I'm an old hedge witch, an invisible older woman, an introvert with a garden. I've done a few good things in my life. I've raised a smart, kind, feminist of a son with the world's most amazing sense of humor, who is, in his own turn, a wonderful and involved father. I've won a case with national importance that helped a lot of ordinary people, and I've worshipped matter on an almost daily basis, as a way of co-creating the Universe. I've shown up and marched to end the war in Viet Nam, the war in Iraq, gun violence, attacks on women's right to choose.
But, like Amanda, and Atrios, and watertiger, I will presume to say: Hells yeah, politicize my death.
I am an organ donor so that, even in death, I can do what I think it's important for all beings to do: engage in positive energy exchanges with other manifestations of the Goddess, turn the wheel, make things better than they were when you showed up. What could make this political junkie happier than a politicization of her death? A lot of my life has been shallow, and I imagine that some of my memorial will be shallow: She adored the snark and could quote Dorothy Parker at length, she wore pretty scarves, she wrote clever briefs, she drank her martinis with two olives and an onion, she wrote v good thank you notes, you never went to her home when you weren't offered warmth and wine, she sure did love the ballet. But I've tried, in my own way, to make things better via the body politic and I would be hurt if that escaped mention at what I hope would be the rather sodden (the witches all know where the older bottles of Krug are kept) party following my trip between the veils. And if it would help, even a little bit, even at all, hell, yeah, politicize my death. If that pisses off some Republican, well, laughter and joy lift the barge that sails to the Summerlands.
Update: As always, Athenae says it best and leaves me more than willing to chew off my left arm to be able to write like that.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."