Why I’m going to the Women’s March on Washington
At first glance, it would seem obvious. I’m a woman, I’m young, I’m progressive, and I have ties to the east coast. In the immediate aftermath of the election, I felt ready throw my voice and participation into anything that would reduce the helplessness I felt. The march seemed like exactly what I was looking for when I learned about it, and I decided that I would go.
After a little more time passed, I started seeing voices of dissent pop up in my Facebook feed. I am one of those liberals guilty of an echo chamber experience of social media, but I’m also lucky to have a significant number of people in my network who, if not working in social justice, are passionate, smart, critical thinkers who care deeply about it. While they may not deviate much from my basic political and moral beliefs, their thoughts and opinions help push me to maintain a critical lens and dig beyond the surface layer of things I read or look to get involved in. Beyond my gut reaction to support something pro-women after the decidedly anti-women election results, those voices reminded of my responsibility to dig deeper. When I did, I was troubled by concerns about the naming of the march and the lack of diversity amongst the organizers.
I pulled back on my enthusiasm about attending the march. No matter how much I wanted to take tangible action in response to the inauguration, I could not in good conscience support something seeking to represent women without embracing intersectional feminism and an inclusive agenda. When asked about it by my partner or friends, I would stumble out: yeah, I’m thinking about it, have some doubts, trying to figure out what I feel about it. In my heart, I still wanted to go, to do anything to ease the sense of powerlessness that had set in after the election. But in my mind, I feared hopping on a bandwagon and discovering that I’d betrayed myself.
Soon, it was crunch time. Plane tickets to DC skyrocketed, and the alternative options dwindled quickly. I researched the march organizers again and found that the lack of diversity in its nascent stages appeared to be adjusted. The women on the website looked more like the representation I‘d hoped for. Still, I dragged my feet in committing, nervous that the hopeful enthusiasm I felt was somehow a trick.
A good friend asked if I would attend. Pressed to produce a reason I wouldn’t attend aside from logistical challenges, I thought a lot about my fear — fear of failure, fear of making a mistake, fear of looking bad or losing esteem in the eyes of people I respect. I thought of how often fear paralyzed me, stayed my hand to the point of inaction, and what a betrayal that stillness felt like. If I was so concerned about how this march would represent me as a woman, and questioned what concerns or issues or voices would be present, then I’d better get my ass in gear and represent myself and my concerns. No one is going to do that for me better than I will.
Instead of what I fear, I thought about what I want. I want to march because I believe in the words of the march organizers — “Our liberation is bound in each other’s.” I want to be with people I love to give and draw strength from our connection. In a time of likes and shares I want to see faces and hear voices. And I want to be present, in the seat of power, in the place where it will all happen, and I want to scream in their faces (maybe figuratively, maybe not): a piece of this is still mine. The government is supposed to be the people’s and I am the people and I am here.
Do I think the inception of the march was perfect? No, but I think holding out for perfect is foolish, now more than ever. It’s time to plunge our hands deeply into the imperfect and mold it with our own will and thoughts and actions to create something that looks like progress.
So, I go.
