This Wednesday, February 12, 2020, marks my 33rd monthly visit to the White House since May of 2017. It also marks the 211th birthday of one of my childhood heroes: Abraham Lincoln.

The 16th President of the United States and I go way back to grade school. I attended a small, parochial school in Southern California. The discipline was pretty light-handed, though there was one math teacher who would occasionally throw chalk at students who weren’t paying attention.

Somehow, gum chewing was featured as an extreme violation. While I don’t recollect any particular Bible passages that support this, the punishment for getting caught was to hand-write 10 pages copied out of the encyclopedia. And I got caught quite often. Sometimes I wonder if this wasn’t my way of having my gum and chewing it, too. I got to engage in an illicit activity and then spend time during recess learning about random stuff instead of having to participate in middle-school schoolyard drama. Win-win.

Mr. Riordan (name has been changed to protect the well-intentioned) was especially adept at catching me. My name would go on the board, with a “10” next to it. If I turned in the blue-lined, lead-smudged pages on Friday, everything was erased ready to start fresh on Monday. If I didn’t get them done, the number of pages would double for the following week. More learning fun!

I wrote my pages on Abraham Lincoln almost every time. Of course, I admired him for the most fundamental of grade-school reasons: this President abolished slavery! My innate sense of justice held tight to this most noble fact. I also loved that he was self-taught, and I saw myself reflected in his voracious appetite for reading. I still see in my mind an image of him as a young man in a log cabin, with nothing more than the light of a single candle illuminating the words he so readily devoured.

Whether this image is from a drawing or whether it’s been conjured over the years, I don’t know. I do know that my interaction with this man on the pages of Encyclopedia Britannica’s “K-L”, whose portrait shared space with George Washington on the bulletin board every February, was one of warmth and positivity. A shining example of what America stood for.

Many decades later as an adult, I read Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln by Doris Kearns Goodwin. And I didn’t have to copy any of it in longhand! This wonderful book deepened my understanding of who he was as a politician and a person. He wasn’t as perfect as my grade-school mind wanted him to be. Inevitably, the book examined his flaws, his complexity, his sometimes problematic attitudes about race, even while paving the way to the 13th Amendment. Lincoln was a kind soul, a devoted parent, a deep thinker. He gathered people to him and sought understanding, if not agreement. He built relationships with those who opposed him and sought counsel in unlikely places so that he could be the best leader possible for all Americans, even in one of our most divisive times in history.

Yesterday, Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Vindman was escorted from the White House complex. That this decorated veteran who testified under oath during the House impeachment hearings has been retaliated against by this vulgar authoritarian who inexplicably holds the highest office in the land is a disgrace. I am horrified for our democracy as our children, as the world, bear witness to a dictatorship in the making. I feel paralyzed by powerlessness in the face of those who would use their power to punish and control, not to lead and encourage.

But with Lt. Col. Vindman as inspiration, I refuse to let despair, helplessness, hopelessness take hold. Authoritarianism will not wrest the narrative away from those who do what is right, even when it is hard, away from those who put the American people first and their political party second.

So on Wednesday, I will claim the name of Abraham Lincoln, a Republican whose name the current administration and all Senators who voted to acquit last week have no right to pass through their lips.

On Wednesday, I will talk with fellow citizens and people from around the world to let them know that there are masses of us willing to fight for our democracy.

On Wednesday, I will be on the north side of the White House to say: truth still matters, right still matters, hope still matters.

I haven’t written for well over a year. You know, life and stuff. To recap: I’m a California mom who has been demonstrating in front of the White House one day a month since May 2017. Upcoming dates are at www.meetupspeakout.com. Thanks for reading!

It’s not uncommon, while I stand in front of the White House on one of my monthly trips, to hear someone say, “Get a job!” This is not shared in the spirit of an encouraging exhortation like, “go get ’em, tiger!” or, “please contribute your unique talents to the workforce for the greater good of society!” The phrase is spit out of pursed lips; the words dripping with disdain and tinged with anger.

It’s funny. Other activities I engage in on weekdays don’t encounter the same criticism. If I’m enjoying a museum, or having coffee with a friend, or hanging out at a park with my daughter, not a single person tells me to “Get a job!” After all why would they? I’m just engaging in typical daily life. So why can’t activism also be considered typical daily life?

“Get a job!” What comes through most clearly is the fear bubbling up behind these words. I want to ask: “Why is my presence with a sign such a threat? Isn’t this a foundation of our democracy, ideally and practically, that we can express our views of the government without fear of persecution? Why does it bother you so much that I am taking my free time to engage in activism as a citizen of this country that I love?” I never get a chance to ask people these questions, because they are usually walking by very quickly or yelling it from a distance in a display of good old-fashioned passive aggression.

I have a job. I own a business, pay plenty of taxes (last year’s tax cut wasn’t meant for people in my bracket), help my spouse maintain a household and provide for our child like an honest to goodness adult. I certainly didn’t embark on this journey expecting to be agreed with all of the time. Over these two plus years, I’ve had plenty of great, difficult, annoying conversations with people who don’t agree with me; but I did not expect the downright contempt with which some of my fellow citizens regard my mere presence.

The assumption that I’m not a contributing member of the tax base isn’t the only perspective I’ve encountered. I’ve been asked a few times, “what does your husband do?” The assumption here is that my husband is the sole breadwinner with a salary that affords me the money and the time to be able to engage in this “cute little hobby.” This situation sounds pretty comfortable, right? But, again, it’s far from the truth.

So, if I’m not a mooching troublemaker and I’m not a bored housewife, then what’s the deal?

What if I’m just a regular person who, 30 months ago, experienced a calling that made my heart tremble because I felt like I wasn’t capable? What if the idea seemed too “out there” but I couldn’t stop thinking about it? What if I was sick of worrying about the state of the country but could also think of a dozen reasons why monthly visits to the White House were impossible?

On the other hand, what if my “what ifs?” finally turned into “how?”

I’m not saying that figuring out the “how” is easy, but it’s possible. Our family makes room in the monthly budget for airfare, my amazing spouse takes care of everything while I’m gone, and my local DC family lends me a bed, feeds me home cooked meals, gives me loads of hugs, and devotes a corner of the guest room to all of my sign-making materials. All of this is part of daily life. And it’s a different kind of job. The job of being a citizen.

Is there a calling burning in your heart that you know will have a positive impact but the “what ifs” seem insurmountable? What activism have you dismissed because it seems impractical? How do you want to design your sacred job of being a citizen of the United States of America?

Once you make the choice, the “how” will find you. I made a choice, and I’m astonished that I’ve been able to keep going for 30 months. Astonish yourself. Experience what you are capable of when you aren’t held back by the “how.”

Entering 2018, I am reinvigorated to fight. I know “fight” can sound aggressive, which is not how I would characterize my personal approach to resistance. Yet I question myself. Should I be more aggressive? Am I speaking loudly enough? Why can’t I manage to write a blog post every month? Why do hot Italian subs taste so good on protest days?

But I am who I am, and I fight how I fight. Not fighting against. Fighting for.

This past December, my 11 year-old daughter and I were in the car when a story came on the radio about the acreage of some national monuments, like Bears Ears in Utah, being reduced. She asked why, and I told her that our current government wanted oil and mining companies to have more access to our public lands.

She immediately started crying. Through tears and between sobs, I was heralded with this litany: “What about the animals? It’s our job to take care of them! What about the trees? We need them for oxygen! When we run and then pant, that’s how our body gets oxygen into our lungs! How are we supposed to run? Why are they doing this? For money?”

With the young person I love the most in the world crying in my back seat, I drove on and gently murmured mom-isms. “I know, honey, it’s really sad.” “I love the heart you have for animals.” “It’s really hard to think about.”

By the time we got to the driveway, though, I turned around to the back seat, tears blazing in my own eyes, with these words: “I will fight. I promise you I will fight. And there are others fighting, and we are supporting them. We will all keep fighting.”

So what am I fighting for?

I am fighting for a country that places a higher value on drinkable water and breathable air than on squeezing every last drop, every last rock out of public lands to enrich an already-wealthy industry.

I am fighting for a country that is outraged when its president and his family directly, openly, and illegally, profit from his position and policies.

I am fighting for a country that makes thoughtful, transparent decisions for the common welfare, instead of ramming through unpopular, poorly examined, life-changing legislation in the dead of night.

I am fighting for a country that believes when we take responsibility for our most vulnerable citizens’ health, we are saying something important about who we are.

I am fighting for a country that lives “family values” by figuring out how to keep families together, not thoughtlessly tearing them apart.

I am fighting for a country that will not accept mindless brutality and deadly force against people of color by officers of the law.

I am fighting for a country that says quality education and voting opportunities for all are things to be championed, not dismantled.

I am fighting for a country that welcomes well-vetted immigrants from all over the world to strengthen the fabric of our society, not one that holds certain countries, certain colors in disdain.

I am fighting for a country that thrives on hope, not one that feeds on fear.

I am fighting for my child. For your child. For all children. Yes, including those of Donald Trump and his enablers. In the wise words of Rev. Traci Blackmon, “ALL children are our children.”

This is what my fight looks like: continuing my monthly trips to Washington, D.C. under the mantle of Meet UP Speak OUT; staying as informed as possible through trusted news sources; calling my members of Congress; praying like crazy; and hanging on to hope.

I have made a Sacred Mama Promise to fight.

What does YOUR fight look like?

I will be in front of the White House on January 19, so stop by and say hi! If you are interested in seeing videos from my past visits, please visit Meet Up Speak Out’s Facebook page. Consider giving it a follow if you want to see more from future visits.

Just moments ago I wrote in an email to someone who was inquiring about Meet Up Speak Out, “I don’t know if it’s doing any good but I can sleep a little better at night.” I sent the email and then stopped to really think about that phrase: “I don’t know if it’s doing any good.”

Why did I rethink? Here’s why:

-The educator from Chicago who took a photo with the DACA sign to print out when she got home. It’s going on the bulletin board in her office so that her Dreamer students can see that people do care about this issue and want them to stay.

-The businessman who, after finishing a client meeting inside the White House, told me that he felt he needed a shower after being there. He didn’t know what to do so he wandered a little and our paths crossed. Our subsequent conversation was a figurative soap and washcloth.

-The prayer group that prayed with me, without vetting my politics, to open the hearts and minds of our leaders and fill them with love and compassion.

-The Muslim woman of Syrian descent who talked with me about her children, both American citizens, who were worried that they would get sent away after the election.

-The couple who supported Trump, with whom I had a lengthy and calm conversation. None of us were going to change our minds but we had a chance to ask each other questions and clarify positions. Just like grown ups!

-The father/daughter anti-abortion activists who were interested in my signs and in my views about choice. Again, we didn’t change each other’s minds but we found insight and maybe even a little bit of understanding. They thanked me for not just yelling and swearing at them, which sounds like happens quite a bit.

-The powerful feeling of being part of a trio of protesting women — one of whom I’d just met that day and the other who has joined me 3 times since we connected in June.

-The surprising conversation with a gentleman from Nashville who I placed in a certain ideological box while he was walking by. I was starkly reminded that I shouldn’t create those boxes when he came up to me, shook my hand and thanked me for being out there.

-The teenaged boy who was being intentionally loud in expressing his very conservative viewpoints. A friend told him, while giving me a side eye, “Dude, keep it down.” I responded, “Don’t keep it down. It’s the First Amendment, you’re allowed to speak your mind. If you can’t do it here in front of the White House, where can you do it?”

-The excitement from a woman who had come all the way from Chicago with her signs that perfectly complemented the ones I had that day.

-The group of 50 African-American women from Los Angeles who hugged and photographed and made my day. I can’t believe I don’t have a single photo from those whirlwind moments, but here’s the sign that was featured in the photos.

-The young men behind the counter at the café who insisted that, because of my DACA sign, they would not let me pay for my iced tea.

Upon reflection, those moments feel like a lot of the good I wasn’t sure about when I wrote that email. I’m not giving all of these examples to say how great I am for being out there. I’m already chagrined by how many times the pronouns “I” and “me” appear in this document. I’m just a mom with a sign. This is something I felt called to do without much expectation on what would unfold. And it has all been unexpected, both what I’m learning from others and the roles that I’m playing in these different interactions.

For some I am a conduit for cleansing conversation. For others, I provide a touchstone of hope in a time of need. And yet for others, I am a progressive who is willing to engage with them even though they think differently. For some I may be a comfort, a stress, a nutjob or anything in between. I hope that for all, I am a reminder about the importance of preserving our First Amendment freedoms.

As a person of faith I am compelled to take a quick sidebar on the First Amendment: religious freedom does not give us the right to discriminate. If anything, it charges us with the responsibility to protect the rights of all.

Meet Up Speak Out’s original purpose was not just so I could sleep better (although I admit it’s a nice side effect). It was to create an opportunity for people to come together without having to wait for an officially organized protest. I am reiterating my invitation here and now to anyone who is interested and available — please come join me. If not this month, then the month after that, or the month after that. Unfortunately, I don’t see an end in sight so you’ll have plenty of choices.

I know that money and time are at a premium and if you can’t make it, I understand. I truly appreciate your support in many other ways. But if you can, do. It’s not that I’m lonely, though I would welcome the company as well as the opportunity to share my snacks. I want you to experience being out there for one day or one afternoon or one hour and the impact it makes on you and those around you, in ways that you never expected.

If you are interested in seeing videos from my past visits, please visit Meet Up Speak Out’s Facebook page. Consider giving it a follow if you want to see more from future visits.

Nuclear war, dreams, arrests, redacted profanity, and references to obscure 1980s pop songs — this post has it all. So let’s get started with the thing that’s on all of our minds lately: nuclear war.

I used to dream about nuclear war often as a teenager — not surprising since it was the mid 1980s and our relationship with the Soviet Union focused on the mutuality of our mistrust and our nuclear warheads. Movies and television shows reacted with War Games, The Day After, and Threads to name just a few. And then there was music, the primary fuel of teenaged emotions, heightened by videos on the upstart cable channel “MTV”. Yeah, they used to play music videos. The intimate, bittersweet goodbyes in “Dancing with Tears in My Eyes” by Ultravox and the ridiculous Wrestlemania battle between Reagan and Gorbachev in “Two Tribes” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood were perfect windows into the soul of the big-haired Cold War of my middle youth.

Fast forward to 2017. Our relationship with Russia is mired in collusion and conflict. (Are we frenemies? Is nu-clee-er now pronounced nu-kyoo-ler? I don’t even know anymore.) We are experiencing an unstable world order largely due to our own unstable head of state. So even before all of this current North Korea business, in March of this year my subconscious anxieties came roaring back.

I had a vivid dream featuring a giant mushroom cloud. My first thought in my dream, when I saw the cloud, was: “Well, he’s finally done it. He’s gotten us blown up.” My second thought was: “Will I ever see my husband and my daughter again?” My third thought, the brain kindly protecting me, was: “Where are the emergency exits and where is the first aid kit?” Then I woke abruptly. It was 4:00 a.m. I cried on the couch, finally able to react to the deepest sorrow of my dream — that my family, and families everywhere, would be torn apart, disconnected forever. When I was done crying, I prayed. And when I was done praying, I got to work.

That work became Meet UP Speak OUT. On July 13th, I completed my 3rd visit.

My husband and 10-year-old daughter joined me for the first half of this hot, humid summer day.

We started with a quick visit to the White House and then headed over to the headquarters of the Friends Committee on National Legislation, where we joined in a march against the reintroduced Senate healthcare bill. This interfaith group, including members of the Christian, Jewish and Muslim traditions, ended up outside of Senator Mitch McConnell’s office.

Though not all scheduled speakers were able to speak before the crowd was dispersed, Rev. Jennifer Butler, Rev. Dr. Traci Blackmon, and Rev. Dr. William J. Barber II were powerful witnesses in front of the many cameras outside of the Senator’s office. They spoke more eloquently than I could ever summarize, so please view their remarks posted HERE. It’s time well-spent.

My family and I chose to disperse when the police made their announcement; however, we did stay farther down the hallway to support those who were being arrested. I don’t know how much will stick with my daughter in the years to come, but I hope that this experience of civil disobedience in action will inform a foundation of confidence as an active citizen.

We made it back to the White House in time to see super-couple Marione and Daniel. I have such deep respect for these two people who consistently show up. I’m not just talking about meeting me for Meet UP Speak OUT dates, I mean they SHOW UP (and have for decades) as citizens who consistently put their time and personal comfort on the line in the name of democracy.

Later in the afternoon — family gone, sun blazing — I was met with a sight so beautiful it could have been a mirage. My wonderful friend Clarissa, all the way from Los Angeles, walked up wearing a hat and a smile and offering an iced espresso. I believe it was Catherine the Great who said, “She who has a friend and caffeine can conquer the world.” (Ok, maybe she didn’t say it. But I’ll bet she thought it.)

We stood with our signs; we talked with many people from all over the world. Her presence was a reminder that community, whether between two people, two hundred people, two million people, is powerful. As a native of Venezuela, she has inspired me to learn more about the situation there and I’m sure I’ll be joining her one of these days to lift voices on behalf of the Venezuelan people.

To wrap up, I’d like to share another incident that stuck with me that day. As my family stood outside getting ready to march to the Senate office building, someone drove by and yelled out of his car window, “Get a [expletive] job!” I have a full-time job. I work hard. I pay taxes. And I have another job (besides my other full-time job of being a parent). That job is to engage in the democratic process by showing up for and speaking out on issues that mean something to me. This is exactly how I explained it to my daughter who heard (and was surprised by) this angry outcry.

Being informed, getting engaged, and exercising First Amendment rights all make a difference. At this writing the healthcare bill proposed by the Senate has fizzled out. Take heart that if you called or wrote or marched, you made a difference. I am now hoping that there will be a bi-partisan effort to improve on the Affordable Care Act, instead of trying to dismantle it to finance tax cuts.

I know, sometimes it feels like hoping just takes too much energy. Sometimes holding love for everyone, even those we disagree with, feels exhausting. But it’s worth the energy. Find a friend with some caffeine and keep it up.

Meet UP Speak OUT will be in front of the White House again on August 24, doing my job from 9 to 5. Please join if you are able!

Unlike my previous visit on May 11, it was a beautiful, sunny day. A day for sunblock and sunglasses, not umbrellas and galoshes.

I arrived at 9 a.m., once again the only person with a sign. I felt confident in my morning isolation, though, especially on the heels of my previous visit. “I’m getting pretty good at this,” I thought to myself. “Standing around, getting stared at and surreptitiously photographed. I’ve got to add this to my resume.” Many summertime tourists were about, and not too happy when the Secret Service Police closed Pennsylvania Avenue and Lafayette Square for about 45 minutes as they cleared the way for a motorcade. During the closure I walked back and forth on H Street NW, just north of the park. A busy sidewalk was an unexpected location for demonstrating, and I received plenty of glances (some sidelong, some not) from pedestrians and passengers in vehicles. I admit to feeling a bit uncomfortable but after traveling all the way across the country, I was determined to maximize my First Amendment sign-time.

After the motorcade passed (yes, I think it was 45 and yes, I made sure to hold up my sign REALLY high!), we were able to get back to the White House. I was greeted with a heartening sight: someone else with a sign! Maxine from the D.C. area proudly held her sign that said “Women Can’t Afford Trumpcare.” Then things really started moving along. Marione and Daniel, the inspiring couple I met in May who are consistent demonstrators, arrived. Their presence made my day.

And then, Big Dave showed up. This man with a smile as big as his name is traveling the country, giving out hugs and high fives. Naturally, I asked for (and received) both.

Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any better, friends of Marione and Daniel who demonstrate with them periodically during lunch hours arrived. Engaging in lively conversation and feeling like part of something bigger made me sad to leave this group, but I had committed to making my way over to the Capitol building in anticipation of the Planned Parenthood march against the healthcare bill. On my way to the Capitol, I walked by Trump International Hotel located right on Pennsylvania Avenue, less than a mile from the White House. Who can tell me with a straight face that it’s totally fine that the Trump family is profiting at the taxpayers’ expense? The rest of my walk to the Capitol was fueled by angry emoluments clause ruminations. My foul mood was mitigated somewhat when I walked by the Newseum with the First Amendment carved into the front of the building, a reminder that I had a duty to channel my anger into something constructive, to continue to participate in sacred resistance.

Not much was happening at the Capitol when I arrived and, quite frankly, I was exhausted from being in the sun for much of the day. I collapsed on the lawn for a moment and then wandered around and ran into Eric from Philadelphia. He came in specifically for the Planned Parenthood march and was getting some advance sign time in. This side of his sign was designed by his 8 year-old!

Thankfully, it was time for some spiritual grounding. I was fortunate enough to experience the beginning of a 24-hour interfaith vigil, featuring faith leaders from the three Abrahamic traditions (Christianity, Islam, and Judaism). Unlike my first visit, which was filled with quiet contemplation, the day up to this point had been packed with energetic interactions. So I welcomed the chance to regroup mentally and prayerfully remember why I made this trip. I loved being able to step back and reflect on the ancient spiritual calling to treat our fellow human beings with compassion and respect. Neither of which the Senate healthcare bill is accomplishing, by the way.

Then on to the Planned Parenthood march — the promised human chain didn’t materialize but at least we got to hear from Chuck Schumer, Kamala Harris, Corey Booker and others at the end of the march, with a bonus Pod Save America sighting.

So, back to perfection. This blog post isn’t perfect. And neither is democracy. Both of these things I have to accept. My June 28th visit crystallized something that I want to work on. I want to engage more with people who disagree with me, at least those who are willing to have a meaningful conversation. Sure, getting gestures of support like head nods, fist bumps, and thumbs up was great. Yet I heard comments throughout the day in response to my sign “Healthcare is a right, not a privilege” such as: “wrong, wrong, wrong” and “you’ve got it backwards.” And plenty of “Pshh.” I regret not engaging the “wrong” person in a conversation. I don’t know how it would have turned out, but I know it’s worth the effort. It’s something that does not come naturally to me and kind of scares me if I’m being honest with myself. We are so divided, though; it can’t hurt to try and talk to one another. The exchange of ideas between citizens and government is a hallmark of our democracy, as is the First Amendment. Now is the time to engage. We can’t wait for perfection.

Meet UP Speak OUT dates for 2017 are: July 13, August 24, September 15, October 26, November 14, December 11

It’s done! My first “Meet UP Speak OUT” visit to the White House is complete. Thursday, May 11 was a cold, wet, and wonderful day. So wonderful, in fact, that I’m struggling with writing this piece because there is so much to say.

Let’s back up a little, to May 10. I was on the ground on the east coast with a belly full of homemade pie goodness, courtesy of my talented cousin, and a heart full of hugs from her energetic trio of kids. After checking the weather report confirming it was going to rain all day, I did my best to fall asleep on Eastern time. My anxiety gave way to excitement. I felt READY. Modular, double-sided, six-sign system? Check. One blank sheet and an extra Sharpie just in case I needed a new message during the day because who knows what’s going to happen next? Check. Mobile phone charger? Check. Umbrella? Check. Galoshes that my cousin happened to have in her car that she was going to return but they fit me perfectly so I bought them from her so my feet would stay dry and warm? Check. A peace-filled spirit, knowing I was called to do this? Check.

And finally sleep.

The next morning, I arrived at the White House at 9:00. I felt strangely compelled to make sure I was there on time, even though I wasn’t meeting anyone. Today, this was my job and I meant to do it right.

The weather report didn’t lie. It was raining. It rained on me as I walked and stood and prayed, it rained on my sign system valiantly fighting to stay together, and it rained on the many school groups visiting the White House. No one else was out protesting that morning except for the permanent protest on the edge of Lafayette Park. One high school teacher approached me and thanked me for being there. “We’re learning about the First Amendment today,” he said. I couldn’t have been more pleased to be a living example of free speech (and a possible photo prop) for the many groups of young people who passed by that day.

“Affordable Healthcare is a Right, Not a Luxury.” “Women: 51% of the U.S. Population. 0% of the Senate healthcare work group.” “Stop Separating Families.” These are some of the signs that eventually disintegrated in the sideways rain. After about 90 minutes I’d given my foam core to the permanent protesters for their own use. I folded my stack of paper into a small square and wrote “Choose Love, Not Fear” to tide me over until lunchtime. And I walked and stood and prayed.

After a while my belly rumbled for a sandwich, and my extremities cried out for a warm, dry place. Sandwich? Check. Dried out paper, refolded with a couple of new messages? Check. Toasty hands and feet? Check. Recharged mobile phone? Check. Let’s go!

The afternoon brought more walking and standing and praying with my revised, smaller signs. One side reiterated my “Affordable Healthcare…” sentiment, while the other said “Independent Investigation NOW!” The afternoon also brought connection.

Right when I returned from lunch, I spoke with a snappily dressed couple standing purposefully with a #RESIST sign under plastic. (“Smart,” I thought to myself. “Wish I’d thought of that. Next time, lamination!”) Daniel and Marione have been together for 60 years. She is an author and a Holocaust survivor, and they are both clearly dedicated to democracy in action. After the inauguration, they were at the White House every day for 2 months. Now they come out every Thursday around lunch. I know I will be seeing them again!

Another significant connection that afternoon was with a group of young people who were spending the week with Close Up DC to study government and the foundations of our democracy. That day they were learning about protests, so once again I was a handy teaching tool! Hearing their experiences and listening to their questions gave me much needed hope for our future. And it gave me extra motivation to keep walking and standing and praying until my “shift” was over at 5:00 p.m.

In spite of the less than ideal weather, the day was over too soon. I won’t lie — I was excited to get into a nice warm car when my cousin’s husband picked me up on the corner of Pennsylvania and 17th. But the next day I felt sad that I had to leave — that I couldn’t spend the day in front of the White House again, that I had to wait until June 28.

I’m back home now, thankful for the embrace of my husband and daughter in the bright Southern California sunshine. But it feels like it’s still raining. The current storm of news fills me with anger: Sessions trying to bring back mandatory minimum sentences that target communities of color and enrich the private prison industry; members of Congress complicit in the face of an incompetent administration while pursuing their cruel desire to decimate affordable healthcare; our “Commander-in-Chief” sharing classified information in a desperate, thoughtless attempt to be liked.

And yet, hope remains. The Supreme Court has declined to hear the repressive North Carolina voter ID law, effectively rendering it obsolete; the Senate has upheld a regulation to control the release of methane from oil and gas wells on public land; U.S. Bank has become the first major bank to stop financing pipeline construction (making me seriously consider changing banks); and people I know, as well as people I don’t know, are lovingly supporting me in this endeavor.

Hope must remain. We are the sun that shines through the rainclouds. We must walk and stand and pray for our children, for ALL children.

Upcoming dates for Meet UP Speak OUT are: June 28, July 13, August 24. Visit www.meetupspeakout.com for more information.

In one week I will be standing in front of the White House with a sign, standing as close as I can get considering the new 24-hour sidewalk closure. Yesterday, I started to feel anxious about my visit and I’m trying to figure out what’s got me on edge. Maybe it’s the recent headlines: the puzzling conviction of Ms. Fairooz, who was arrested for laughing out loud during Jeff Sessions’ confirmation hearing; the senseless killing of Jordan Edwards; or James Comey’s massive understatement that he feels “mildly nauseous” for having possibly changed the course of the election. Maybe it’s the healthcare vote that’s supposedly happening today, a callous and poorly vetted attempt to save money on the backs of the most vulnerable Americans. Maybe it’s the rumor of an executive order that will expand religious “freedom” by sanctioning discrimination.

Maybe it’s because I don’t know what I’m going to do with my sign when I have to use the restroom. And what restroom am I going to use? And what am I thinking, just picking up and going to Washington by myself? What if I unknowingly commit a minor District of Columbia infraction and find myself on the wrong side of the law? After all, if laughter can get you arrested who knows what else can? Will I get off at the right Metro stop? Will there be a decent sandwich shop within walking distance?

It’s all making me mildly nauseous, and at the same time I feel absolutely certain that this is what I’m called to be doing at this moment. I am not a seasoned activist or a practiced protester. I am a person who needed to do something and this is the path I’ve chosen.

So if you happen to be in Washington, D.C. on May 11, stop by to say hi. Look for “Meet UP Speak OUT” on my sign (and maybe hold it for me while I run to the restroom).