Indigo has accompanied us to two demonstrations in ten days. Yesterday I was so frustrated with Senator Dianne Feinstein: her approval of all of the Cabinet appointments so far. Her equivocation on whether she’ll vote for Jeff Sessions as Attorney General today. Her silence on the demotion of the Director of Intelligence and Chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the elevation of Nazi sympathizer Steve Bannon (she is the ranking member of the Senate Intelligence Committee; also, she’s Jewish). Her quiescence on the question of foreign interference with this election. The impossibility of reaching a staffer, or leaving a message, at any of her five offices.
So after school and 90 minutes of after-school and her violin lesson, I treated Indigo to ice cream and we went downtown for a brief protest at Feinstein’s SF office. I hope she doesn’t burn out or grow up to hate this stuff because she was dragged to it, like the way Joy, her Mommy, now suffers an induced allergy to the Nutcracker. She has strong opinions and likes expressing them (in fact, I had used a stronger adjective about Feinstein’s phone, and I had to talk her out of putting it on this sign), but she was tired, too. We only stayed for 15 minutes. People were great, pausing in the rush-hour, financial-district crowd to ask questions, share opinions, and give high-fives.
On the bus ride home, I said to Indigo, “If you have kids, one day they’ll ask you, ‘How old were you when that Trump guy became president?'” (“Nine!” she said.) “And they’ll say, ‘Do you remember it?’ And you’ll say ‘Oh yeah.’ And you’ll tell them about how when he tried to do bad stuff, you were there fighting back. That’ll be a great thing to tell your kids.” I hope that thought sustains her, as it does me. I think it must, because she added, “Or my grandkids.”