Brittany Fonte /Upon Reading the Suggestions for the Women’s March, 2017/

Upon Reading the Suggestions for the Women’s March, 2017

#1 Write an emergency number in Sharpie on your arm—in case. In case a man grabs your pussy and you can no longer remember yourself/ your life before assault and predator presidential-elects. In case your body is dragged, unconscious, through the unconscionable acts of those in power. In case you get lost/ trampled in a sea of protestors violently protesting nonviolent protestors because—women. Write those numbers big, bold reminiscent of tattooed barcodes, and try not to smudge them with the force of your tears, or the gentle “guidance” of the patriarchy and its gross water hoses.

#2 Plan an emergency meeting place. This is a spot you can run to when the theft of an election divides you/ your family and threatens all future non-GMO Turkey Day dinners and democratic winners. This is the landmark you can meet at to remind yourselves you are not just meat or meant, only, to suckle babies or suck grown men playing at such. Choose someplace easily recognizable, like the intersection of Vilifying Muslims and All Lives Matter, like the corner of Coroners for Poor Youth and Anti-LGBT Street. Know that urban mirages exist, and one is Republican religiousness. You can—and should—resist drinking that Cool (Health) Aid. Stand still and staid in your safe space.

#3 Open carry your feminine weapons in a see-through bag. You don’t want the police to think you are hiding tax returns or a pre-existing medical condition, if white, an illegal immigration status, if Hispanic, drugs or addiction if black. Take your cue from the transparent President (Pretend) Elect and his clear and obvious stand—with Putin. Wear your bags on your baby-having backs as your burdens, as your middle class monkeys, as clarity that you, with womb, must give way to those wiles while they, with Republican permits, can intimidate with guns on their shoulders and bare blades alongside their masculine, heterosexual rage.

#4 If blinded by tear gas, if blinded by tears and the fracking gasses of fucking greed, if blinded by the divisiveness of being disowned for questioning queer politics and the inalienable rights of human beings born across made-up lines, and then defined as “aliens,” be wary of another marcher’s motivations. There may be infiltrators, traitors, so say the conservative debators. Yes, there may be other mothers—who  mean to destroy the DT, too, and he wants us to worry. He wants to divide and confuse us women, conjure feelings of distrust among us, We the People. We who are Equal! Use mother’s milk to soothe you; know Native water (when accessed by pipeline and an electoral mess) will only burn you.

And if you are too dry to cry, too empty to give because your PTSD has made you a human sieve, Bring Me Your Tired, Your Poor.

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