by Claire L Lanier My father worked for the State Department for 35 years. Before that, he was a history professor, insistent that we learn about the past so that we could better understand the world around us. In the late ’80s and early ’90s, my family lived overseas, primarily in developing countries. We interacted intimately with other cultures, and my brothers and I had friends from all over the world. After I moved back to the US in 1997,…

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by Rachel Piazza “Up from a past that is rooted in pain, I rise” Alicia Keys spoke the words of Maya Angelou as a sea speckled with freshly knitted pink hats swelled through the streets surrounding the National Mall. “Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise.” Each stanza churned the pink water like a strong gust of wind. Electricity pulsed through cheers and chants. In the moment that…

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by Andrea Crowley-Hughes The night before the New York City Women’s March, I was stowing Lara bars and neatly organized baggies filled with bandages, gauze and butterfly closures into our backpacks. I had read all the pre-march checklists I could fit into a browser window crammed with open tabs. Still, I was too late in learning that Maalox is a more effective treatment for tear gas irritated eyes than Pepto Bismol. My mind has the tendency of jumping to –…

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by Patricia Jonik Stein The commotion on the New York City street fascinated and perplexed me.  There was a bevy of women circling a flame-filled green metal municipal waste can.  Some were holding hands with eyes on one another while others looked pensively at the few police officers standing nearby. My friend grabbed my arm and guided me toward the intersection where we would cross over to visit one of the museums that she had on her list. “Do you…

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