Lisa notes

Sitting at the long tables in a conference room in Chicago last Saturday, we received our assignment: write a story about our involvement in this movement.

The movement? Something the majority of Americans agree on, regardless of their political affiliation…

• Preventing those with mental illnesses from purchasing guns
• Subjecting private gun sales and gun show sales to background checks
• Implementing a ban on assault weapons

But our task today was specific to our individual roles within Moms Demand Action. And in this room on this day, I was seated beside others who also are behind-the-scenes people like me: the data crunchers.

The data people in our organization, like any organization, are the ones responsible for inputting new members’ information into the database, for creating lists of upcoming events, for sending out emails to members, etc.

It’s not flashy.

It almost feels disconnected from the “real” work of advocating for better gun legislation, of holding support groups for gun violence survivors, of speaking to a crowd about actions they can take next.

Nonetheless, I picked up my pen that Saturday afternoon and began to write. About being a data person.

Only one. I’m just one person. Dozens, hundreds, thousands are killed. I’m still here.

Being just me, I open my laptop. I pull out the sheets of paper from our last Moms’ meeting.

And I start typing, adding one name after another into the database, just me and my computer.

I type in Brittany’s name. I remember Brittany—she shared her fear about her son beginning a new school year. Would he be safe?

I type in “Nancy.” I see her smile and her enthusiasm as she shared at the meeting about the BeSmart secure gun storage program. It saves lives.

I type in Bob’s name. I barely remember Bob at the meeting. He sat in the back. He said little.

But Bob was still there. Bob showed up. I don’t know who Bob might have talked to the next day about gun safety. Probably somebody.

Some one. Maybe just one. But still one.

One person at a time, we move forward. We look out for each person.

One person—just like me.

I put down my pen. I read over my words. I even read them aloud to our group.

My data companions in the room can relate.

If you hold an unglamorous position in your organization, too, know that your work has value, whatever it is. It matters. You matter.

Please keep being your one beautiful self, doing your one important thing.

Share your thoughts in the comments.

When Julissa heard her secret crush tell her at age 14, “You sound like a white girl,” she took it as a compliment in her Texas high school. 

But as a Latina, Julissa later learned that sounding white was the wrong goal. She has since learned to embrace her Mexican heritage as well as her American roots, not caring how she sounds to anyone else.

I’m currently reading Julissa Arce’s memoir, You Sound Like a White Girl: The Case for Rejecting Assimilation. I’m learning a lot from her about the struggles for fair treatment among the Latinx community in the United States.

But as I read, I’m also reminded of something else connected to the whole human race, whoever we are, regardless of where we were born or where we live now:

Accepting ourselves as we are can be hard for anybody. 

With or without outside opposition.

Additionally, accepting who we used to be can also be hard. As we age and grow into our fuller selves, we don’t always appreciate our past selves. We can regret things we once said or did or believed.

The famous quote attributed to Maya Angelou rescues me on those days when I time-travel back to an earlier, not-so-good version of myself:

“I did then what I knew how to do. Now that I know better, I do better.”

We’ve all made mistakes. We’ll all continue to make mistakes.

But if we’re still trying, still growing, still loving, we’re on the right road. We’re doing better.

Accept that. 

Share your thoughts in the comments.