Thoughts from a First-Time Protester
A year ago, if you’d told me that I’d be taking a bus to Washington D.C. to participate in a political protest, I’d have told you that you were crazy. But that’s exactly what happened a few days ago.
By now you’ve certainly read about the Women’s March on Washington, an event that saw crowds in D.C. estimated at over a million people strong, and dozens of sister marches on every continent on earth. While many attempted to belittle the Women’s March and simplify it down to an anti-Trump, coastal leftist tantrum, the truth is that it was a much larger demonstration.
I’ll admit, I was angry when I first heard about plans for the Women’s March. I was still reeling from the results of the election. I voted for Hillary Clinton, even though I didn’t agree with all of her policies and even though I have thought for a long time that she’s been campaigning in one way, shape, or form ever since she and her husband left the White House. Hell, since before they left the White House. But I compared my choices — Clinton or Trump — and I honestly felt that Clinton would do a better job. She knew the ups and downs of the office, having seen her husband serve in that position. She had detailed plans that she could discuss articulately. She spoke about unifying the country, insisted that we are stronger together. Trump had belligerence, manipulation, and a semi-catchy slogan, but no political experience and somewhat dubious business experience. In my mind, Clinton was better suited for the job, but she still lost to a man. Worse yet, she lost to an inexperienced, hot-headed, potentially dangerous man. So yes, I was angry.
News of the march came out. I mentioned that I would love to go. My mother-in-law said, “Let’s do it!” and bought two tickets to D.C. It seemed impulsive. Reckless, even. And maybe a little naughty. I’m not a protester. This was just not Something I Would Do.
Over the next few weeks, I went from excited to nervous and back. I thought about backing out. I deliberately kept the news off my social media, mostly because I didn’t want to hear whatever rebuttal my Trump-loving father might have to offer (wanted or not). But at some point, the word got out, and as I expected, he wasted no time telling me how pointless and stupid it was that I was going. Almost instantly, I was a teenager again. I could practically feel myself ready to shout, “DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” What the hell was happening?? I’m forty-six years old, for god’s sake!
I decided at that point to just throw caution to the wind, and I announced to my Facebook friends that I was attending the march. The outpouring of love and support was staggering — friends I hadn’t heard from in months or even years took time to either comment on a post or message me directly, telling me how thrilled they were that I was going. That they wished they could go too, but for whatever reason they could not. That they felt like I was marching for them. From some of my friends, this was not unexpected. From others, it was a total surprise. The cross-section of people I know, the variety of people who all felt the way I did — it convinced me that I really was doing the right thing.
The day my mother-in-law and I left for the march, I was a nervous wreck. I’d done my best to try and anticipate any possible need, any possible scenario, and make some semblance of appropriate preparations. Toss in trying to accomplish a few last-minute work tasks, while making my absence not too terribly taxing on my very supportive husband, and I’m pretty sure I experienced my first-ever panic attack.
I had watched some live video from the Free Hugs Project, showing rioters in the streets, smashing windows and throwing things. Ken, the man behind the Free Hugs Project, got hit with pepper spray more than once while he was filming. This is a man whose mission is to de-escalate violence in volatile situations, and he was still getting hit. Because I so admire Ken’s mission, particularly in terms of bridging racial divides, I had planned to wear a Free Hugs t-shirt to the march to help spread the mission of love and kindness toward everyone. Now, I wasn’t at all sure what I’d encounter once we got to D.C. I remember bringing a scarf to cover my face with if necessary. I remember lamenting on the bus ride that we’d forgotten to pick up anything we could put in our eyes to counteract the effects of tear gas. I remember that my stomach was tied up in knots. I managed to make small talk with some of the women sitting near me on the bus, and of course chatted with my mother-in-law. But I really didn’t know if I was prepared for this experience.
Saturday morning, we arrived in Washington, D.C.
We had barely hit the edge of the city, and we could already see crowds forming. People carrying signs and wearing pink hats were everywhere. We started to get excited. You know the feeling you get when you throw a party and at the very last minute you worry whether people will come? That worry passed immediately. PEOPLE WERE HERE. THIS WAS HAPPENING.
There were lots of police everywhere, as well as members of the National Guard. They greeted us warmly, and we returned the greetings and added many well-wishes and thanks for their presence. I’m decent at reading body language, and while they appeared watchful (wouldn’t you?), they returned genuine smiles as we made our way to the Capitol.
I should probably mention at this point that I’m not really a huge fan of crowds. Maybe it’s the concept of mob mentality that turns me off, the penchant for a strange collective hive-mind that might just be interested in doing something I don’t want to do. But for whatever reason, I didn’t have that problem at the march. People were slightly guarded, sure. But as we all fell into step together, headed excitedly toward the sounds and gathering crowds, there was also this sense of relief, an understood greeting of “oh good, you’re here too!”. A feeling that we weren’t alone. We were all doing this together.
And of course, there was the matter of my shirt. I remember going for about an hour with seemingly nobody noticing what I was wearing. It made sense; there were a lot of people there, and lots of signs to capture people’s attention. And then, finally, a young woman came up to me, visibly upset. “I could use a hug,” she said. I hugged her. She was shaking a little. “You’ll be okay,” I said. She squeezed me, said thank you, and left. I thought to myself that if I only hugged one person that day, I was glad it was her.
Eventually, more people noticed — a tall Asian man in his early 20s, a blond woman in her 30s, and an entire group of women, likely in their early- to mid-60s, all marching together (I could tell by their matching shirts). The leader of the group saw me first, smiled, and came up to hug me, and every single woman in the group followed suit as they passed by. It was wonderful.
I will say that the rally itself dragged on for much longer than I had expected. There were about a hundred speakers — more than I remembered seeing on the list — and by the time everyone had taken their turn, it was over an hour past the anticipated march time. Rumors swirled that there were too many of us there, that we wouldn’t be able to actually march. Those rumors were eventually squashed by someone with a mic. I say “someone” because as one might expect, we couldn’t exactly see or hear properly. Since we weren’t close enough to the stage (which was a good thing, because that meant there were a lot of people there!), the acoustics of the city worked against the well-placed loudspeakers, and the voices ricocheted off bricks and glass. I remember making a mental note to try and track down videos of the day’s speakers once I got home. I still haven’t done it yet, although I know Van Jones’ speech was definitely recorded, so I’m looking forward to that.
After about four hours of standing in a pack, holding signs and cheering, we finally stepped off to march. This was the part I was expecting, with the sign-waving and the chanting. This was the part that felt the most like a scene out of a movie. There were a few dissenting voices who planted themselves directly in our path, but we drowned them out with chants of “We choose love!” and “Black Lives Matter!”. I honestly don’t know if we reached an official end of the route, or if there was anything there to see, because we were all exhausted after marching for about a mile. Our little group disbanded for food and rest, and my mother-in-law and I went off to see a little more of the city.
Being from Illinois, I had intended to see the Lincoln Memorial. But Washington D.C. is an enormous city, and I didn’t have another three- or four-mile walk in me. We did get to visit with three police officers who we asked for directions — large, tough-looking black men who offered help kindly and graciously, and who had no qualms asking for a hug when they noticed my shirt. Again, I felt like we were all doing something positive together.
By the time the day was over, I was actually looking forward to cramming myself into the uncomfortable bus seats for the next twelve hours. We passed a number of street vendors on the way back to our bus, one of whom shouted out to me as I passed, saying that he almost took me up on my shirt but that he’d catch me next time. Well, who knows when I’ll make it back there? So I doubled back up the street and gave him a hug. He squeezed me tightly and thanked me. He said he’d never forget it, which might have been a tiny bit hyperbolic, but what the hell? I knew what he meant.
As we approached RFK Stadium where our buses waited, we were actually cheered on by four more police officers who were taking turns directing traffic so we could cross the street safely. A huge, towering black officer was calling out to us as we passed, asking how did we feel? Did we feel amazing? Look what we did today! So of course I gave him a hug, and kept going down the line to the other officers — another man and two women — who were all smiles and cheers for us. We stopped and talked briefly about estimates of the size of the crowd that day, and one of the women said she’d been so excited for the march that she couldn’t wait to take down the inauguration signs. We pledged to each other that we’d keep doing the work, fighting the good fight. It was the happiest I think I felt all day. Something about just talking to people, one-to-one, just makes all the difference in the world.
Soon enough, we had loaded up the buses and headed for home. In between naps, I started trying to process what I had just experienced. It had been tiring for sure, and I was still a bit bothered that I hadn’t been able to make out much of the rally. But the news reports were already coming in, and conservative estimates put the crowd at easily over 500,000 people. And then I saw the pictures, aerial shots of a staggeringly huge crowd flowing out over Independence Avenue and all its side streets, stretching on and on toward the Washington Monument. And I realized that part of the purpose of my being there was not just to hear and shout and march, but also to be part of the “cast” so to speak. Part of the massive crowd that the world looked at and said, “whoa, they’re serious.” As much as we were there to receive the message at that rally, we were there to send that message out, too. We made an impact in Washington D.C. and across the globe. The world was watching, and they were watching us.
We made an impact in our neighborhoods, too. When I got home Sunday morning, I showered and went straight to my church. My parish’s annual meeting was that day, and I needed to be there. After the meeting, a number of people in my church family came up to me, all smiles, glad I was home safely and thankful that I went to the march. A friend called me a suffragette as she thanked me for making the journey, and I have to admit I hadn’t considered that label for myself until that moment. I liked how it fit. One of my fellow choir mates — a man I wouldn’t exactly classify as a “touchy-feely” kind of person — came up to me, hugged me briefly, thanked me quietly, and walked away. The rector even pulled me aside privately and thanked me for attending the march. If I’d had any lingering doubts as to whether I’d made the right decision, they would have melted away in that moment.
I’m aware enough to realize sexism generally doesn’t affect me directly. The largest issue women face is reproductive freedom, and I’m well past my child-bearing years. Owning my own business makes the equal-pay-for-equal-work argument moot in my case. The main thing that woke me up during the last election season was the #repealthe19th trend on Twitter; the idea that repealing women’s right to vote could even be a part of a national conversation, as if that could even be an option, pushed me to realize that our freedoms can never be taken for granted.
I’m aware enough to realize that racism doesn’t affect me directly, although it could potentially affect my boys, who are part Hispanic with obviously Latin-based last names. It could very well affect their black friends too, a fact I’ve only really just begun to think about as they all move through the teenage years and beyond. Looking at my sons’ friends as they grow, and realizing that they could so easily be misjudged simply because of the color of their skin — and how dangerous a situation they could find themselves in — makes me painfully aware of worries their mothers have had for them for years now. It really does take putting a face to any issue in order to cultivate true empathy, and over the years these boys and their mothers have helped me see things I didn’t see before.
And now? Now it’s time to stay vigilant, time to practice thinking outside myself. It’s time for each of us to work together for the greater good for all of us. If anything positive has come or will come out of the Trump administration, let it be that it forced us to remember how much we really need each other. And then, let us be there.
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