Election Day 2020 loomed ahead as I stared at the blue, white and gold satin sash gracing the oval mirror mounted next to my back door in the spacious sunroom. The elegant sash was a commemorative replica of those worn by thousands of women suffragettes in the United States more than one hundred years before as they fought for the right to vote. Their courageous efforts have always inspired me.
After making a somewhat generous donation to the National Women’s History Museum in May, I had received the sash as a gift and proudly displayed its message as a reminder of the long historical struggle benefiting all women. As soon as I had opened the gift, the catchy Mary Poppins song, “Sister Suffragette,” swirled uncontrollably in my head for days. I fully intended to wear the sash on the upcoming Presidential Election Day in November with gratitude in my heart for the sacrifices these turn-of-the-century women made for women today.
The months leading up to the election had been filled with escalating intensity about the Covid-19 virus, explosive racism, political division and fervent protests that often led to hateful violence. In order to preserve my sanity, I tempered my news watching each day with more positive pursuits like taking walks, playing golf, and offering kindness wherever I could. Despite my good intentions, however, fear and hatred found me one day outside my bank near the downtown area. The image of the encounter has been etched into my brain.
It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in late September when I had returned to my car after using the indoor ATM. The back of the majestic, white-domed State House across the street stood quiet for the weekend. Unbeknown to me, however, a boisterous crowd of Trump supporters was dispersing after an earlier rally on the State House front lawn. As I sat in my parked car pondering my finances, a gray pickup truck covered with huge flapping flags and Trump/Pence political signs suddenly raced up the hill toward me and the nearby traffic light. As the truck’s horn blasted away, I expected to see a parade behind him. But the driver was a parade of one.
In his thirties, wearing a baseball cap with one hand on the wheel, the young man’s face was contorted with hate as he yelled obscenities from the open truck window while shaking his fist at anyone along his route. I don’t even know if he noticed me sitting in my SUV as he passed by, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a shotgun protruding from his vehicle to complete the potentially violent scene. In that instant, this crazed stranger became the proverbial poster child for the recent spread of insidious evil that has seemed to fill once-tender hearts. I stared in disbelief at the angry driver and silently scorned our country’s leaders who condone his violent behavior. I had to admit I was more afraid during that moment than any time in previous months when I feared the deadly virus. To my relief, his traffic light turned green, the truck sped away, and I returned to my retired life.
Now a month later, I stood in front of the wall mirror considering my plans for voting. Despite the pandemic restrictions of social distancing and wearing face masks, walking to my polling place and voting in person had always been my intent. For the first time, however, I was uncertain about wearing the sash. As the angry driver’s contorted face filled my memory, I wondered if I would be a target for his or a cohort’s rage. Even though the lettering, 100th Anniversary—Women’s Right to Vote, seemed nonpartisan enough, I could imagine a hateful mind looking for any excuse to destroy someone who appeared to be different. Realistic or not, my apprehension seeped into my psyche as I imagined that shotgun aimed at me.
With the sash’s message next to my face in the mirror, I was reminded of all those brave women in the past who might have felt the same fear as they gathered to stand for hours outside the White House or march for the right to make decisions about our leaders. If they could persevere for years on my behalf, I felt that my own little march was the least I could do to honor their efforts. With their silent voices for inspiration, I made my decision to wear the sash no matter what the consequences. After all, I had already marched in gay pride parades where angry onlookers held cruel and hateful signs in protest. And yet I had participated despite them. This time however, without my supportive comrades around me, I would now be a parade of one with, hopefully, a more positive message than the gray pickup truck had conveyed.
Before I left the house on voting day, I decided to go online to review the names of suffragettes like Susan B. Anthony, Alice Paul, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Lucy Stone, and Ida B. Wells along with a very long list of women whose determination I would represent as I walked alone. I also felt angry that I should feel intimidated for any reason on voting day. I had every right to cast my vote, without fear of violence. With new resolve, I decided that the rising climate of fear and hatred that threatened my peace would not deter my private commemoration and statement. As I strode along the sidewalk toward the voting line, I realized that my feeling of empowerment would not change the world, but my decision had strengthened me.
Reaction to the sash was a mix of curiosity, indifference and mild support. Some passersby strained to read the lettering, others smiled with their eyes looking over masks, and two ladies behind the registration desk gave a thumbs-up and said, “Yay, for us!” At least someone realized what the sash meant. As I was leaving the voting area, I noticed a pre-teen girl who looked at me with curiosity. Even though she never said a word, I wondered if she would ask her mother about the sash later on. Only in my imagination would I know that my crusade made a difference to anyone. No matter…it made a difference to me.
When I returned home an hour later and removed the sash, I felt deflated and a bit silly. My initial fear seemed to be unfounded and the anticipated reaction was almost nonexistent. I was especially humbled when it occurred to me that I could remove the potential target of aggression and hatred. Like taking off a pink triangle pin that symbolized homosexual Holocaust victims or stowing my rainbow flag for gay pride, I could choose to blend in with the majority if I wanted. Others with darker skin or an apparent disability do not have the same choice. My brief moment as a parade of one could not compare to the lifetime of those who perhaps muster their courage to leave the house every day. Like an epiphany, I realized I did more than cast a vote that day. I also walked a block in someone else’s shoes.
My Women’s Right to Vote sash will stay on my wall mirror as a reminder of voting day in November 2020, when I became a sister suffragette for an hour. No doubt, the same bravery and courage will be needed for other battles in days ahead and the song’s words, Shoulder to shoulder into the fray, will have a deeper meaning for everyone who needs strength and inspiration from each other.
Linda Skibski is the author of the memoir, Forever, Joanne: A Story of Love, Loss, and Leaps of Faith, Stillwater River Publications (2021)
© 2021 Linda Skibski
Linda Skibski 