Taco Tuesday Roll Call

For the women who are still here—and hungry.

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This post is brought to you by grief, rage, memory, and salsa verde.

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This is for all the women standing in kitchens and courtrooms,
classrooms and protest lines,
with babies on hips
and emails unsent,
grief in their chests,
and late-night Google Docs whispering:

“Am I the only one who still cares?”

The women who notice—
All the ones who used to care,
standing on the wrong side now.

The women who flinch, watching the Mayor flip.
To witness someone in the fight beside her—
come back changed.
Not louder.
Not bolder.
Just... blank.

Did they threaten his family?
His future?
His freedom?

She knows that look—
hollow, hunted.
The kind that says:
“I wanted to fight, but they found the exact thing I can’t afford to lose.”

Now he stands behind their podium.
Smiling.
Shrinking.
Silent.

Invasion of the body snatchers.
Only this time?
They kept his name.

This is for the woman who’s called her senator’s office for what feels like the millionth time.
Who knows the voices of the same unfazed interns by name.
“Hi John. It’s me again.”

Who delivers her message anyway—
fearing it’ll be erased from the spreadsheet, if it was even taken down at all.
Realizing that someone who doesn’t have a well-connected father like John’s
is barely scraping by to support a family of five.

Or worse—
she gets the voicemail.
Because just like every other MAGA loyalist in office,
they’re done pretending to care.

The president accepted a $400 million luxury jet from Qatar.
He hosted crypto dinners in exchange for White House access.
So yeah—
anything goes now, right?

But still.
She calls.
She shows up.
She keeps going.
Because something in her refuses to go numb.

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She remembers.
The drive to Planned Parenthood in college,
her best friend in the passenger seat—
gripping the paper bag of antibiotics
because her boyfriend cheated,
and left her with more than just a broken heart.

As a grown woman with children,
she remembers taking another friend to the clinic
when choice was still a right,
and shame was something they burned off
together
in the car
before that friend walked in.

And now?

Now they clutch the finely polished pearls on their Stepford choker collars.
They repost curated verses about grace—
and being trespassed upon.

They vote for men who want our bodies to be incubators.
But once we pass the point of pro-creation?

We should lower our voices,
cross our legs,
smile politely—
and act like a lady.

Now they call your voice divisive—
because they can’t recognize what it costs you to keep theirs safe.

And still.
You stay.
You speak.
You show up.
Not because you’re fearless—
because you remember the rule about never negotiating with terrorists.

You’re not alone.
You’re not behind.
You’re standing on firm, hallowed ground,
and on the shoulders of all the brave women who got us where we are.

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General Harriet Tubman didn’t have a map.
She had a mission—and a pistol.
She walked into the dark and didn’t come back alone.

Eleanor Roosevelt rewrote the rules mid-meeting.
She didn’t wait to be invited to speak.
She created space for herself, and made room for others.

Susan B. Anthony was arrested for voting.
Amelia Earhart looked at the sky and said, “I’ll go first.”
Toni Morrison turned truth into language and dared us to follow.
Maya Angelou gave us the rhythm of survival, and the spine to rise.
Nina Simone made music out of protest—and said “freedom means no fear.”
Katherine Johnson, Dorothy Vaughan, and Mary Jackson mapped the stars for men who refused to share the same coffee pot—
and were nearly erased from the story they helped write.
Ruth Bader Ginsburg dissented for a living.

They didn’t do it easily.
They didn’t do it without sacrifice.
But they didn’t sit it out.

And now?

Now it’s you.
Now it’s us.
Now it’s our turn.

With tired eyes.
With full hearts.
With more questions than answers—
but still choosing to show up.

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This is not the beginning.
This is the moment we step into the story they left unfinished.
When they passed us the torch.

We don’t need to be louder.
We need to be clear.

We don’t need to be fearless.
We need to be ready.

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So if you hear the call—
not as a whisper,
but as a drumbeat from somewhere deep and ancestral—

Answer it.

Stand up.
Speak up.
Show up.
Carry the line forward.

Because this isn’t just a moment.
It’s history in the making.

And someday,
when they ask our names
and what we did
when the world was on fire—
we will not be listed among the silent.

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P.S. Thanks to Governor Wes Moore for the reminder that we’re not the first ones to carry the fire—we just have to be the ones who refuse to let it go out.