On a winter night in 1981 my mother was ironing my bed like she did whenever it was cold. Basement apartments on Long Island can get cold but not always cold enough to justify the luxury of turning on the heat. When it was time for bed my mother would bundle us up in our PJ’s and run the iron over the bedsheets and blankets until it was warm enough for us to fall asleep. When I asked when we could turn on the heat, my mother said we could when turn it on things were better but that didn’t happen for a while. Until things got better the iron was the best we could do; it was small way to make things easier to bear.
For the last 8 years I feel like many of us here in America have been taking small steps to make things more bearable but we’re been waiting waiting for a chance to make a lasting change. I hope that when I wake up on Wednesday we’re one giant step closer to where we want to be. For now I feel like ironing my bed to make it through the last cold nights.