included in that discourse, for everyone to have a voice, whether that voice is used to pass judgment on Ricky Gervais’ performance at the Golden Globes or to debate the finale of Lost or to share their experience of parenting or to get help with a customer service problem or to raise awareness of certain issues or, you know, change the world. We’re nowhere near there yet. But every time we push that discourse – to include other people, to include other topics, to create a climate of constructive criticism on matters that require such criticism (such as, for example, the adherence to principles of accessibility by airlines or mattress stores), to make it clear to everyone that, yes, you can and should use your voice – we get a little closer. And yes, sometimes that journey involves stumbling into potholes – there are always going to be people using their voices irresponsibly and inappropriately (what that means, exactly, requires another post entirely) and for what we might consider the wrong reasons – but the existence of potholes is not a reason to stop walking. We make this road by walking it, by pushing ahead, by using our voices as we would our feet and letting them carry us forward. But if we keep yelling at each other about the potholes, we’re never going to get anywhere.

Tanner eventually got his chair back, repaired as well as it could be. Air Canada made, and continues to make, every effort to make sure that the end of that story is a good one. They’re sending him (in partnership with Disney) to DisneyWorld, with his cousins, which is the wish at the very top of his life list. This wonderful, of course, and totally unexpected. Is it worth what we, what he, went through? No. I’d spend the money to make that trip happen myself, if it meant we could erase his experience of those five days, or even just his memory of any one of the people standing in front of him and saying, as if he wasn’t even there, this little boy is going to die soon! (Do not get me started on how that has messed with his head. DO NOT. ANGRY CATHERINE.) But – and here is a difficult contradiction – it was worth it, in some other, different ways. It was worth it for the awareness that it raised and the discussion that it provoked. It raised awareness and provoked discussion about the challenges that are faced by persons with disabilities – discussion that is, to understate things, difficult to generate and sustain among able-bodied persons – and about muscular dystrophy and, of course, about the power of social media to get voices heard. The Disney trip is nothing compared to this.

For me, anyway. For Tanner, the Disney trip is a magical, wonderful thing that is giving him something to smile about every day. He’s too young to be concerned about being heard and empowering voices and the power of social media for change, etc, etc, what-have-you. But I’m not. We’re not. We’re old enough and wise enough to know that those things matter more than meeting Mickey Mouse. And we’re privileged enough to be able to do something about them. So let’s do that. Let’s agree to try to focus on expanding the opportunities for discourse – for empowering voices, our own and those of others, and getting them heard – rather than looking for reasons to shut them down. Let’s keep stomping our feet (I am playing fast and loose with the metaphors now, I know) and moving forward and pulling as many people as we can along with us. Especially those whose feet can’t stomp.

Especially them.

“I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.” Thus spake Martin Luther King. Sort of.

He actually said this:

I have also decided to stick with love, for I know that love is ultimately the only answer  to mankind’s problems. And  I’m going  to  talk about it everywhere  I go. I know it isn’t popular to talk about it in some circles today. And I’m not talking about emotional bosh when  I talk about love; I’m talking about a strong, demanding  love.  For  I have seen  too much hate. I’ve seen too much hate on the faces of sheriffs in the South. I’ve seen hate on  the  faces of too many Klansmen and  too many White Citizens Councilors in  the South to want to hate, myself, because every time I see it, I know that it does something to their faces and their personalities, and I say to myself that hate is too great a burden to bear.  I have decided to love. If you are seeking the highest good, I think you can find it through love.

He’s right, of course. And he’s still right that talking about love isn’t popular in some circles, that for some, talk of love is just so much bosh and crap and none of us really believes that stuff, do we? Because talking about love is too easy, and real problems require real solutions, not sentimentalism, and isn’t everyone who prattles on about love at best a misguided optimist, of the cock-eyed variety, at worst an insincere manipulator, and shouldn’t we all just be getting angry?

No. No. Because nothing good was ever achieved through anger and hate. Because moving through the world wearing shit-colored glasses blinds us to the world-changing possibilities of hope and friendship and community and, yes, love. Because whether we’re talking about the assholes that wander the Internet looking for opportunities to spread ugliness and hostility or the pundits and politicos who put their enemies in crosshairs or the poor, miserable souls who think – or claim to think – that God tells them to hate – we’re talking about the same thing. We’re talking about the burden of hate. It drags us down. Whether it comes in small parcels or large, it weighs us down. It breaks our backs and it binds our arms and it (alongside, I would argue, apathy, which is just hate leached of its color and energy) is the thing that prevents us from seeing good and feeling good and realizing real change. It blinds us. It makes us ugly, and it makes it so that we can’t see how ugly we’ve become.

But. We can refuse it. We can decide to refuse the burden of hate; we can opt to not let it touch our shoulders. We can choose to stick with love, whatever that looks like. We can choose to stick with love. It’s not always easy – I get angry; I get lots angry and I get bitchy and I sometimes really struggle with the whole love thy neighbor thing because, seriously, the global neighborhood includes people like the Westboro Baptists – but still. We can choose to stick with love.

Let’s.

Please.

(Consider doing a kindness today. Consider doing two.)

This film was previewed at TED Women in December. I was there. I cried. I also laughed – a lot – but the crying really ruined my make-up, so. They were good tears, though: this is a moving, inspiring, empowering film. You should try to see it.

It was released yesterday. Really, find some way to see it, will you?

Bande Annonce Women Are Heroes
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