Here’s a different approach to celebrating Women’s History Month before it ends up on the chopping block by the Trump administration joining African American and other cultural celebrations.

Now whereas the mind immediately goes to “past” when it conjures up the word “history,” or perhaps “history makers” in the future, my angle in this narrative is to zero in on current history, not celebratory but an apology to six women and, by extension, to scores of other women across the nation who have been similarly treated.

So, my apology is to you “Bernice,” “Rita,” “Evelyn,” “Francine,” “Rosa,” “Alexzandria,” your loved ones and others who depend on you emotionally, spiritually and financially for the devastation that’s interrupted your lives.

I’m sorry, deeply sorry. I’m also embarrassed. I’m also enraged.

Forgive me ladies, but I hope you don’t mind my calling you out under these unimaginable circumstances. Although I did not receive one myself, my disgust at that awful message you received recently – over the weekend for heaven’s sake – telling you to list your five major accomplishments over the past week and risk termination of your employment if you fail to comply, in no way compares with yours.

It was tough not to look at those gut-wrenching images of you walking out of your former places of employment with packed boxes in hand. Even worse were those of you who calmy stopped by probing TV cameras to share your feelings to the American public and those who chose to look away in shame. When we saw you straining to smile or wiping away tears, our hearts sank to unprecedented lows.

So, although it won’t make much of a difference, here’s what I need to say to each of you:

To “Bernice” in Washington, I’m sorry for the anguished look on your face when you, packed boxes in hand, passed the paparazzi-like TV camera shoved into your face because you had nothing to say and no other way to get to your car.

To “Rita” in Michigan, I’m sorry for the dour expression on your dark brown face as you waved off that reporter having just telling her that your dream job was snatched out from underneath you a week after you started, and after years of working several low-paying jobs just to make ends meet.

To “Evelyn” in west Texas (with your infant wrapped up in lap), I’m sorry to listen to you speak, haltingly, to us in Spanish through a translator about your husband’s being fired from his federal job with parks & recreation, and the ever-haunting specter of being snatched up one night by the authorities and deported to a southern border near you.

To “Francine” in Virginia, I’m sorry that you left your job in Connecticut to take a federal one in Richmond only to be fired two weeks after your relocation to be near your ailing mom.

To “Rita” in Washington, DC, I’m sorry for witnessing you tearfully exchange hugs with former co-workers outside the Reagan building after you all were fired from the U.S.A.I.D.

To “Alexzandria” in Massachusetts, I’m sorry that you learned you’d been fired when you were abruptly locked out of the computer system at a VA Medical Center.

Now although it’s unlikely that we’ll ever meet in person, I couldn’t let another day go by without speaking to you in this space, albeit vicariously. You see, over the past few weeks, I, like many who watched on our TV screens, a safe distance from the humiliation you’ve experienced, want you to know that millions of us felt helpless yet marveled at your courage in the face of something so inhumane, so callous, so unthinkable.

And even more heart-stopping is how hard it is for us to fantom those difficult conversations you had with your family, trying to explain to your young ones the need to cancel vacation plans, scrap summer camps, ballet lessons and shopping sprees for new clothes for school. We buried thoughts of those uncomfortable conversations you may have had in the back of our minds to make sure that they didn’t get in the way of our undivided attention to the glitz and glamor of the recent Oscar Awards program.

Now adding to all this are images of a president jetting off to another round of golf on the sunny course in Mar A Lago, a vice president and family heading for a ski trip in the mountains of Vermont, or a chainsaw swing, sunglass wearing individual dancing like the proverbial third grade class clown across a stage during a conference.

As I said and worth repeating, the words in this letter are unlikely to bring you much solace in the face of all that’s been placed on your shoulders. But they are nonetheless words I needed to say. And please know that I represent tens of millions of similarly outraged, broken-hearted, grieving and angry people who will continue to support you with our prayers, voices and personal actions within our circles of influence.

So, yes, we’re dabbing at the tears on our cheeks and squirming in our seats, strapped with this nagging question: what have we become as a nation and how does this new reality square with what we’re supposed to be?

I wish I could say to you that we’re better than this, but right now I’m no longer sure.

But somehow and in some way, you’ll get on the other side of this because, as Pulitzer Prize winning columnist Leonard Pitts once wrote in the aftermath of the devastation wreaked on New Orleans by hurricane Katrina because, he wrote, “that’s what human always do. Climb out, assess the damage, adapt to a new reality, start to put things right and find a way to live through this.”

My hope, strong ladies, is that one day in the not-too-distant future our paths will cross somehow in some way and under much better circumstances.

In closing and in parting, I wish I could say a lot more, but forgive me because I’m just too drained, too sickened….and too outraged!

Terry Howard is an award-winning writer. He is a contributing writer with the Chattanooga News Chronicle, The American Diversity Report, The Douglas County Sentinel, Blackmarket.com, The Augusta County Historical Bulletin and recipient of the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Leadership Award, and third place winner of the Georgia Press Award.