I am wearing a pair of beaten silver hoop earrings today that fit my earlobes just right with the perfect amount of swoop. My mother gave them to me fifty years ago, just after (I thought) I had secretly cajoled the doctor next door to pierce my ears without her permission. When I triumphantly walked into the house a half hour later she greeted me with ‘how did it go?’ and handed me the little box. Ha. Of course he called her first for permission, I was fifteen years old. They have been my talisman for over five decades, worn for SAT’s, driving tests, try-outs, thesis decisions, first writing workshops, readings, interviews. Those little silver wires are at different times my cape, my security blanket, my super power. I think of her every single time I tilt my head and thread them on.
Ten years later she died; I have many things to remind me of her but none equal these little bits of metal.
My mother found my teenage self of a different generation extremely frustrating. “I burned my bra for you!” she would rant which frankly no daughter needs, wants or cares to hear as she figures out what a bra is and she is born into Roe vs. Wade. In my small family the women — my role models — were fierce, dedicated and used their skills to make a difference: my grandmother was elected into the Connecticut House, then the Senate, and made law. My mother preferred her feet bare, painted and sculpted gigantic controversial images, hosted supper clubs and later, worked to record and preserve forgotten art.
My self-care in the last eight years has turned me inward — cautious doses of news, careful thoughtful conversations with others, more reading, less crowds, more family if possible, less social obligations, long lunches — but in the wake of this recent but ongoing chaos in our country (and the chaos that the US is creating in others) I know I must turn outward, too, beyond politics, beyond beliefs, beyond hesitation to be aware, available and take action for others if needed.
Inwards is all fine and good but we all need to salvage our community. The women before me educated, acted and practiced kindness in thought, word and deed. For ourselves and our neighbors to survive this war on democratic practices the question I ask myself everyday now is how?
First I identify who can lift me up. Then I delete those that are trying to bury me in misinformation and anger. Listen. Give extra hugs. Really, it might be that simple. Volunteer — how many organizations have lost the hiring and funding they need to function? Donate time AND even a small amount of money. Check in: do not assume that the laughter is happy. Be a friend to a stranger.
I found words later in my life. My mother and grandmother have been gone so long they couldn’t know this; but when I look in the mirror and the silver glints I am all the ages and all the women of my family in between, all of us reflecting back at me. I know better than to retreat — you and I are the bones needed to survive in a world that seems to be erasing humanity right and left.
Fifty years is a good record for holding onto something so small and also so enormous. I have done well and I have done poorly. In 2025 the imprint of those before me becomes more essential to recognize: I am trying to get out and help, wear the earrings, carry the strength, be the catalyst. I recognize it is easier to keep our heads down. Can you look up?
Alexandra Dane 