By Claire Louge, Executive Director
I was in Washington DC a couple weeks ago for the National Family Support Network Convening, a gathering of all the networks of Family Resource Centers in the country.
On one of the evenings, I took myself on a walking tour of the National Mall, where landmarks like the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the MLK Memorial are all within a couple miles of each other.
One of my favorite things to do when I travel is walk around by myself. Having grown up in New York and being nearly six feet tall, I’m a fast walker, and I love sweeping through cities, observing the people and buildings and nature around me, taking it all in. Walking by myself allows me to be fully
present in observation, in witnessing the vibrant energy of the place. I find it exhilarating.
As I breezed through the landmarks, I walked by gaggles of young people, obviously on field trips.
Middle schoolers whispering or yelling to each other with their fresh faces and center parts in their hair.
Their good-natured, tired teachers herding them through crosswalks and explaining the significance of
the places they stood in projecting voices in to half-listening tweens.
I whisked by families of all types and ethnicities, peering up at statues or taking a break on benches,
powering their way up marble steps or steering strollers through crowds, calling to each other to keep
together.
It was the full-force beauty of America, and the juxtaposition of this moment and place wasn’t lost on
me. Here we all were, in the place in our nation where leaders are making decisions impacting not only
our country, but the entire world. Where some of those decisions are leading to deep and lasting pain
for certain families and children. Where people are deciding what choices are open to people, and which
ones are closed. Who deserves help and opportunity and who does not. What justice and freedom
mean.
It’s all a lot, and it’s heavy. We’re in a time in which the economy is squeezing us, and some far more
than others. When families are being separated. When people who need help can’t get it because a
higher value is placed on preventing fraud than preventing child and family adversity.
A day before, I had gone to Capitol Hill with some beloved colleagues to educate the staff of our
Senators and Representatives about Family Resource Centers, and the powerful role they play as front
doors of support and connection for people raising children. It was a fun and exciting and joyful day. I
created a reel about it to share on our social media platforms (I'm very into making reels lately). I sent the reel to my sisters, whom I had just seen the weekend before, to share about how the day had turned out. “I’m glad you were able to deliver such an important message in a playful manner,” my sister Nathalie said.
Her supportive comment twinged something in me. Was I being too playful in a very serious time in our
country? Was my joyful advocacy failing to ‘read the room’ of our nation?
The thing is, I get an enormous amount of joy from my work. It gives me a deep sense of purpose, and I
feel invigorated by sharing that purpose with other powerfully compassionate and smart people.
But we open the news, and we see all that’s not joyful. It sometimes feels uneasy to do this work with so
much enthusiasm and zest when the world we want is not the world we have.
Joy sometimes feels silly. Guilty. Even disrespectful, in the face of the reality so many families are facing.
But the joy in the work persists. We are working to design our nation in a way that makes purpose and
happiness and joy possible for children and families. Despite all the challenges that come with that
endeavor, it’s wildly invigorating.
One of the truest descriptions of adulthood I have ever heard is that it is a constancy of often
contradicting, mixed emotions. We can feel rage and joy. Gratitude and fear. Uncertainty and hope.
The thing is, all of these are real. When things are bad, being somber isn’t a requirement to do
something to make it better. Joy isn’t silly, or wrong, or disrespectful. Prevention made visible is joy, and
if we want to create a more joyful world, modeling joy is important.
There’s a quote attributed to Dan Savage that I’ve thought about frequently in recent years:
"During the darkest days of the AIDS crisis, we buried our friends in the morning, we protested in the
afternoon, and we danced at night. The dance kept us in the fight because it was the dance we were
fighting for.”
The dance is what we’re fighting for. The glee of those tweens on the DC National Mall is what we’re
fighting for. The togetherness of those families hauling themselves up the Lincoln Memorial steps is
what we’re fighting for.
All children and families living happy and purposeful lives is what we’re fighting for.
This is me giving you permission to be fully joyful, whenever you feel it. This is me giving myself
permission to do the same. Our movements wilt without joy. In the face of injustice and harm, joy is
our defiance. We will create a more joyful world for families, and we will do it as joyfully as we can.