I’m not a person that is easily overwhelmed. I’m not a person who is overtly emotional, or who cries at the stories people tell. I am not someone to hug strangers just for the sake of them being who they are. I’m not a person that is patient, especially not in crowds. And I’m definitely not someone who is just one more person in a sea of others.
But on January 21st, I was all of those things. And I was proud to be.
On January 21 I was one of nearly half a million women, children, and men who had a message. One of the grandparents, one of the friends, of one the families, one of the perfect strangers that stood together in solidarity. We stood and we listened. We danced and we swayed and we clapped. We laughed and we cried, we yelled and chanted for all the world to hear.
On January 21, I was one of those nearly half million humans, straight and gay, transgender and bisexual. I was one of those faces that was white or black, Mexican and Middle Eastern. I was one of those who was Christian, Muslim, and Jewish. I was one of those that loved, regardless of these things.
On January 21, everyone that was there together was all of these things.
It’s hard to put into words the exact emotions felt during and after the march. Even as I write this I struggle to find the words to explain the power in seeing more people in one place than I have or ever will see again in my life. Not only in seeing the mass amount of people; but being secure in knowing that they were all like minded. Not the same, but alike.
Alike in their reasons for being there, even if their individual message was not for women solely and specifically. Yes, people had their own personal stories and reasons for being there other than strict feminism, such as LGTBQ rights or Black Lives Matter; but the slight differences in the personal causes is exactly what made it so very powerful. All of those other messages added up to the big point of the March, which was, to me, respect.
Respect of our bodies. Of our religions, whatever they may be. Respect of our skin color, whatever shade it is. Resect of who we love, however they identify. Respect for the beautiful and great country that allows us to peacefully gather and march for these things we demand respect for.
Yes, demand.
In being a part of this movement I found my voice. Which has never been too quiet, but nonetheless in being a part of this march I not only found my voice, but learned how to use it in the most powerful way possible. With unconditional understanding and love. I found it and raised it louder with the hundreds of thousands of others like me that are tired of being treated as second class citizens.
If you are one of those that would stop me there are claim that we are in fact equal under the law, check your privilege. Ask yourself; would you trade places with a woman for her pay, or her fight for how to handle her biology or for the scrutiny of her superficial features? Would you trade places with a black or hispanic citizen for their fight to have equal consideration for employment or education?
If you would not trade places then you agree that some among us are still, in 2017, considered to be less. Considered to be unworthy of privileges that should be rights.
And yet still we rise and rose above we did. Not a single person in the DC march was arrested. Not. A. Single. Arrest.
Such a big part of what I learned about my voice and the power I have (and that everyone has) is knowing how to use it for the right things and for the right reasons. How to garner listeners and earn respect for your cause. Because at the end of the day that’s what the march was about.
Beneath the equality
Beneath the legality
Beneath the health
Beneath all the things we marched for was respect; enough to be listened to and taken seriously.
