I am lying in bed with my sleeping child at my breast on a perfect New Orleans day. Early spring: the precious warm bright days and cool crisp nights of the Lenten season. I can hear the neighbors making music: impromptu jams and traditional medlodies mingle in the air.
I am thinking about how this day has been dedicated to women, and how women are demonstrating for their rights. For my part, I feel ambivalent about this as a Day of Action. I have done nothing to mark the occasion — not even a paltry social media gesture, much less any concerted political action.
Instead, I spent this morning expanding the scope of my lawyering influence, getting admitted to practice in another federal district court. I did not wear red. I spent money on coffee. And I don’t think the little ways I have failed to outwardly demonstrate solidarity matter nearly so much as my commitment to social justice lawyering and revolutionary mothering. Does not my life’s work against systemic oppression resolve me of the obligation to participate in everyday acts of resistance?