I decided to offer a different approach to Women’s History Month 2025 before the celebration ends up on the chopping block by the Trump administration joining African American and other monthly celebrations.
Now whereas the mind immediately goes to “past” when it conjures up the word “history,” or perhaps “history makers” in the future, my angle in this narrative is to zero in on current history in the form of an apology to women. So this letter of apology is to you “Bernice,” “Rita,” “Evelyn,” “Francine,” “Rosa,” “Alexzandria,” your loved ones and others who depend on each of you emotionally, spiritually and financially for the devastation that’s interrupted your lives.
I’m sorry, deeply sorry. I’m also embarrassed and enraged.
Forgive me ladies, but I hope you don’t mind my calling you out under these unimaginable circumstances. Although I did not receive one myself, my disgust at that awful message you received recently – over the weekend mind you – telling you to list your five major accomplishments over the past week and risk termination of your employment if you fail to comply, in no way compares with yours.
It was tough not to look at those images of you walking out of your former places of employment packed boxes in hand. They were riveting and gut-wrenching. Even worse were those of you who calmy stopped by probing TV cameras to share your feelings to the American public and those who chose to look away in shame. When we saw you in them straining to smile or wiping away tears, our respect for you increased tenfold.
So, although won’t make much difference, here’s what I want – strike that, need – to say to each of you:
To “Bernice” in Washington, I’m sorry for the anguished look on your face when you, packed boxes in hand, passed the paparazzi-like TV camera shoved into your face because you had nothing to say and no other way to get to your car.
To “Rita” in Michigan, I’m sorry for the dour expression on your dark brown face as you waved off that reporter after telling her that your dream job was snatched out from underneath you a week after you started, after years of working several low paying jobs just to make ends meet.
To “Evelyn” in west Texas (with your infant wrapped up in lap), I’m sorry to listen to you speak, haltingly, to us in Spanish through a translator about your husband’s being fired from his federal job with Parks & Recreation, and the ever-haunting specter of being snatched up one night by the authorities and deported to border near you.
To “Francine” in Virginia, I’m sorry that you left your previous job in Connecticut to take a federal one in Richmond only to be fired two weeks after your relocation to be near your ailing mother.
To “Rita” a U.S.A.I.D administrator in Washington, DC, I’m sorry for having to watch you tearfully exchange hugs with former co-workers outside the Reagan building after you all were fired.
To “Alexzandria” in Massachusetts, I’m sorry that you learned you’d been fired when you were abruptly locked out of the computer system at a VA Medical Center.
So, to the six of you, although it’s unlikely that we’ll ever meet in person, I couldn’t let another day go by without speaking to you here, albeit vicariously. For the past few weeks, I, like many who watched on our TV screens, a safe distance from the humiliation you’ve experienced, want you to know that millions of us felt helpless yet marveled at your courage in the face of something so inhumane, so callous, so unthinkable.
And even more breath-taking is how hard it is for us to fantom those difficult conversations you had with your family, trying to explain to your young ones the need to cancel vacation plans, scrap summer camps, ballet lessons and shopping sprees for new clothes for school. We buried thoughts of those uncomfortable conversations in the back seats of our minds to make sure that they didn’t get in the way of our undivided attended to the glitz and glamor of the recent Oscar Awards program.
Now adding to all this are stories of a president jetting off to another round of gold on the sunny course at Mar A Lago, a vice president and family heading for a ski trip in the mountains of Vermont, or a chainsaw swing, sunglass wearing individual dancing like a buffoon across a stage.
Of course, ladies, the words in this letter are unlikely to bring solace in the face of all that’s been placed on your shoulders, but they are nonetheless words I needed to say. But please know that I represent the quiet majority, tens of millions of similarly outraged, broken-hearted, grieving and angry people who will continue to support you with our prayers, our voices and personal actions within our circles of influence.
So brave ladies, yes, we’re dabbing at the tears flowing down our cheeks and squirming in our seats strapped with this nagging question: what have we become as a nation and how does this new reality square with what we’re supposed to be?
But somehow and some way you’ll get on the other side of this because, as Pulitzer Prize winning columnist Leonard Pitts once wrote, “because that’s what human always do. Climb out, assess the damage, adapt to a new reality, start to put things right and find a way to live through this.”
In the end, I’ll say this again – mere words will bring little solace for all you’ve suffered and endured and the unfathomable fear that’s accompanying you into an uncertain future. But they are nevertheless words, albeit the best that I can do. Here’re are a few words…I hope that one day in the not-too-distant future our paths will cross somehow and, in some way and in under much better circumstances.
I wish I could say more, brave ladies, but I’m just too drained, too sickened….and too outraged!
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