Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s death last night affected me more than I thought it would. She was one of those rare people that you know you’re just lucky to share this planet with. I think for a lot of women, she was a monolith of courage and wisdom that should never be knocked down. But death finally managed it. Of course I wrote a poem for her.
For RBG, For Courage
By Michelle Garren Flye
Do not think she went gently Her fight fought Perhaps she knew we are ready To live as we ought And when the night crept up She looked at it straight Her body frail as a china cup And knowing she was late The strong spirit that kept her here Knew what was in store Her heart beat ceased to thrum Beneath the collar she wore But legacy cannot be lost like crumb We know the energy spent We will carry on in her wake For RBG, for courage, we women Will follow the path she staked.
It occurred to me that RBG spent her entire life living courageously. She was a lion among women. I live in an area of the country where some women still follow their man’s lead, completely and subjectively. What the man wants, the woman provides and she’s lucky to do so. It’s these women I often write for, not women like RBG. It took me a long time to get to the point I’m at now. It’s always possible to find your voice, no matter how old you are. Find it now and…
I’ve been struggling with my feelings about the impeachment of Donald Trump. Last night, watching the votes rack up and the opposing sides face off, I felt as if I were torn in half. I never wanted this. But since the day I realized Donald Trump would be our president, I knew it was coming. It was a matter of when. With each of his horrific policies and statements, I wished it would come already. When immigrant children were separated from their families at the border to be placed in group “homes” and “facilities” without protection from God only knows what (death and abuse), I prayed for Donald Trump to be impeached. When he pulled our military out and left our Kurdish allies to bleed and die, I prayed for Donald Trump to be impeached. When Donald Trump overturned the military courts and allowed war crimes to go unpunished, I cursed God for not listening.
And now I am confronted by the reality. Donald Trump is impeached. And every Republican stood behind him, defending the indefensible, turning the truth to fit their own version of reality, spitting in the face of what is right. And I know that when he is acquitted in the Senate by his majority, something precious will die. And all I feel is sad.
When Justice Falls
By Michelle Garren Flye
You’d think I’d be happier, right?
Justice is blind, but Truth lies at her feet.
How can she not see what lies before her?
Come, Justice, set us free from tyranny!
But she can’t hear me above the multitude of lies.
Blind and deafened, she doesn’t see Truth…and stumbles.
You’d think I’d be happy, dancing…
But instead I just want to cry blood and rain.
I want to scream, wake up, stop this!
Please, please…open your eyes.
It’s not a dream, not an illusion—it’s real.
What you grind under your feet doesn’t grow back.
You’d think I’d be happy to tell you I told you so.
I’m not—in truth I never wanted to be right.
I just knew, inescapably and undeniably, that I was.
Now I sit, bowed and broken and old and tired,
At the graveside of ideals with Truth for company.
We wait together—eventually, Justice will fall beside us.
What’s happening right now breaks my heart because it was preventable. In fact, it was being prevented. Our Kurdish allies are fighting and dying. Mothers are losing their children. Tiny babies lie in pools of blood, covered in dust. And it’s all because a few men made decisions that meant their lives meant nothing. Life is meant for more. Be outraged. Be angry. Be sad or regretful or depressed. Be anything but accepting of this tragedy. Life is meant for more than ending on our television screens.
On the Screen
By Michelle Garren Flye
From across the world we watch as death rains down.
How can we know what to feel?
Safe in our kitchens, our warm homes, our towns—
Not part of the pack anymore.
Broken bodies litter the earth but it’s so very far away.
You run, and we don’t miss a meal.
Dust and rubble clear, but your sorrow never may.
Meanwhile we watch the news at four.
We shake our heads: Nothing I can do, nothing to be done.
Our hearts go out to your appeal—
But tomorrow’s just a day for us—another day in the sun.
And we’ll check the headlines of course.
Across the world, an ocean away, with only the media to guide.
As your hearts’ blood spills
On pavement stones and runs down the mountainside—
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 