This past weekend was as delightful as a shit-show could get. Following You-Know-Who’s (sorry Voldy, you’re outranked) inauguration, my school drove up to the Washington Metro station in Vienna, Virginia. The purpose of the trip was to attend the Women’s March held in D.C., but of course, we were free to explore wherever the rail could take us. I decided to use the free trip to my advantage; I’m from about twenty minutes from D.C., and I wanted to feel like I was home, even if it was just for a few hours.

The journey from Vienna, VA to Silver Spring, MD was freaking weird. First off, there were so many people, most of them headed to the marches. If someone had no idea what the Metro was or its purpose, they could have mistaken it for a concert venue. People were carrying posters, taking photos, and the line from the inside went out, around, and across the bridge. Also, more than half of the riders were wearing pink, cat-eared hats. My tendency to avoid social media in times of nation-wide chaos caused this movement to completely blindside me, but in the wake of America’s recent obsession with the word “pussy,” it wasn’t hard for me to put the pieces together. I researched the mysterious pussy hats and discovered that they were just that – Pussyhats. The Pussyhat Project was started by two women, Krista Suh and Jayna Zweiman, who wanted to create a “sea of pink” during the marches in Washington D.C. Congrats, ladies! There were pussies everywhere.

Speaking of pussy, the word was quite popular on the posters I saw of the marchers. Phrases like “this pussy grabs back” and “my pussy, my choice” were written on at least every fifth poster I saw, held by women of all ages. I understand the references. The movements and the chants indeed bring us together, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t resent them a little. It took for the word “pussy” to get white women to use their voices and come out to protest You-Know-Who, and as a womanofcolor, I felt a bit silenced. You cannot speak up for equal rights for women yet say nothing as The Creature and its followers attack our skin colors. Feminism and racial equality come hand-in-hand, and people must know this. But hey, that’s one step forward for womankind, right? Pussy is power.

After drowning out the bitter thoughts, I let the positive ones heal me as I continued my ride. It was beautiful seeing so many humans coming together, headed to the same destination.

Except me. Protests shake me up a bit. I’m more of an observer than participator in most political and stressful occasions. I don’t feel bad about that either, even when a lady tried to get some sort of reaction out of me after she breathed her hot breath into my nostrils for thirty minutes. The woman asked me where I was going and when I told her, she responded in a somewhere-from-New England accent, “if you weren’t here, we would have more space.” I couldn’t tell if her scaly lips were forming a smile around her tar-infused gnashers or if she was baring her teeth at me, so I did my best version of a shrug and said “if you weren’t here, I would have more space.” I stared at her as she laughed uncomfortably and finally turned the other way. I’m still confused about that interaction.

Getting off and out of the station was a relief. Being sandwiched between several women for an hour was not as fun as I thought it’d be. In Silver Spring, I walked around downtown in all its gloomy glory, fitting right in. There were plenty of protesters there too, some headed to the march, some just coming together on the street. I walked further away from the crowds and stopped on the sidewalk to GPS the nearest Chick-Fil-A when a man walking passed stopped and told me, “You know it’s a problem when white folk start coming together. That’s when you know we in trouble.” He chuckled and scattered away before I could hug him.

Heading back to Vienna, I was in a more irritable mood–tired, hungry, and sore, so I wasn’t so forgiving on the ride back. I acquired a few more bags from thrift shopping downtown, and being a bag lady on the train only makes you a target for being pushed more (more bags = more space it seems like I have around me). The thought of my tote-bag and my new old clothes touching the train floor made me extra aware of my surroundings, so my anxiety and general agitation brought out my good ol’ friend Aggression. Cursing at old people and shoving shovers for 45 minutes was exhausting, but my bags didn’t touch the floor once! The trip was a success.

The sense of unity I felt during the day trip was heartwarming, especially it coming from my home area. Positivity in numbers is such a powerful force, and I really do believe that if we keep this up, we will see change! It may come slowly, but it will happen. As a woman, I am confident that people will recognize the imbalances in our societies and our government. But as a black woman, all I can say is that I wish more people cared about shots at my skin color the way they care about shots at my vagina.