The Significance of Men’s Echos

I had no idea what I was in for. Truth is, I was a bit scared to head downtown on my own. Rallies and protests in my city had become riots. It’s an unfortunate reality that no matter how many people can come together peacefully, it is the handful of agitators the media — and therefore everyone watching and judging — remembers. It creates fear. It prevents potential advocates from coming out. It causes outsiders to misunderstand. It’s sad that it’s so much easier for most people to believe the worst and turn away, than it is to take the time to educate themselves about what the truth really is. But, that’s the point of being an agitator. They do it because it works.

I didn’t want to succumb to the fear. I’d rather face the worst possibilities and failures, than to hide behind my own fear. I’ve lived that way for years, actually. And I knew that if I stayed home, I’d look back and wish I’d gone — no matter what lay ahead. So, I took a deep breath, got in the car and headed downtown.

The Women’s March on Washington in Portland, OR, drew two to three times as many people as coordinators expected. Online RSVPs were about 14,000. Estimates before the events were between 30,000 and 45,000. Actual attendance was between 70,000 and 100,000 people. It was easily the largest event of its kind in this city, and it was 100% peaceful. No riots. No arrests. No injuries. Instead, there were free hugs, officers giving high-fives and wearing pink pussy hats along with the marchers. There were onlookers and supporters in buildings and parking garages waving, chanting, and participating.

And I was there.

It was incredible. And yet, through out most of it, I wondered if my being there mattered. I was just one person in a crowd so large that it took over an hour for us to actually start moving up the street after the march supposedly started — and we were only two blocks from the start. I had no sign. I did not yell or chant. I walked. I watched. I tried not to lose the one and only person I knew whom I’d actually been able to locate. I took pictures of signs and video to share with my partner when I got back home. I couldn’t hear the ra-ra speeches going on before the march and we were too cold, too wet and too tired to want to stay to hear any of them after.

So, did I matter? Did my being there matter?

Yes. I believe it did. But maybe not for the reasons I thought it might before I left.

The crowd was amazing. The chants were awesome to stand in the middle of. They were, for the most part, ideas and slogans one might expect to hear: “Love Trumps Hate”, “Black Lives Matter” and a variety of others that let listeners know what women stand for such as, “Women’s Rights are Human Rights”. But there was one chant that took me off guard. One chant that touched my heart and actually made me cry. One chant that made the two hour wait in the pouring rain and 40 degree temps worth it all to me. One chant that that I’ll never forget.

Women’s voices could be heard shouting, “My body. My choice.” As someone who has survived childhood molestation and rape as an adult, hearing those words gave me strength those women could not have known they were sharing. But then the echo came back…

Men’s voice responded, “Her body. Her choice.”

Imagine standing in the middle of a crowd, unable to identify any one voice, yet hearing them all. Hearing women stand for their rights with, “My body. My choice.” And hearing men standing with them with, “Her body. Her choice.” In a culture that objectifies women, that has done more harm than good by trying to control, disempower, and shame women and their bodies, these men’s voices echoed far more than words or an idea. They gave voice to a future I want to be a part of.

They also reshaped an old belief I didn’t know I had until that moment.

I have been so blessed to know some very wonderful, supportive, and respectful men. I didn’t realize though, that I saw these men as exceptions to the rule of who and what men are in the world. Growing up the way I did, having an abusive first marriage, seeing the images of women throughout movies, media and other cultural frameworks, I’d developed a belief that men are not to be trusted — unless or until they can prove they’re not “one of those kinds of men”. It’s a belief based in both past experience and fear. And, a belief that cracked to allow something more in.

On that chilly, wet street, in a throng of strangers, I heard those nameless, faceless men echoing respect, empowerment, and honor. “Her body. Her choice.”

It felt as if they were giving me back something that’d been taken from me so long ago that I’d forgotten it was ever mine to begin with. “Her body. Her choice.”

They lent credibility to the internal claiming of self I’d already been doing. And they lent credibility to the external claiming of women’s lives, bodies, and choice that have been fought for since patriarchy took it away — from all genders.

While it was a women’s march, the allies who made themselves known by their presence, their support, their voices — and their silence — were equally important.

I knew that going was something I needed to do for me. I knew that going was about sending a message. I knew that going was important to stand with and for other women whose lives have been far more damaged by hatred, misogyny and fear than mine has been. And I knew that going, getting over this “first” in my life as a potential budding activist, would allow me to feel more comfortable in taking the next step.

I just never dreamed that going would so deeply, and personally, impact me, re-shape me, and instill so much hope.

Thank you to all of the men, women and children around the world who marched; and to all those who supported them. While not every story of empowerment might be shared, every once of empowerment shared is a story you helped begin.

Thank you!