Last Saturday (January 21, 2017) people all around the world took to the streets in marches advocating solidarity and women’s rights. One of these demonstrations took place in my hometown of Atlanta; my mother and I woke up early, donned glitter and orthotic shoes, and began our trek to the march at the MARTA station in Sandy Springs. Even from this pre-beginning point, my experience at the Atlanta Women’s March was very eye-opening in various ways.
Upon our descent from the parking deck, my mom and I saw a great throng of people crowded around the ticket machine (Breeze card machine for you metro-Atlantans). I waited for half an hour on the other side of the turnstile for my mother, and as I waited I observed the women around me waiting for their families and friends. While most of their signs protested certain offenses against females popularized by the election, others expressed opinions on abortion (on both ends of the spectrum), some were more general in their advocation of total equality, and there were even those protesting threats to the environment.
After all of this pondering, my mother came through with her ticket and we joined the other crowd of people waiting for the northbound train. With each stop, the train got more and more crowded to the point where I could not even tell which legs were mine. We poured out after a while into the Peachtree station. Filled with zeal for making our mark on history, my mom and I decided on taking the stairs to street level instead of the escalator. Six flights of extremely steep stairs up and barely halfway up we regretted our decision, but we made it nonetheless.
We exited the station into a very windy and rainy downtown Atlanta, and made our way the the start point by the National Center for Civil and Human Rights. My mom and I waited on a street corner whilst being buffeted about a fair amount by those around us (we are rather short and not particularly assertive). As we were far from the building itself, we unfortunately could not hear any of the speakers, but we entertained ourselves by reading everyone’s shirts and signs, as well as laughing at the odds of the fact that at one point I spotted one of my high school teachers in the crowd. After about half an hour, the whole crowd had turned to left as if ready to start the march, and it took another half hour from there for the crowd to move down one block.
The march at this point continued as a snail’s crawl, and there were several loud chants of “fired up - ready to go!”. For what felt like forever, the crowd would move a few feet, then stop, move…and stop until we gained a slight momentum and began strolling toward Centennial Olympic Park. The momentum grew, and so too did the chants and amount of sidewalk spectators as we made our way towards the capitol. Once again, I saw signs drawing attention to a great variety of issues and causes, which puzzled me at first, but no one seemed to be bothered by the variety.
My mother, practical woman that she is, decided that it would be best to take our leave as the front portion of the marchers had arrived at their destination so as to avoid the mass onslaught on the subway station. Other than the wonder I held at being part of something so similar to what I have read about countless times in history books, my favorite part of this experience was the train ride home. It was far less crowded on the train (which the claustrophobe in me appreciated), and though it was almost silent, if you looked up at any one of the people around you, they would smile with bright but tired eyes at the mutual appreciation for the great steps we all had taken toward a common cause.
Many people attended this march, as well as the official one in Washington DC and those abroad, so I must take into consideration the perspectives of others. However, what I have taken from my single experience in this demonstration is the metaphorical representation of the movement for justice and equality throughout history.
Even to get to the starting point, it took a great deal of time an effort. Activists were met by obstacles far worse than stairs and a little rain, yet they went on. The movements overall took frustratingly long to start, and even after they did, the demonstrations were small, sporadic steps forward with little effect. However, once the cause gained momentum, it grew louder and stronger and (especially in the case of this march, which I am very proud of) stayed peaceful throughout. I hope that we do not lose this momentum and continue to stand strong for our common goal.
