Muffy And Vicki Go To A Women's March On The National Mall - Sisterhood, Gossip, And Fun

'Ooo, I can't wait!, said Muffy Pendleton to her friend Victoria, giving her a big hug and a kiss.  Tomorrow was the big day, the Women's March For Social Justice on the National Mall, a show of unity and solidarity for the climate, the oppressed, the beleaguered, and the poor. 

It had been a while since women had gathered on the Mall, and it was about time for another show of strength.  The bar had been raised with the election of Donald Trump, and America had to see that his retrograde, abusive, and intolerant policies would not stand; that millions of women, mothers, sisters had banded together to voice their outrage and concern. 

'What shall we bring to eat?', Muffy asked Vicki. 

'Don't do tuna fish again, Muffy.  I'm so sick of tuna fish.  Why don't we stop at the deli and get some corned beef or pastrami'"

'Yuk', replied Muffy. 'You know I'm on a diet and if I gain a pound more I won't fit into my new dress, you know the one, the Dolce & Gabbana I got on sale at Nieman Marcus?'

'On sale? When did they do that? Do you suppose the sale is still on?'

'Time to suit up, girls', said the drill sergeant of their platoon the next day to women from Bethesda, Chevy Chase, and Kensington who would travel together down to the Mall and join the rest of the Gay Brigade - women for transgender inclusion and gender equality who were expected to be in the thousands. 

Muffy ands Vicki had debated which battalion (the march organizers had chosen to think in military terms and give a note of discipline and structure to an event which, given recent history, could become quite silly) to join.  Muffy had opted for climate, but she thought that was too old hat, or at least subsumed by Trump's gestapo Kristallnacht bureaucrat roundups, and the Immigration Forever ranks had so swelled that her voice would be lost, so even though woke was fading, it was all the more important to turn the tide, reassure Americans that diversity was not one and done, so the Gay Brigade it was. 

The problem was that Muffy, despite her solid progressive credentials, was a bit queasy around lesbians, especially the tough girl variety, all doo-dadded out in chains and leather, sporting butch haircuts, and showing off their dykey cars.  She loved them of course, but still the very idea was, shameful to admit, off-putting.

'Stop it right there', said Vicki when her friend started in on going down and dildoes.  'Sisterhood has no prejudice', and chastened, shamed, Muffy mumbled an apology to her friend and to all same-sex women.  

Now, to be honest, there were no lesbians on the bus from Bethesda.  All protestors were professional, married women with children who while perhaps tempted back in their college days, never took classmates up on their offers, and continued as straight arrows well into adulthood.  Their solidarity with lesbians was only intellectual.  

The whole idea of spending a weekend in Bernal Heights as a kind of Spring Training for the march (the Heights was a well-known lesbian neighborhood of San Francisco, very butch, very femme and quite intimidating) was undesirable to say the least.  Muffy was convinced that solidarity meant political commitment, and nothing more was required. 

 

The women on the bus sang old Che Guevara Cuban fight songs on the bus on the way down to the Mall.  They were all in a good mood. It was a lovely April morning and Washington was in its finest - cherry blossoms, dogwood, magnolia, and bougainvillea - and they couldn't restrain themselves.  What could be better than making a difference with a group of happy, likeminded women? They were the New Age Freedom Riders. 

'What about Claudia?', Vicki asked wondering where the most politically passionate of their friends was. 'I haven't seen her for ages'

'Hubby trouble', replied Muffy. 'Haven't you heard?  He went off with that Brandeis teacher, spent a weekend at Rehoboth with her, and of course Claudia found out.'

'Where did they stay?'

'Oh, God, Vicki, what on earth does that matter?  They stayed, that's all.  Maybe it was the Dewey or the Claremont...but that's not the point.'

And with that the two women watched the bus turn down Connecticut Avenue towards Farragut Square where the streets had been closed to accommodate the protestors. 

'Finally', said Muffy, stretching and breathing in the marvelous perfume of the lilacs and honeysuckle on the walls of the old Grace Church. 

The two women walked to the Capitol end of the Mall and looked for the Gay Brigade sign which would be their point de repère, their meeting point where all other gender advocates would assemble. The Mall was crowded, but they finally saw Bunny Ormand, the leader of the delegation waving to them. 

 

'My God, she looks great', said Muffy, ashamed of her rather dowdy outfit which she thought was quite fitting for such a serious event, but when she saw Bunny, dressed to the nines, elegant, coiffed, and looking stunning, she regretted her decision.  She debated long and hard that morning when she looked in her closet, imagining herself protesting in silk, organdy, or plain cotton.  'I should have gone with the silk', she thought waving to Bunny. 

'What's he doing here?', Vicki asked noticing a trim young man in a Brooks Bros. hoodie and St. Laurent sunglasses.  Burton Mayberry, the doll, the desired one, the be-all and end-all of seventh floor fantasies, was standing there looking cool and collected, alone, but no one could miss the admiring glances sent his way by the women in the crowd around him. 

Burton worked with Muffy at the Bank, a Senior Economist from London, responsible for 'the colonies' as he ironically put it, India, Sri Lanka, and Bangladesh.  A bright young star, unattached, and dreamy.  

Muffy, with her new fine-edged independent sensibilities, entertained thoughts of love with him at the Mayflower or in his Georgetown apartment, or at his beach house on the Eastern Shore; but true to form, child of a good Catholic family and never able to shake loose memories of the nuns or the admonitions of Father Murphy, she kept her own counsel and returned every night to Ralph and his pot roast. 

'Time to go, girls', shouted Bunny to her contingent; and with that, signs, placards, banners, and flags in hand, the women marched forward, the Washington Monument in their sights at the far end of the Mall, a symbol of a very American patriotism which both Muffy and Vicki deeply felt despite their bilious hatred for the current government, the man in power, and his SS lackeys.  

Muffy felt a tear run down her cheek - a happy tear, happy to be an American after all, happy to have all these friends.  Life was good; and she gave the woman closest to her a hug and a kiss and together they marched for whatever which didn't matter.  It was the solidarity, the sisterhood, the camaraderie and the joy that did.