A couple of weeks ago, I did something the me of 2014 could never have imagined I’d do: I marched for Scottish independence.
Followers of my blog will know I was a no voter in 2014, but you might not know I suffer from social anxiety and the thought of walking with a huge crowd of people is pretty high on my list of Terrifying Things To Do. But I packed up my husband and my dog (not necessarily in that order) and hopped a train for Glasgow.
We waited to join the march as it made its way from the west end to the city centre, and our first sight of it, as flags and banners crested the brow of a steep road, was astounding. I couldn’t believe how many people there were. Nervously, we joined the crowd and began to walk. My sense of calm was immediate, and I was surprised to find myself welling up. I didn’t expect I’d feel tearful, but I knew what we were doing was important, and I was grateful to have the opportunity.
But why did I march? What did I hope to accomplish? Well, two things. Firstly, I wanted to send a message to the Scottish Government that we are still here, and that support for independence has grown, at least by two (luckily, we weren’t the only ones out to send that message). Secondly, I want to scare the shite out of Theresa May and her merry band of Brexiters and let them know that Scotland will not be taken for granted. The UK government has broken quite a few promises to Scotland in the last couple of years. They need to know that isn’t acceptable.
Did we accomplish our mission? I think we did. The Growth Commission has been announced and the Better Together folks have regrouped in an obvious state of panic. Both sides got our message, and I look forward to sending another from Bannockburn very soon.