2017 Inauguration and Women’s March: a view from the streets

The past two days were both more physically and emotionally intense than expected. Protesting the inauguration: worth it? Yes. Attending the Women’s March the following day: absolutely essential. What was the point of protesting? In the past couple days I’ve heard the protesters referred to as crybabies who should settle down and accept their loss. I couldn’t think of anything more hypocritical, or undemocratic. Protesting is the most powerful physical representation of dissent: a body, occupying space in the nation’s capital, delivering the message that this citizen’s vision is not represented by the current regime, this citizen exists and will not disappear when it would be convenient for the people in power. When the day comes that the other side is back on the picket line, I hope I never say something as insulting to the democratic process as “get over it”.

And while we’re on the subject, let’s get something straight: the president didn’t “allow” this march, nor did he ever have the authority to stop it. The right to peaceably assemble is a constitutional right and you would do well to remember you have it: let’s think about the alternative in generic terms: “Leader of country refuses dissenters to assemble, orders any protesters to be arrested”. Would you expect that in America? No. So, just remember that when a person says things you don’t think you agree with, they’re still allowed to do so — regardless of who’s in power.

Inauguration Day:

The metro was sparsely populated all the way into Capitol South. National Guardsmen were stationed in each stop as we approached the city center, and red-capped supporters multiplied as we made our way to the streets. There was a lot of milling around — there’s no easy way into an event as high-security as an inauguration, and in the early hours of the morning folks were still picking their way to their respective security checkpoints. The sky was gray, and the atmosphere was that of a parade. Washington DC blindsided me with its aura of almost mythical importance — It’s West Wing, it’s a hundred political dramas staged across 200 years, it’s the abstract concept referenced daily by NPR, the Room Where It Happens — and it’s a real, tangible city too.

The reality of the nation’s capital was not the only thing that jarred me: I saw more Trump paraphernalia in the first five minutes on the streets than I have, ever. It banished the last clinging hope that the past year wasn’t real -Donald Trump is about to become president. I saw well-dressed couples, bathed in the musk of “people of influence” en route to a checkpoint. I saw plenty of other families (overwhelmingly white, overwhelmingly blond) dressed like the American Dream, all decked out in their red “Make America Great Again” hats. I even saw the ubiquitous folks with fifteen foot banners proclaiming that THE END IS NEAR, JESUS IS YOUR SALVATION. There was a rusted-out doomsdayer pickup truck, an old man with dirty skin and thick glasses behind the wheel who crept down the most crowded roads beneath a homemade billboard of garish full-color photos of aborted fetuses, exhortations to “Be a Man” and stand up for… well, the exact message was unclear, but it was all a pretty disturbing sight to see on the back of a pickup truck. It was almost a comfort to be reminded that some factions are never, ever satisfied.

From the start, we attracted attention in the fray on the sidewalks and streets. Three young white women carrying pro-science and anti-trump signs would not turn heads on Saturday, but we were asked to pose for at least ten photos and were interviewed by reps from four different publications. At one point, Stacia-Fe’s sweatshirt dropped off her waist and a Trump supporter picked it up for her. I told a woman her red capped-kid had a shoe untied. We’d give other lines of protesters the thumbs up as we passed. A guy spit on the ground in front of us. We’d hear the slogans of our signs repeated back to us, sometimes amused, sometimes mocking. Two people exclaimed “Science IS a liberal conspiracy!” to me, another asked me if I knew what science even is. One perplexingly asked “What’s science? Does it have an address?” I didn’t engage with those folks, because… how?

Foot traffic swelled as we walked along a road with several inauguration checkpoints. A man carrying a “Putin Won” sign told us he’d voted republican in every other election but was forced to vote for Hillary this time around. We stumbled into a knot of Disrupt J20 rallying outside of Union Station. Other factions of their organization were using human barricades to effectively block entry to inauguration checkpoints. We passed one blockade whose signage was entirely climate-oriented. Every cross street brought another wave of Trump supporters navigating a way into line, another wave of protesters with a menagerie of messages.

We crossed an intersection to come face to face with a group protesting the continued operation of Guantanamo Bay — about ten men and women stood, chained together in orange jumpsuits and hoods over their heads in the middle of the street. It was too much for me: the proliferation of causes represented in the streets, the convergence of so many groups with so many unmet needs and passions, the devastating humanness of their demands. Julianna passed her sign to me so she could get a proper picture of the demonstrators — so I didn’t even have hands free to cover my face as I started crying. A girl my age with a crewcut crossed the street to give me a hug, and she quietly told me that I’d be all right. She was right, and I wonder whether she understood I wasn’t reacting out of defeat or uncertainty but the terrible beauty of it all.

We discovered that we too would need to pass through a security checkpoint in order to get to the ANSWER protest along the parade route. The holding area stretched an entire city block, and it was filled with a dense crush of equal parts supporters and protesters. I learned a lot about crowd control in the hours we spent there. People said more to us, positive and negative, in places where we and they could easily get away. Once we committed to standing in line, we noticed that the only people starting arguments were the ones either in the back or on the other side of the barriers — they could snipe, stir things up and walk away. Not so for us. Any argument within the holding area would palpably escalate the tension of the group. A carrying remark would sometimes be met with a retort, the two factions trading facts and jabs until they opted to either trade places with their neighbors or simply turn away from one another, as nobody was much willing to give up a space. When you’re packed, wall to wall with both Trump supporters and protesters, it turns out that nobody is particularly willing to argue with a person they will literally be stuck to for an indefinite amount of time.

As the hours dragged on it became more common for a barbed comment to simply linger in the air in favor of quietly talking to like-minded neighbors and curiously listening in on others’ conversations. Two or three hours in, a young man fought his way forward from the back of the crowd and demanded that we (generally directed at a clot of obvious protesters) get out of line — he insisted that we weren’t there for the parade, we were just there to block supporters’ entry (again I had to hand it to his leader for setting such a maddening example of rudeness over reason). It took a united swell of intimidation from everyone in line to force him to shut up and stand behind us, periodically hopping up and down. Nobody likes a twitchy person in a crowd. Hours later on the other side of the checkpoint it appeared that he was intentionally baiting protesters and documenting every slight against him on camera. We would content ourselves by making goofy faces in the background of his shot.

Meanwhile, security was intentionally taking their time. In fact, the pace was glacial enough to entirely deter some folks from entering the secure area. I commend their system for its efficacy.

As a result, we were still in a crush when noon approached, all spitting gray skies and secret service officers on every rooftop. The gray concrete buildings loomed in on all sides, their blank-eyed windows gazing down on the massive crush below. We stood heads down and signs up. The young male half of a pro-Trump couple, who had heretofore been quietly commenting, not wishing to draw attention, crowed with delight as Pence was sworn in. We couldn’t distinguish words in the distorted caucophony reverberating between the concrete blocks from the Capitol building, but that didn’t stop him from clapping proudly every time the audience applauded. Folks around us pulled up live feeds of the speeches and read them out to the crowd. For better or worse, it was a moment of total engagement with the democratic process. Noon crept closer and ghostly snatches of song from the Tabernacle Choir joined the reverberating din, punctuated by patriotic-sounding marches. I’ve never felt closer to an Orwellian dystopia.

On the other side of the checkpoint, we parted ways with the NYC strangers with whom we’d bonded and spooned in particularly cramped moments during our hours in line, with solemn vows to see one another on the other side of the presidency. We finally succeeded in reaching our goal for the day: the ANSWER protest site, but the fuzzed out microphone and chanting volleys were enough to keep us a good distance down the road in the secure area. Waiting for the parade to start was only marginally different from waiting at the checkpoint: we stood separated by two layers of barriers from a line of state troopers as empty charter buses and cop cars whizzed down Pennsylvania Avenue in advance of the parade. At one point I stepped away from my position in the second row of spectators and was immediately and aggressively replaced by a pro-Trump couple with the state flag of Colorado on their hats. More waiting, hemmed in on all sides by an even split of supporters and dissenters. The speakers crackled to life and abruptly shorted out four separate times, much to the glee of those assembled. I made a study of the men in black fatigues atop each of the surrounding buildings, and how they would stand in a jaunty way and periodically scan the streets with binoculars. I don’t think I’ll ever look that cool…

At one point the friendly doctor/protester beside us read to us that a crowd on 12th street got teargassed. That was the start of the Disrupt J20’s more violent acts. We couldn’t see it at all from where we were, couldn’t even detect a change in the behavior of the security forces around us.

When the parade finally passed, we didn’t have much to go on in terms of who was in what vehicle, so the assembled protesters generally opted to boo every black SUV and lay off on the armed forces, police and marching bands. If nothing else, we tainted the glory of the moment for all those within hearing distance of us. The fife and drum battalion in revolutionary war-era garb was particularly disorienting: it’s strange enough to see a whole squadron with period costumes, but it was also fairly heavy to think of the folks who fought in those uniforms, that they invented the system that led, eventually, to today.

The Women’s March:

What did the March mean to me? It was an epic throng of solidarity that managed to effectively take on a sprawling platform of reproductive rights, LGBTQIA, Black Lives Matter, environmental justice, immigrant rights, Muslim solidarity, addressing white privilege, empowerment towards long term action (I heard “run for office” an uncomfortable amount of times). There was glee, there were sweeping tides of emotion, there were moments of tension that thankfully never escalated, and there were people. More people than I’ve ever seen in one place.

The day even started differently than Inauguration day — 7:30 on a Saturday found the subway station already busy with cheerful pink-hatted women with absolutely no idea how to use a turnstile. I thought of wizards attempting muggle transportation. Every station collected more cheerful masses — old women, young women, men, children. It seemed fitting that the Trump supporters received mass-produced minion hats and the Women’s March rallied around lumpy, hand-knit ones. The streets in the business district were deserted, but nearly every café window we passed had more smiling faces with pink hats inside. We waved at them from out in the street. The trickles of protesters thickened towards the National Mall. We said good morning to the two National Guardsmen sitting on their vehicle. So did every other person passing that way. We drew close to a group handing out American flag scarves to wear as hijab in the style of Shepard Fairey’s gorgeous “We the People” portrait.

We were close enough to the main stage that I could see the head of the speaker if I stood on my toes, and there was a jumbotron in my line of sight for about half the program. The speeches opened with a call to our ancestors: A native woman sang from the center of the stage, a drum in her hand. The song keened and stirred, a force of nature that ripped through the crowd. I found tears streaming down my face yet again in a weekend that seemed hell-bent on shaking me to the core. If there was a loser in the itinerary, it was Charlie Brotman… I understand the reason why he spoke after the fact (as a fixture in every inauguration since Eisenhower) but it was a questionable move to have an old white guy make a joke about how the assembled crowd are all Charlie’s Angels before about twenty radical feminists took the stage in turn.

We crushed even closer together to make room for an ambulance cutting through the crowd. And then another, and then another. At one point I heard “Police! Stand aside!” and turned to see two cops in tactical fatigues, bucket-carrying an elderly woman through the crowd. She held onto their shoulders, birdlike, all glasses and skinny limbs beneath her homemade pink hat and apologized earnestly to everyone they pushed past. It became clear that many people assembled were not fit enough to stand for three hours, four hours — but they had come anyway. The lost-and-found announcements between speeches were indicative of this: first, a blind woman separated from her group. Then a twelve year old girl. Then a 92 year old woman “holding a very large rainbow balloon”. Some people literally risked their lives to be at this event.

The march was the first time I really understood my own privilege. I’ve agreed with the statement “check your privilege” in theory for years — but when I found myself standing in a crowd of men and women of every color, the differently abled, the folks holding signs proclaiming themselves sexual assault survivors, the queer communities — and I thought about how I’d never encountered a single real obstacle as a result of my gender, appearance, creed, sexuality — it finally clicked that although I’ve taken great pride in supporting gay, minority and indigenous rights, those causes will never be personal for me like they are for people who are actually gay, nonwhite, indigenous. This wasn’t an alienating experience at all: it reframed my role in the campaign (as one speaker so wonderfully suggested) as a mama bear watching out for those who are threatened more than me. It was easy to see, in the sea of strangers, the faces of folks I know and love and watch out for, couples who could have been my own parents — while my actual parents, surreally, were somewhere behind me in the crowd.

America Ferrera delivered a firebrand speech, a Muslim rapper tore up the crowd, Michael Moore warmed us with his enviable candor and a comprehensive list of real actions to take before Ashley Judd overtook the stage in wild and seething verse. Janelle Monae led the mothers of the Black Lives Matter movement in song, they themselves calling their dead sons’ names as the crowd called back “say his name”. A little girl, Sophie Cruz, chirped a short speech to the children of America, urging them to not be afraid because people are looking out for their safety — before repeating the same words in Spanish. Blisteringly powerful people, ideas and speeches.

The greatest downfall of the event was its duration: three hours came and passed and the steady stream of presidents of respective NGO’s continued to take the stage. In retrospect, I wouldn’t be surprised if the organizers were stalling because the original march route was already packed with protesters, and they needed to buy more time before turning us loose on parallel Constitution Avenue. It was a moot point: by three and a half hours in, attendees had begun milling in earnest for parallel streets rather than lingering to groan at yet another speaker. Our little knot lingered to hour four and thus had the express pleasure of seeing Amy Schumer take the stage just long enough to say “Hi, I’m Amy Schumer. I’m really pleased to see all of you out there today…. and here’s Madonna”. It doesn’t matter that I’m not a huge Madonna fan on a good-sounding day, that was one epic one-two punch of surprise guests, and we actually had enough room by then to dance.

There was a certain glee to the event, an understanding that although the only way forward is professionalism and compassion, it’s damn fun to take jabs at the new president. We’d giggle as we repeated “fake. So sad.” to one another, delighted at every new tasteless caricature we passed: this one with his face on a pile of shit, that one with him as Jabba the Hutt, a portrait made entirely of Cheetos, endless pee-jokes and Putin jokes. A pregnant bride of Putin wearing an apron printed with “I wish I knew how to quit you, Vlad”. At one point we were chanting “Can’t build a wall: hands too small”. It was far from the high ground, but the silliness, the mockery, the sentiment of “we’re not afraid of you” did a world of good. The message of the march was that we can respect the appointment but we don’t respect the man. No, it wouldn’t be appropriate to comment on any other person’s skin color, appearance, body. It’s petty. But he’s petty, too.

By the time we got out across the mall, the masses were marching the parade route down Pennsylvania Avenue. We danced, we chanted, we read more signs. Never in my life would I have imagined that “Pay your taxes, pay your taxes” would be a rallying cry. The four of us struggled to stay together as the crowd swept us along. I nervously hoped that things wouldn’t escalate when we passed the Trump hotel to see protesters milling around the front and folks taking pictures of us from inside the building. Nothing got out of hand, but we didn’t linger. Never has the peace of an event seemed so fragile. We wondered aloud if there would be any media coverage of the event, the first news helicopter didn’t appear until 5:30, when metro lines were already down the block and it was obvious that folks were dispersing rather than braving the crush all the way to the White House.

It’s too soon to understand what the march will do for the course of this presidency, how it will be remembered or if it will be remembered at all. I can tell you it was an unexpectedly powerful experience, and even three days later it’s been difficult to re-assimilate. The importance of recreational interests seems to have paled some. I’ve come to understand that we experienced a profoundly altering event down there and it’s difficult to communicate exactly what it was to the folks who are just reading about it. I hope that the momentum I’m feeling is what everyone who attended is also feeling, and that we can use it to carry us into the next iteration of action.

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