When I was early school age, I had a school bus driver, “Tex”, who was very popular. He was funny, amicable, and light-hearted, but he had a way with girls…six-to-ten year-old girls. Not the pretty girls, mind you, but us shy girls. And I was one of them.
Tex used to make Rachel (who was a few years older) and myself sit up front close to him in separate seats. My usual savior, my brother, never saved me because “Tex” was cool and everyone knew that Rachel and I were extremely shy. We would never say “no” …a trait that I imagine haunted her as much as it haunted me for relationships to come.
This morning…decades later…as I head to the studio with my daughter in the backseat, I roll our windows down halfway because it’s beautiful out and, frankly, I need the air. When I slow down to the stoplight, Desiree screams with glee from her backseat, “Go Mama!”
As I look back to smile at my daughter and explain stoplights, I catch the eye of a man in a pick-up truck next to me. Roughly my age…perhaps younger, his look is unmistakable. It was “Tex”‘s look at me. Approving. Controlling. Diminishing.
And, it reminds me of my tears last night when my husband just patiently rubbed my back and said it would be OK. He had no idea of how deeply-rooted this election was for me…and for so many others.
The election may be over. The revolution is not.