Marching Orders: We aren’t even nearly there yet.

I have felt a lot of guilt over the last seven months. I may not have fully understood the purpose of my marching journey at the time, but every day since then, I have been learning and processing the reality that it was never meant to be about the healing that I needed. Not being able to follow through with more activism has gnawed at me, and made me feel like I am, once again, not doing my part to right wrongs. I am sure that I am not the only one who has felt that over the course of the last year.

So, this time, a year ago, I was on a bus with 53 other would-be Arkansan marchers. It had been a long day, and we were still hours from our stopping point for the night. We would only be able to sleep for a few hours before getting right back on the bus to finish our journey to Washington, D.C.

At the time, I was on that bus because my broken and angry heart needed some kind of closure for what felt like the incomprehensible loss of reason and decency in my country. Reeling from the sheer exhaustion of a daylong ride in a cramped bus, and all of the questionable dietary choices along the way, I started to realize the weight of our purpose.

A year later, I feel like I am still only at the beginning of that realization.

I understand that the hours I spent on that bus, and then marching with a sea of other people never truly came to a conclusion. I understand that many of us who were first time marchers arrived in the middle of a march that had already been led by others for generations, and will likely continue forever. I am aware that I was late in my arrival, that I didn’t fully comprehend my own motivation, and that I didn’t know enough about the journeys of those who came before, and those who had experienced true suffering in our nation. I understand that for many, the reason and decency I was only now feeling the loss of, had been absent from the lives of so many others around me, and so many who had come and gone before.

I don’t know if that qualifies me as “woke,” or if I will ever earn the right to be dignified with that honor. No, I am not looking for a pat on the back, or a cookie. I just feel deeply that I want to understand, and I want to do better everyday.

A friend of mine recently described me as being a person who “oozes compassion.” I take that as a compliment in a world where it is so easy to get caught up in self and in your own problems. When I see the pain of others, I just cannot shut it out. I cannot just go about my day, living my semi-charmed life.

One thing a gathering of like-spirited people can do is to light a fire within us for purpose. I know that happened to me last year. And I use “like-spirited” instead of “like-minded,” because I believe that caring about the hurts and wrongs done to others, and in our country, runs so much deeper to our cores than the simple intellectualization of right and wrong.

Iknow I changed. I think many others did as well. But I know there is so much further to go.

In the year since the Woman’s March, we have seen more women than ever emerge as candidates for political office. We have seen people of color, and people from the LGBTQ Community lead campaigns to victory. We have seen hopeful glimmers of a sea change in the way our society treats women who report crimes of sexual misconduct, harassment and assault.

And it’s true, we have seen many terrible things as well. We have seen the masks and hoods lifted from those who previously tried to conceal their racism and bigotry. We have seen a rise in hate crimes against minorities, immigrants, Muslims, and members of the LGBTQ community. We have seen the truth behind the lie of “family values” voters who would cast a ballot for a pedophile, but still decry the dangers of a trans woman urinating in the bathroom stall next to them.

We have also seen our country dragged through the swamp of corruption, likely treasonous activity, embarrassing ignorance at all levels, pettiness, and lies. We have watched our leadership do what many of us expected—give huge benefits to corporations and the wealthy at the expense of average Americans, especially the working poor whites who voted for them. We have watched the dismantling of institutions and protections for the environment. We have seen voting rights diminished. The list seems almost endless.

One day of marching didn’t stop terrible things from happening. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it only took one day to fix everything that is so broken? But the many souls who have marched throughout history, and who have been marching all their lives know something we tender-footed first-time marchers are only starting to learn.

One march is a single step—a drop in the bucket—of what must be a lifelong path of rising up for each other. And our march cannot end with us. It’s true—there may be times when we must sit on the sidelines, and simply cheer others on. And that is why we have to pass the flame of hope and perseverance to anyone who can and will carry it forward. The March is long. The stakes are high. It cannot be walked by one person.

It was always meant to be walked together.

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