"Mother Fucking: The Saga of One F**ked Mother"

Prologue, Chapters 1 & 2

Dr. Blue, one of our Sisters in Solidarity, has written an excellent book based on her “nightmare of nightmares” in an Iowa Family Court. She brings a wealth of knowledge and literary acumen to her unique telling of a familiar horror tale.

Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother is an extraordinary and creative exposé of the ravaging—via the family court system—of protagonist Legion’s once successful life. This terrible tale is told with raw honesty, insight and humor. Blue innovatively and decisively conveys to the reader the awful truth that family courts are systematically “mother-fucking” women as she chronicles Legion becoming “one fucked mother” in gruesome and captivating detail.

Countless victims of Family Court—or, as Blue describes them: patriarchally-made noncustodial mamas—will be able to relate to the madness she describes. She facetiously but aptly positions her book in the “crime and horror” genre. Her Saga reads like a literary novel with free-flowing, often humorous and sardonic musings relative to the inconceivable position Legion finds herself in when simply attempting to continue to mother her three sons after divorce, as she had lovingly done for well over a decade, as well as progress in her career as a Veterinarian.

The Saga is encapsulated in three sections (along with a Prologue and Epilogue): BOOK ONE: I Think What I Will; BOOK TWO: A Mama’s Long View Redemption; and BOOK THREE: The Opera: We Were Mothers Once, and Young.

We’ll begin here with the Prologue, Chapter 1: A Couple of Definitions, and Chapter 2: How, How in the World Did We Get Here From There?

A new chapter will be posted on Women’s Coalition News & Views every Wednesday hereafter.

Of course, WCN&V subscribers will find each new chapter in their inboxes every week, so keep an eye out. If you haven’t subscribed yet, you may want to consider subscribing so it goes straight to your inbox too.

TEASER

How, I ask you, how do I realistically stand up to a pillar-of-the-community, physician ex-husband who not only dares to, but so smoothly does, take away all forms of contact between me and my three Sons, a man whose nonchalant, matter-of-fact chicanery before a state’s district court judge three times and its court of appeals judges twice and its supreme court justices once, convinces them to choose that there apparently exists somewhere some legality that allows them all—all these judges—to reign this same terrorist and bizarre no-contact contract down upon Zane, Jesse, Mirzah and me. Nail Legion True in that coffin now.

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PROLOGUE

“Even if I am a Minority of One, the Truth is still the Truth.”

— Mohandas K. Gandhi

True it is. O, so head-bangingly true it is! No one else ever thinks that your passions and your struggles are anywhere near as fantastically important as you yourself think that they are. You can write letters to the editor, you can give speeches, even just little, daily ones, to anyone who’ll listen, you can send a passel of e-mail transmissions to folks who are glad to hear from you and to the ones who never want to hear from you. It doesn’t make a bit of difference. 

And so starts this one today. This story. This passion, this struggle I want to set down on paper before I am dead. This one of mine. A Friend from Bear Creek Meeting a smidgen north of Earlham said to me just yesterday that now is the time. She is sooooo right, she is. I motored my old and dusty, little black Nissan pickup with the single mattress and some raggedy blankets and pillows in the back down there to the Third Annual Native American Gathering that has finally brought The Music back to Dallas County.

My Friend accepted the charge of the hearth and all the gathering in of the foodstuffs for the weekend as she had done for the Celebrations the two previous Septembers. When she calmly mentioned that it had taken so many, many more years than just the last three, actually over a decade at least, to get the last three going and off—or on to—the ground at all, that it just hadn’t been the right time before 1998, it hit me. 

It is the right time. So right the time is.  And yet no one now breathing, I am certain of it, will ever feel the level of magnitude and impact about The Dance of mine that I am about to boogie on down out of this keyboard as I have felt it. My Daddy would have. But for the fact that he is, well…a memory. He is, that is, one not now breathing. Would have felt, Daddy would have, on the order of the hero of that who-has-all-the-power-over-whom movie, Amistad. I am sorry that I cannot recall his name; but when he is asked by some white guy, who acts like he wants ‘to help’, if he, the black guy, is going ‘to be all right’ in his prison cell after being forced there until his ‘owner’ can be located, he matter-of-factly replies, “O, me? I’ll be just fine. I’ll…I’ll be just fine. My ancestors are with me.” 

Daddy has always been right there, immediately right there, for me, sometimes literally running his lanky, bony legs off that held up his not-nearly-as-strong cardiac muscle; and he still is. I have to thank him right now for that because, like the Amistad hero continues, “The only reason they ever were, my ancestors? — The only reason that they ever were…is—for me now.” Daddy would wholeheartedly agree. No matter how much Daddy was when he walked on this Planet, and I will get to that later on, that is, about just how much Daddy was…No matter how much he was when he was breathing, his only purpose then or since, he would agree, is—for me now. That is the Legacy upon which I start to write this down today.

Timing being what it is, a combination of chance and luck and whimsy and something else I suppose but cannot define or even know, it is September 2000, on the white-guy, christ-guy calendar—or as is said in Quakerism still, it is the Ninth Month 2000. And specifically today, it is 11 Ninth Month 2000; and the Wiping of Tears anniversary commences again, again another year, for me. Today I am 52 years old. It is not my birthday, I am just stating that I am no less in years today as I begin to write my first long piece of crime and horror literature than the number of years in life William Shakespeare was, in total, when he stopped writing anything down altogether and—crossed over his final bar. 

Exactly ten years ago to this day I, and a few of the Entire World’s finest True Friends, stepped into a very small, county civil courtroom in Middle America, USA, the land that is the very Fecund Womb of food proliferation for that same Entire Globe, and into the nightmare of nightmares of all of my life. Early winter 1994, I thought was the time to capture this maggot-infested mongrel from fouling under my tongue toward the choke of my throat so I began to tell the story then; but that was also a time of four, paying, part-time jobs to sustain the child support payments and to keep current on the hospitalization billing statements. So time was it wasn’t the time to get it down apparently—because it did not happen. Time and timing were so scarce and fragmented that I had no flow of thought. Back then I hardly had minutes to put the brain, out of which had come any thoughts I, out of necessity, had had to entertain in order to survive, onto a pillow to rest and rejuvenate. 

While the four, juggled jobs continue to this hour, over the last half decade and more though, one of them has progressed to full time and…benefits! So the vacation hours from that one began accruing, and, as was my nature also out of necessity, I began to save up those hours just like the therms and kilowatts and the long-, long-completed laboratory experiments’ notebooks, the thesis notes even, and the memories and the pantyhose with the runs in them and the long, smooth-necked, liter-or-so wine bottles and the beige shower curtain bedecked with butterflies that I still use today from the rental we’d had 21 years back alongside East Chocolate Avenue in Hershey PA and the memories and nearly everything else. And, O, did I mention the memories?

To the point that, voila, today, I begin five weeks of earned leave. Five weeks stored up. “Squirreled away,” Daddy would’ve smiled, exactly for filming The Dance. The Dance in its final version, just how it played out. Consecutive moments and moments and moments of capturing the choreographed maneuvers! Until I am done. Those thoughts can freely now flow and continue to…until they quietly ebb and, then, finally, cease. 

This mission will take, I can feel already, a passel of gastric-calming ginger and licorice tea breaks, some frequent splashing about my neck and shoulders of the scent of my youth, Blue Carnation—that is, Bleu Oeillet, of the fragrance moguls, RogeR and Gallet, still available to be had through shrewd online auction sniping, and some countless number of white, nondescript facial tissues to continue the clearing of my swollen nasal turbinates in order to deep-breathe in that wonderful flower memory—so that that aroma can tamp down over and keep distant from my core being now these other memories as I type. 

As I put down Nothing But the Truth.  

So help me, Daddy. 

The one mantra, given a long, long life best by the words of Mahatma Gandhi, that I have always carried inside of me readily accessible, as I did, as well, into that fateful Storm County, Iowa courtroom on the morning of 11 Ninth Month 1990, bounces around inside my cranium today, “Even if I am a Minority of One, the Truth is still the Truth.”

* * * * *

BOOK ONE: I Think What I Will.

CHAPTER ONE

A Couple of Definitions

“Whiskey and Truth should both be served straight up, Doctor.”

—Watkins, the photographer, to Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman

True it is. Straight up. Those long, smooth-necked, liter-or-so, wine bottles, usually cobalt blue or iridescent green in color, with or without the Lambrusco or Lancelotta labels still on them—well, anyhow all five to six inches of one of those long, cool necks makes the dandiest of dildos. Empty, of course, and not a molecule of rubber to them even. 

Also empty they are of any DNA helices. So, too, they are free from the glazed glares of hatred and, with a bottle self-thrusting inside to toe-curling orgasm instead, not a handful of hair-pulling happening either. Especially alongside the initial queries from the very darkened and turned-away half of the bed that really have no sought-after answer, the questions posed that are grammatical but understood by both the speaker and the hearer really as commands with outcomes already determined, “How ‘bout some messin’ around?” “Wanna screw?” “Gimme some Strange, huh?”

No right fist threatening my left periorbital bone, Ike-Turner-style, no ten-year-old eldest, Zane, wobbling and struggling piggyback-style on his father’s back while desperately grappling with the man’s neck and shoulders trying to pull him off the  mama whom Herod Edinsmaier has easily pinned against the bare mattress. No months and months of shunning silence with snide snippets whispered by the slacker in the driver’s seat to Zane and the second-born Boy, Jesse, “Her finish the 10K? Finish? Why, ya’know, don’tcha, she idn’t even smart ’nough to be able to find the track it’s gonna be run on!”

As dead-deaf as I’ve been in that left ear since the German measles virus my mother, Mehitable True, continues to disavow entered her fetus somewhere in the first couple of first trimester months of that 1947 pregnancy of hers, I still heard Dr. Edinsmaier’s words passive-aggressively slide over the top of the Dodge Diplomat wagon’s tan, front bench seat, those taloned words calculatingly aimed from Herry’s tongue to collide not only with his two older Boys’ regard of their mother—but also with that one eardrum of hers that did vibrate and transmit meaning. I received again the full blast of Dr. Edinsmaier’s gist all right.

Even inside that short car ride to the locally held Iowa Games matches on which one youth soccer team eight-year-old Jesse started, Dr. Edinsmaier continued his soft and barely heard, but heard nonetheless, violent vitriol of me, his wife, Legion True, to my sons. His only known other child, also a son, Mirzah, reading in the backseat next to me Barbara Brenner’s Wagon Wheels, the true 19th Century pioneer saga about another prairie family, was also belted and tuned in and busy being seven years old.

A wine bottle penis isn’t the genre of penis I choose to put into me. If, in my youth, I had had my ’druthers. Years and years and years away now from those naïve, innocent steps my three babies, my friends and I all took into that evil courtroom, one of those sons of mine, all adults now they be, more or less whines to me even as recently as last month, “You’re not the same mama I remember you being when I was little.”

Well, no I’m not. True that is, too, thank goddess. He will now learn that I am not the same person today that he knew then. But not because I, from time to time, wield, in the manner of condensed Zen sex for one, let’s call it, a wine bottle penis to satisfy my G-spot, ya’ know, one of those same “spots”, “needs” they’re sometimes referred to, that a Woman, let alone, a mama woman, isn’t supposed to have at all but that a Not Woman can have.

I haven’t been able to tell him yet but he will now learn that it is my choice in the matter of which genre of penis to put into me that has caused me to know, yes, even to value that a wine bottle penis into my vagina is one a whole lot safer there for me than other kinds of penises put there are—a whole bunch of bulk there safer for sustaining my life. Even uplifting it. Even putting satisfaction and yes, dare you hear it, happiness into it. Way so much more so than the bunkum that ever was the slacker’s own penis.

But especially Jesse will now know, also Mirzah and Zane too, the one and true meaning of another word. Unlike the noun, father-fucking, mother-fucking, the word, is blown about like so much chafe. Like it doesn’t really happen, though. Like the word really, really works, when thrown out there usually by males, for some such perceived punch as an adjective so it gets attached every so often, often quite frequently and repeatedly, as a modifier to an entirely unrelated matter.

In my Boys’ father’s raw usage, mother-fucking was bandied about, often sprinkled and punctuated with affectionate nomenclatures or titles of delineation for their mother because her real name, my name, Legion, Legion True, seems to have, in the fashion of deliberate and outright shunning according to psychologists, permanently vacated the speech centers of Dr. Edinsmaier.

“Did you put your mother-fuckin’ mitts on my motorcycle, Pussy?” 

“This time where’d Zane and Jesse stash the mother-fuckin’ Playboy that came today?”

“What’s your mother-fucking father up here this weekend for messin’ with us again?”

“You say I hang up, walk away, slam doors? Well, watch this one, Whore! Watch the driveway! This is me, too! Mother-fuckin’ drivin’ away! To you, Pussy? My backside! I’m getting’ me some Strange out there, I am! I’m mother-fuckin’ leavin’ you, Cunt! For good, I am!” 

“And I mother-fuckin’ told the Boys I was mother-fuckin’ divorcin’ you! And you, Twat? You weren’t even mother-fuckin’ there when I told ‘em!”

“You can see for yourself, Your Honor, just how mother-fucking fucked up the Bitch really is, can’t you, Your Honor?”

Like it doesn’t really happen. Ever. As a noun. 

Doesn’t really happen in real and loving coitus, a mama with a papa, sometimes making itty bitty kids somewhere, anywhere.

And mother-fucking certainly doesn’t really happen in the sloth’s teal-carpeted Iowa county bedroom. Except when Herry purposefully reopened wide its gymnasium-sized picture window drapes upside a city park forest when either one of us was taking off our clothes before bedtime. Except when, along around the swing into the decade of the ‘90s, mother-fucking took place in that same county’s courtroom down the road nine or ten miles. 

Jesse, Zane and Mirzah will know that it is my decision about which type of penis-attached people I choose to put into the equation that is My Life at all, let alone, surrounding or into some orifice on my physical form, and my decision about what kind of persons I ascribe as true friends, male or female, walking around the World with me down My Road that will mean, for me, the difference between the formula for being loved and lovingly experiencing life as accountability, gratification balance, nonviolent laughter and Truth—or the formula for experiencing life as…hypocrisy. As just another mother-fucking.

* * * * *

CHAPTER TWO

How, How in the World Did We Get Here From There?

“…a progression of outrages.” 

— Bob Edwards, Host, National Public Radio’s Morning Edition, 14 September 2000, in referencing events in Europe in the 1930s leading up to … that Holocaust.

True I was to all my loves. Not my lovers, mind you. But to the men with whom I thought I really was in love, I was unquestionably loyal. There were only three. In addition to my father, AmTaham True, and my three sons, of course.

And, of sons, of children, how could a mother ever lose custody of them? Even in the ‘90s? Society, including judges, civil court judges, quickly and slickly conclude that there’re only three reasons a mother loses her kids: she’s a whore or she’s crazy—or she’s both. Ever. 

But those same judges, those men, they know more. That there’s really a fourth reason, almost all of the time, and not the other three, that’s the real reason behind why a mom loses custody: she’s pissed him off. And he has the status and the money and the supporting backing to get her for it.

After all. That’s what they’d do. In his place. Those same judges, lawyers, cops, legislators, professors, entertainers, board presidents, CEOs, municipal and university administrators, international diplomats … doctors. Hot shots. Big times. The pillars of the community. Pillars. Were they themselves the fathers divorcing and’d been pissed off by their wives, their ex-wives, these guys hold all the power cards down at the Good Ol’ Boys Club. And they would play ’em because…they could. Trump. It is that simple: they could. And it’d kill her. Legally.

What whoring, hysterical yet soccer-, car-pooling mom once but not now, married to one of these guys, do you know has the status and the money and the societal support to appeal and appeal and appeal…and eventually…prevail? Let alone, any time to. Time away from her whoring chores and her crazy-making duties? Now that her kids are gone. To fight and to fight and to fight and to fight for her babies. I know none.

’Course that’s because they’re out there working two full-time jobs. Or maybe one full-time and three part-time ones. There are that many hours in a week’s time, ya’ know. These many jobs, in addition, of course, to their already full-time prostituting and madwoman careers about which the former husbands had made damn sure the mediators and the custody evaluators and the judges were so well aware. 

As evidenced by his earlier court testimony. “Evidence,” those judges purported. “He said. She said.” 

Made his, what he said “evidence”. Because—he said so.

And he got her again when he got child support. Because—he could. The pillar could. 

She’s dead. She’s dead now. For sure. Legally. 

But. Just to make absolutely certain of his kill, damn sure of it, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier secured for my coffin one last, locking nail.

*   *   *   *

I believe it the job of a parent to teach one’s children that complete peace of mind and true and lasting happiness comes from—and only from—inside the child herself alone. This is, after all, a basic survival mode.

And every parent, to have been accountable as a parent, must see to it that her child is brought up to the age of independence, legal independence, knowing how to—and very, very importantly, believing that she is fully imbued with the depth of strength and substance right then, right then at the age of 18—to, if fate dictates, fully and happily live life lovingly to the end of her days…solo. Why then are parents, especially mothers worldwide, and especially mothers of the western world in both halves of the 20th Century, still so unaccountable and so derelict in this, their Spirit-mandated duty? Why do they still, nearly everywhere, continue to hammer the knife deeper and deeper into the kid with the dictum that she couldn’t possibly survive, let alone, be happy—unless she is coupled.

That, that state of affairs, “You’re nothing without a man. You’ll fail straightaway. You’re absolutely worthless, you are. Well, I mean, without a man to take charge, ya’ know.” — That was the ‘there’ that both Dr. Edinsmaier and I had gotten to here from. The message from my mother to her three little girls. From the horse’s mouth.

*   *   *   *

In Quaker Meeting for Worship is a Friend named Yanira whom I admire a lot; she has qualities in her personality and in the content of her character in her 20s I didn’t know women were ‘allowed’ to have, and I have already reached some, as you know, into my 50s. I had even properly and vigorously rebelled as a teenager and am a veteran of Woodstock, a trait for which I’m held in awe by my Boys and their friends.

Still I listened hard to Yanira when she broke silence one First Day to recount the feeling her brother, whose name I’ve never known, has. Yanira and her brother were raised all of their lives in a Quaker household. As such, they have only ever known there tolerance and acceptance of their thoughts, independence in their choices and their comings and goings and been expected to know when and why to take a stand. And had parents who, no matter what the kids did, no matter what happened to the kids—no matter what, had parents who knew where their loyalties needed to be placed and actually went ahead and placed them there. No matter what. No matter what happened, Yanira and her brother had parents who believed in them—and did so, believed in them, just as they were.

So why, as Yanira says is now happening, is her brother angry and complaining recently? Other adolescents and young adults think that these are the type of parents to only dream of having. His anger is over not being given, he calls it, ‘protection’. About not being prepared for or insulated against how he would be received by persons not so generously brought up. His anger is over not being given the tools as a kid to deal, he feels, with how most other people realistically seem to relate. That is, with other folks out there not being so accepting and loyal at all. Not like their parents. Not at all.

What do the insides of a young man whom I don’t even know have to do with me, where I came from and how I am where I am today? Why do I understand his anger? I feel exactly as he does—but for the opposite kind of upbringing.

As a tiny child, a little girl and a big girl, I was only ever taught to be dependent, very dependent on men. I was nothing without a man to rescue and take care of me and certainly had no discernible purpose if it weren’t to attend him and to bolster and raise him up—as well as, of course, whatever children he happened to want to be known as having sired with me. 

O, it was okay with my mother, even nearly mandatory because of the prestigious status of it, to become myself the so-called ‘all’ that I could be as far as a career went. Preferably the more intellectually difficult and demanding the out-of-home endeavor, the better and sweeter the glory of it to promenade in front of her family members and friends.

But, first and foremost, I was brought up to remember that above all else, my lifelong purpose is to defer, be soft and always, always to depend. In the English language, these are my mother’s favorite verbs. And so the purpose to my life could best be attained obviously by not just marrying—say, for instance, because I was happy or because I was in love or because of some such other fool thing—but by marrying ‘well’, of course.

Yes, I know. This is an ages-old story, a story that has been true for nearly all women worldwide for decades and centuries. So where does Yanira’s brother’s feeling fit into this particular part of the same old story?

Well, what I didn’t learn, what lesson I never was given by either parent, ever…was what to do to ‘protect’ myself, what to do to prepare myself for the aftermath. That is, for when after that man that I am so dutifully dependent upon and have been so soft and deferent to through so many years and tribulations no longer wants me in his life. Mehitable and AmTaham True never taught me what to do for when, of all the acts of barbarism, terrorism and torture, that man, for whom I’d borne the three most brilliant, beautiful and perfect babies in all the history of the entire world, could possibly ever scheme up to hurt me with: For when that man no longer wants me in Zane’s, Jesse’s and Mirzah’s lives.

The feeling Yanira’s brother describes is exactly mine: How, I ask you, how do I realistically stand up to a pillar-of-the-community, physician ex-husband who not only dares to, but so smoothly does, take away all forms of contact between me and my three Sons, a man whose nonchalant, matter-of-fact chicanery before a state’s district court judge three times and its court of appeals judges twice and its supreme court justices once, convinces them to choose that there apparently exists somewhere some legality that allows them all—all these judges—to reign this same terrorist and bizarre no-contact contract down upon Zane, Jesse, Mirzah and me. Nail Legion True in that coffin now.

Never before, nowhere in the history of the State of Iowa had any of its courts ever battered, tortured and terrorized children and their mother—or a father, for that matter—with this unparalleled legal conduct.

That is to say, where there had been such overwhelming evidence—evidence legally found—of birthing, bonding, nurturing and love between a noncustodial parent and children, no Iowa court had prohibited contact between that parent and those children ever before. Until Herod Edinsmaier, M.D., came before it. 

Two Iowa appellate judges, a woman and a man just newly appointed to the Iowa Court of Appeals a couple of months before the 1994, ten-minute hearing, dissented. The insecure two, trying I suppose to somewhat distance themselves from the others’ battering, torture and terror, came up with actually a rather scathing if powerless, six-page dissention about which we shall hear more later. Suffice now for one sentence of it to be quoted wherein Judge Barry Crowrook joined in affirmation to that which Judge Pansy Shawshank penned, “Totally terminating the visitation between a noncustodial parent where there is substantial bonding between the noncustodial parent and the children is…without precedent.”

Dr. Phyllis Chesler writes about me—and a few other pariah-like mamas who were made noncustodial ones before me—in her tome of the early year already of 1986, Mothers on Trial: the Battle for Children and Custody, on its page 186, “…‘intimates’ such as their own mothers, refused to support them OR ACTIVELY…BETRAYED THEM.

‘My mother blamed me for everything,’ Bonnie states. Sharon recounts, ‘My mother was terrified. After all, why did I want out of a marriage when she hadn’t left her marriage—and her marriage was worse than mine? My own mother wasn’t secure enough to support me, her child!’” How incredibly common, how true of 1950s mothers of the baby-boomer babes, their own daughters! How incredibly true of Mehitable True.

So. How do the Boys and I protect ourselves from and survive the destruction wrought by such a man, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, who crafts such control over and instills such fear into his dependent-all-her-life ex-mother-in-law, my own mother? That she, my own mother, would so swiftly and seemingly just as matter of fact-like set aside where her loyalty should belong—with her own child, with me—and place it all, instead, with that holocaust-producing pillar who long and loudly proclaims back to her about her daughter and to all the World as well, “SONS, YOU HAVE NO MOTHER! MOTHER, YOU HAVE NO SONS!”

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LIST OF CHARACTERS

Dr. Legion True: One fucked mother

Dr. Herod (Herry) Edinsmaier: Ex-husband/Sperm Source [“re: I am snide” backwards]

Zane: eldest son

Jesse: middle son

Mirzah: youngest son

AmTaham True: Legion’s father [Mahatma backwards]

Mehitable True: Legion’s mother [Me hit-able—i.e. she was abusive]

Yanira: Quaker friend

Fannie Issicran McLive: ex’s new wife

Judge Barry Crowrook: Appellate Court judge

Judge Pansy Shawshank: Appellate Court judge

Judge Harley Butcher: Family Court judge

Friends: Grace, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, and Sheryl

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Author: Dr. Blue AKA Ofherod, BSN, DVM, PhD = Commander Edinsmaier's Handmaid (Commander reiamsnidE 's Handmaid)

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SISTERS IN SOLIDARITY FORUM

Our next Sisters in Solidarity Forum will be this Saturday, January 20th, 1pm Pacific; 4pm Eastern; 9pm GMT/UTC. A zoom link will be sent out soon.

To join Sisters in Solidarity you need only agree the Post-Separation Crisis is caused by systemic male entitlement resulting in the disempowerment and oppression of women. We are mobilizing a counteroffensive to regain our long-lost power to keep and protect our children—and our resources/money—after divorce/separation.

If you’d like to be part of our Sisterhood, please read this column, watch this video powerpoint presentation and fill out this form. You will be sent a link for the zoom a few days before the forum (check alternate boxes and spam). Please do not share the link; the forum is only for Sisters.

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You may also support the Coalition’s work through a one-time or recurring contribution at paypal.me/TheWomensCoalition

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