It was colder than I expected. As I pulled my jacket closer to my body and wrapped my scarf around my neck I watched a crowed of men and women in pink, dog-ear style hats dance past me carrying neon colored signs. My friend Jaycee, cradling her rolled up “Who run the world? Girls!” sign under the arm of her cheetah print coat turned to me and told me to hurry up.
“I want to be right in the middle of it!” Her eyes full of excitement.
Blocks away from the Women’s March I could already hear the chanting over the bustling noises of a New York City morning. I knew it was going to be a good day.
When I told my parents, days before, that I would be attending the Women’s March in NYC I was met with the distaste typically shown by conservative parents to their liberal daughters. My father, who I only wish would stop attempting to convince me that Trump was the right choice, simply shook his head and looked at the T.V. – always tuned into Fox News. My mother, however, had one question: what’s the point?
It’s a question I’ve been asked by many people – friends, family, and otherwise – when it comes to women’s rights/anti-trump/LGBTQ+ activism.
What’s the point?
Why bother?Why whine about it?
I never answer that question. I never have the energy to argue the point. Sometimes I can even see why they ask the questions. Why they wonder what we think will happen from it. But as I ran into the crowed of pink gathered at the corner of 42nd St and 2nd Ave – as I watched people surround me in all directions - I knew the answer.
Donald J. Trump is our President. He is not the man I voted for and, in the days leading up to the inauguration, it was an idea that I balked at – one I actively tried not to think about moment-to-moment. But I am no fool. I understand that this is the hand we have been dealt. That he will likely not be impeached. That he will not go away (and considering the VP maybe that’s the best option). But this march was never about him. It was about us.
I stood in the crowed for two and a half hours before we even took one step. We had gotten there on time, but no one had moved. The group of people surrounding me was confused. One girl, in the city from Drew College for the march, said that no one had expected this many people and that every street meeting 2nd Ave from 53rd through 42nd was filled with people waiting to march.
“They had expected 200,000,” she said, “but there are so many more. Look around. It’s amazing!”
We were on low ground so I thrust my camera into the air to see just how many people were around us. I took shots of each direction; careful to make sure I adjusted the zoom to get a good view. When I pulled my Nikon back down to take a look I was astonished by what I saw.
Thousands of colorful signs.
A sea of people in every direction.
Stretching farther than my good camera could capture.
This march was never really about Mr. Trump. It was about women. It was about our rights – the ones we feel are about to be infringed upon. All election season long the nation has heard Donald’s rhetoric. From his “pussy” talk to his ideas that women who have abortions should be punished, the words are scary when you sit with them. When you realize that he is in charge. We have heard talk of de-funding Planned Parenthood. We have seen bills go into affect that make it more difficult for women to get the reproductive health care that they seek. We have watched politician after politician perpetuate rape culture and victim blaming, sometimes to such extremes that they forget how the anatomy of a women’s body functions. We have heard Donald criticize newscasters giving him “hard questions” for being on their periods – insinuating that it changes the demeanor of a woman, what she has the ability to do, how she can do her job. All of this nonsense we have watched and heard. Is it really a surprise that we are angry? Is it really a surprise that we march
Being in the crowed was a feeling that is hard to put into words. It felt like being part of something so much bigger than me. Reading signs that expressed how I have felt for a year watching this election unfold was wonderful. The sun was shining and the day was warm. We had just started moving. On the corner of 46th street three girls hang out of their apartment window, swinging their bras around yelling to the crowed from nine stories up. Behind me a man screams “Your body YOUR CHOICE” and in response the crowd yells, “My body, MY CHOICE!” A sing song pattern that repeats for fifteen minutes. Jaycee takes a video for Instagram. I just sit back and enjoy the unity.
This march was about so much more than hating trump. It fact that was the least of it. Because from here on out the goal is not to get him out. It is to make him listen. That was what January 21st, 2017 was about. From NYC to Boston to D.C where women and men stood outside the white house screaming, “we will not go away” to Paris where the French stood in solidarity – women all around the world urging the President to listen. Standing in the cold – millions of people across America alone. Stopping traffic, singing, giving speeches and chanting in peaceful protest.
We are saying, “Hi Donald, we are here. We are watching you. We do not like you. This is what we are worried about:
Reproductive rights.
LGBTQ+ issues.
Racism.
Equality and respect.
You.
And we will fight like hell to make sure you hear us. And that you listen.”
That is what the Women’s march was. Not crying. Not millennials upset that they didn’t get what they wanted –not just millennials at all, people of all ages, colors, races, backgrounds.
Standing in that crowed as the sun started to set. Marching past block after block of on-lookers. Looking up at the helicopters getting footage for the news. Screaming at the top of my lungs that we are watching Him for the next four years, eye wide open, to see what he does to this country – holding him accountable for the outcome. Making damn sure that we made a scene across the world so big that he couldn’t wave his hands or compose a tweet to brush us away. That is what I marched for. That was the point. No one can tell me it didn’t matter.
