…Perhaps we were only mildly entertained. Regardless, please enjoy these Reviews, Responses, Works of Fiction, and Retellings brought to you by one who hopes to someday join the ranks of those who have written something worth reading.
(Kaylia Metcalfe)

Also, don't forget to visit Kaylia's Official Website where you can get information about Kaylia's upcoming events, and learn more about her free lance writing and other publications.

Why I March

I was always an activist. I questioned. I pushed boundaries. I protested naps and bedtimes and the percentage of green stuff on my plate. I started clubs to fight injustice and at age 7 led a revolt of angry Brownies who felt it wasn’t right that we didn’t get at least one box of cookies for free. We also wanted to go camping instead of learning cross stitch. (I wasn’t in Brownies for long). Sometimes I was victorious like when my high school acquiesced and allowed the formation of a QSA (Queer Straight Alliance). Other times I was less successful like my failed attempt to petition for a more relaxed dress code at the label company I worked for one summer. (If you have ever tried to file heavy folders in floor drawers while bring forced to wear nylons and a skirt, you will feel my pain.)

My activism turned political in 2003 and has never looked back. I have written letters and held signs. I have signed things and begged for signatures. I have worked phone banks and phoned representatives until their admins knew me by voice. I have donated time, money, energy… And I have marched. In rallies, in peaceful gatherings, in nearly silent moments filled with flickering candle light… and in angry loud protests where the thud of our feet on the pavement felt like it would split the earth.

In the last few weeks I have been privileged to march in Fresno multiple times; at the Women’s March the day after DJT ascended to the presidency, at the coordinated events protesting the Muslin Ban, and at the Support Planned Parenthood march last week. In all cases I had people ask me what I felt the point was, why I was bothering.

I march because I want to use all my tools to fight injustice and I have a loud voice and healthy feet.

I march because my job is not reliant on a boss’s political whims and I will not lose my job or my home due to my gender, my orientation, or my politics. 

I march because I can and many cannot. 

I march because my privilege demands to be used for good and not just to make my own life easier. 

I march because gathering in groups of like-minded people is cathartic and inspiring. 

I march because it motivates me and it motivates others. 

I march because sometimes sheer volume makes a huge difference. 

I march so that I can point to my blisters and sore throat and photos of funny or thought provoking signs and say “look, I was there, I was a part of that”. 

I march because our current President is temper tantrum throwing toddler who can’t watch SNL without losing his mind and I know our marches are having an effect on him. 

I march because I want my daughter to understand that changing the world is possible but to make it happen we have to show up.

At the rallies I saw people who were old hands at marching with their comfy shoes and their dog eared signs; people whose faces I recognized from countless other marches in the past.

And I saw new people, hesitant people. People who held no sign but held space with their very bodies; people who chanted softly and avoided eye contact but smiled to themselves as they headed toward their cars afterwards.

I saw children and people stooped with age. I saw healthy people and those too sick to stand or walk or breathe without assistance. I saw families and people walking alone, flitting from one clump to another. I saw all the colors of the racial rainbow and all the letters under the rainbow flag. I heard multiple languages. I saw community leaders and held hands with strangers.

That is why I march. Because no matter all the stuff we don’t agree on or have in common… when we march we have decided to be in one place with one message and with one voice we chant into the sky. The sounds we make, the vibrations of our feet, and the siren song of the megaphones fill the air and echo in our hearts long after we have gone home. We are connected and we are community if only for a moment. We can make change for we are mighty and we cannot be ignored.

I march because it matters

And I will not stop.

Seeing Red.

I'm wearing red today to support the women's movement or the women's strike or... yeah.

I'm wearing red today in honor of all those women, like me, who can't really go on strike.

I don't think this particular protest was all that well thought out as I don't see the handful of people not working making enough of a global impact as, say, the march did last month.

But ok, fine. red.

In more personal news: there is something wrong with my optic nerve.

I have been told to not worry but that I need a ton of tests with special machines that need special technicians so... I get to wait a MONTH before the tests.

But not to worry.

Worry causes stress. Stress causes inflammation. Inflammation makes my vision go bye-bye.

So, Don't Worry.

It's two years ago this month that your retina detached. And they sent you to a specialist. And then you pretty much had emergency surgery. But. DON'T Worry! It's only been two and a half years. I mean, what are the chances that you could develop spontaneous glaucoma in your good eye and then have the retina detach in that eye and THEN have optic nerve issues in that same eye all within three years?


(should I buy a lottery ticket?)

For reals, worrying can make things worse.

Image result for facepalm

Think I'll go eat my feelings.

Must be February

I feel a twitching in my finger tips
I read about Imbolc
I think about seeds buried deep
I sing a song about the coming spring to my daughter as we walk to school in the fog
I wonder if my blog still exists
I dust off my social media passwords, maybe live tweet something like the Super Bowl to remind myself that community can be fun
I read only "amature" authors, no professionals for a bit.
To remember that everyone started somewhere.
I think of FogCon and weekends hidden away in hotel rooms hunched over my keys.
I whisper intentions to the garden
and plant in perfect rows of specific hope

But this year... in 2017... when the unreal parts of the world are horrifyingly true
And a madman makes me wonder what the point of fiction even is
And the days are still long and the kids in crisis still show up at the Center door
And dystopia has arrived and my daughter is learning to read and wanting a promise that there are always happy endings
When I tell her that we are in the sad part of the movie before the hero arrives
When the Resist Hashtag is no longer hipster or ironic and has become instead
less scary than the Hashtag Accept

This year,

This year I am screaming my intention at the dirt and the sky
Hand flung seeds scattered to the wind
I am wild with purpose
and I watch as the force of my voice
and forces creation to bend to its will.