Why I Am Not Going to Madison Today

For the past month, my heart has been in Madison.

And for more than a week—yes, even before the events of March 9—I have planned to go to Madison tomorrow. I wanted to do my share of being physically present, and adding my body and voice to the masses. Then I found out that a tractor parade would be there, and I got more excited. Then March 9 happened (Senate vote). And March 10 happened (Assembly vote). And March 11 happened (Governor signature). The sadness I have felt in some moments of this week has surprised me. I have invested so much of my heart, mind, energy, and time into following the life of the budget bill and the people who have cared about it. I was not prepared to have it all come to an end in such an abrupt and unexpected way. This week, I felt shock, betrayal, and despair. My life has centered around Madison, the heart of the state, although physically I have been an hour away.

As some of my rights were removed and my paycheck was gutted (yes, me, a state employee who chose a life of service and who brings home less money each month than she did in 2001), my need to make a pilgrimage to the capitol became deeper. I yearned to be with the thousands of others who feel like I’ve been feeling—or who care about workers’ rights. And the “entertainment” grew. Tony Shalhoub is coming. The Wisconsin 14 are coming. I even heard that Michael Moore is coming back, and I think Jesse Jackson is still around. Just imagine the pictures I could take!

Today I realized something. I want to go to Madison today, but surprisingly I no longer need to. Instead, I have realized that the most important thing for me to do is to have a normal day. I know that being in Madison, with the thousands and thousands of others would be energizing and uplifting. I know that I could not go inside the Capitol. I think my heart would break a little seeing the naked walls and floors. It will always people the people’s home to me, and I am not ready to see it again as a statehouse.

I sense that the best thing for me to do is to start to reclaim my life. I am tired and worn out from the protesting, both real and mental. I am sore. My back hurts. My brain hurts. My heart hurts. I feel worn down. I’m behind on schoolwork and housework. I need to resume moving forward, not be where I am reminded of how angry and sad I've felt at times this week. I need to remember to live my life in the small things as well as the big. I've been looking forward to going for over a week, so I was a bit stunned yesterday to realize that I was gravitating toward being home with my family, reminding myself that it is important to do the things that only I can do as well as the things where I join with others.

Yesterday, I felt better today than I did the days before that. Wednesday night and Thursday, I felt so betrayed and oppressed. The Senate's actions--doing what it did in the way that it did--were so unbelievable to me. The Assembly's vote and the governor's signature are anti-climactic to me. Thursday, I could barely function. I have been incredibly distracted for several weeks. I thought I was so used to the idea that this would happen that it wouldn't actually hit me when it did; I was wrong.

Going to the judicial candidate forum Thursday afternoon was a good thing for me. Although I understood fewer than half the questions, I was reminded of the power of the vote. My vote is no less valid than Senator Fitzgerald's. I saw groups of teachers and several others wearing union sweatshirts. I knew I was not alone, and that we are not alone. It was healing to be reminded that life goes on, that this bill—as devastating as it is—is not the end of the world. Thinking about the vote on April 5 and the recallability of others in less than a year helped me focus on the fact that the seeds that have been planted in me, in us, will grow--that has been good.

On the first day of Spring Break, when my institution has a mandatory furlough day, many of my colleagues and I will join in Madison, to march and to meet with our legislators. That day will be quieter, but I will draw comfort from my friends in a way that cannot happen today. We will have time for conversation, for reminding ourselves of the ties that bind us. We are all affected by the bill and the budget in the same ways, which means we can focus on our issues and not be caught up in the union/labor aspects of the protest.

Still, I have discovered that I am fragile. Yesterday morning I felt good, in marked contrast to most of my colleagues. My classes went well and were fun. I assigned a piece of writing that I’m looking forward to reading. A good teaching day can do wonders for the soul.

Yet later that afternoon, I had a meltdown. At home, thinking about today’s protest, I started to feel sad and angry all over again. I am on edge, and it takes very little to push me over. Today I stay home, to protect myself and to try to rebuild a small layer of life over this week’s wounds.

Generally, I find that I am having intense moments with intense sadness. Yet I am also finding a sense of renewed purpose and energy for the work ahead. I am no less than I was yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that. No matter what the law says.

And yes, I'm feeling conflicted. I do know that part of living is doing the big things. I know that the battle is not over, and that the movement needs bodies to be physically present. I am willing to do my share. But if I go today, I fear I will have nothing left to give later. It's like putting your own oxygen mask on first so you can better help others. I need to care for myself today so I have energy to keep fighting in the many other ways that will be needed.

So today, while my heart is still in Madison, my body needs to stay in my home, living.