“Join the rising,” read the invitation. So my wife Sheila and I did.
We had to have been the oldest couple who showed up. Our collective age is 152 years, and I’m three years shy of 80. You do the math on Sheila. Neither of us can resist a good cause. Going back to the civil rights marches and the Vietnam protests of the 60s, not to mention Earth Day, Code Pink, Iraq and the Occupy Movement, this old couple has attempted to “walk the talk” as the expression goes. I even attempted to “paddle my talk” in a kayak as part of the mosquito fleet that protested the Glacier gravel mine two years ago.
What we’ve never done before is “dance the talk.” One Billion Rising was a choreographed dance on Valentine’s Day by women (and the men who love them) to shake the planet’s complacency and acceptance of violence against females. “No more abuses, no more excuses,” sang the participants. “I see a world where we all live safe and free from all oppression. No more rape or incest or abuse. Women are not a possession.”
The Vashon Island dancers numbered maybe 200 in all, not that anyone stood still long enough to get an accurate count. Included were little girls and boys no more than six or seven years old, teenagers, young moms, women in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s and older. Let’s not forget the handful of courageous guys who provided gender diversity and brought some good moves to the parking lot in front of US Bank. You go bro.
Any dancer will tell you that the legs are the last thing to go. Well, I’m here to tell you that midway through the Rising’s first rehearsal at the Open Space for Arts & Community, I blew out my knee. This was four days before the actual Valentine’s Day event.
It happened like this. Our instructors — Nancy Peet, Sara Van Fleet and Julie Gibson — had us dancing pretty much in unison. We were into it. Music blared from the boom box, an upbeat, thumping anthem about women’s empowerment. “We are mothers, we are teachers. We are beautiful, beautiful creatures.”
Sheila was on my left, diligently following instructions. I was next to her, relying on osmosis. To my right was an energetic young woman named Annie. In the row ahead was blond named Roxy. It happened at that moment when we “broke the chain.” This maneuver required a swivel step as we break repression over our knee. Roxy threw a cute shuffle step into her swivel that I attempted to emulate. It was Roxy’s fault.
I limped to the sidelines. In my fantasy, I recall the crowd cheering madly as I was carried out of the arena. There on national television I lift my arm with index finger extended, indicating solidarity with a billion women (and the men who love them). Truth be told, it was the only position — the extended index finger — I truly mastered in the choreographed dance.
Four days later, my efforts at the O Space earned me a coveted spot on the wooden bench in front of The Hardware Store Restaurant at the four corners where I watched the surviving dancers in the parking lot of US Bank on Valentine’s Day — “cause I loved, cause I dream, cause I’ve had enough to stop the screams.”
— Brian Brown, a writer and activist, lives on Vashon.
