Power to Our Uteruses
I had been trying for days to muster the words of what the Women’s March meant for me. Attending the Women’s March in LA was a transcendental experience. I was suddenly removed from the bigoted world in which I live and inserted into a microcosm lead by women of color, speaking their minds and spreading love. There was so much love going around, more than enough for each one of us 700,000 marchers to feel loved and beautiful for what makes us different from the mold.
It was a special march for many reasons. I desperately wanted to attend the Women’s March as a female latina immigrant filmmaker in what now was Trump’s America. Since the 2016 election, I have never felt more isolated, more ostracized, more other. The micro-agressions hit deep and hard, between people’s unwillingness to believe that I can take a leading role at work, to the many job opportunities I have lost because a visa is “too complicated to handle.” These issues wore on me day in and day out and this march was my chance to wear my struggle on my sleeve and let go of the rancor.
During the march, I felt overwhelmed by the camaraderie of all these women chanting in support of each other, so part of me felt compelled (and still is) to yell at the top of my lungs; “STOP DIMINISHING FEMALE PAIN”. Right there and then I discovered there was another reason I was aching for the Women’s March, lying dormant, right…
