2025 Rose Parade was no exception. Seated front row on folding chairs plunked in the gutter near the corner of Allen and Colorado–the marching bands shook my internal organs, I forced myself not to ugly cry when horses passed, especially the mini horses–and then the therapy labradors. Even the motorcycle police leading the parade and yelling at people to get off the street as they did fancy tricks on their bikes and paved a clear parade route, had me crying. And don’t get me started on the Stealth swooping overhead–so creepy/fascinating sob sob sob.

I didn’t cry at parades until 2007, when I became a mom. Cried when my son was born, cried dropping him off at pre-school (not in front of him, when I was back in the minivan, pulling away), Kinder, cried at every event he participated in at his elementary school (there are legitmate reasons for ultra-black sunnies worn indoors), cried when moms and teachers who knew I cried handed me tissues at events because they knew I would forget to bring tissues even though we all knew I was going to cry. Cried during the Santa Barbara Women’s March in–2016? 2017?–my kid marching with me. Cried when Kamala Harris rallies were aired and during her spectacular bit on SNL. I can’t watch animal videos because I cry so hard my heart wants to quit me. Cried at some point during every episode of ‘Somebody Somewhere’. I cry if I glance out the window by my writing desk and see people playing in the park with their dogs. If I was still acting, I’d have no trouble crying on cue. None at all. I’d just think about my son body surfing his first wave, or my cats doing anything, or have Maggie Rogers’ song ‘Alaska’ in my ears and voila: instant waterworks.

I am working hard at not ugly crying for my country this month. Not a good time to be a walking pillar of potential tears.

Yours in the hope that Hope really is the thing with raptor feathers,

PB

PS. Don’t forget to breathe