No Quilts for Me

Fifty years ago, my father was urged to run for mayor in our small city just north of Buffalo, New York. I was intrigued with the possibility of being the First Daughter, but my mother didn’t share my enthusiasm. My dad’s first inclination was to run for office, but upon further consideration (and a tallying up of the personal cost), he stepped out of the race. Thus ended “my” political prospects.

As an adult, my chosen profession took seriously the separation between church and state. As a Salvation Army officer, I was expected to remain apolitical in my public pronouncements and circumspect in sharing my personal views (much easier to legislate in the dark ages before social media). While I voted regularly and spoke to injustice on a non-partisan basis, I was careful to keep my political opinions to myself.

Now, four years after retirement from full-time Salvation Army work, I’m free to speak, campaign, and plant yard signs in full view if I so choose (if my spouse and I can agree). Yet I remain hesitant, not sure if it’s safe to go public for my choice of candidate, as Jessica Bennett explained in her recent New York Times article, “Status Update: I’m with Her.” She quotes Danielle Thomson, identifying with “women [in previous centuries] who made quilts to express their political beliefs in a way that wouldn’t ruffle any feathers.” I’m with you, Danielle.

Yet when I heard that Hillary Clinton was coming to Cleveland on the 13th, I thought maybe it was time. Yet by Saturday night, I’d decided to pass on that event, not quite ready for prime time, I’m afraid. But then the news began to trickle in on Sunday morning. A shooting. Twenty dead. No, there were more, fifty in all. More than one hundred people mowed down while enjoying a late night in an Orlando club. Forty-nine dead, leaving bereft family and friends. One dead, a mass murderer. A grief-stricken community, a country shaken once again.

Waking up on Monday morning, I was torn. My project plate was full, but something was drawing me to stand with fellow Americans in this time, and so I headed north on I-71.

First impressions. Entering the industrial park rally site, I gladly offered my purse for inspection, walking through the metal detector with gratitude, reassured by the visible presence of local police officers and Secret Service agents. I generally don’t look over my shoulder, but given the terror of Orlando, the “what if” scenario did cross my mind.

What a microcosm of America. Young, old, male, female, people of all colors. High heels, sneakers, flip-flops and wingtips each had a story to tell. One nine-year-old girl came with her grandmother to celebrate her birthday in a historically significant way with a political rally and the promise of ice cream. Not a bad combination.

I expected more hoopla; vibrant music, balloons, red, white and blue bunting, political signs. Instead, the assembled crowd had a subdued sense of anticipation, many aware of a change in direction for the rally. Instead of a speech on economic revitalization, Clinton began with these words: “Today is not a day for politics.”  

Clinton continued: “No matter how many times we endure attacks like this, the horror never fades. The murder of innocent people breaks our hearts, tears at our sense of security and makes us furious . . . The Orlando terrorist may be dead, but the virus that poisoned his mind remains very much alive.”

What I know about myself is that my skin is too thin to ‘put it out there’ each week, preferring grand-mothering highlights instead. But I – and we – cannot ignore this virus of hatred, replicating inside the living cells of other organisms. Regardless of our political affiliation or ideology, we must act when hatred so blatantly seeks to attack who we are as a people, as Americans.

As Clinton noted, when Muslim-Americans were threatened following 9-11, President Bush responded with these words: “That should not, and that will not, stand in America.” In the face of the virus of hatred, no matter its source or symptoms, his words bear repeating.