Carrying My Mother Into the Statehouse

Yesterday, when I walked into the Indiana Statehouse to protest the Redistricting scheme that tries—yet again—to silence Hoosier voices, I wasn’t alone. I carried a piece of my mother with me. I wore it intentionally, not as an accessory, but as a quiet act of remembrance. A talisman. A thread between who I am today and the woman who first taught me what civic courage looks like.

My mother didn’t use the word activist. She didn’t march with a bullhorn or write op-eds or host meetings in the living room. But she raised me during one of the most tumultuous, transformative decades in American history. Our evenings were spent in the glow of a black-and-white television, watching the nation convulse and stretch itself toward justice — sometimes reluctantly, sometimes bravely.

I absorbed the world sitting next to her:
the riots that demanded we confront injustice,
the protests that turned sidewalks into classrooms,
the speeches of JFK that made us believe we could be better,
the assassinations that shattered innocence,
the courage of civil disobedience,
and the early victories for women and civil rights that cracked open the future.

My mother didn’t shield me from history — she invited me into it.

She gave me the awareness that shaped everything I do today. So when I stand in halls of power, when I push back against laws meant to cheat democracy, when I speak out because silence is complicity, she’s with me. Her voice, her values, her steady presence walk in with me every single time.

I think of her when I protest.
I think of the world she wanted for her daughter.
And I think of the world I want to leave behind.

Yesterday wasn’t just political — it was personal. It was generational. It was a reminder that activism isn’t something we learn from a textbook. It’s something inherited, lived, and carried forward — often from the women who raised us to see clearly and act boldly.

So yes, I wore it for her.
And I’ll keep showing up for both of us.

Julie Bolejack, MBA