I am one of those insufferable people who overuses puns. I have the words, “Choose thigh words wisely,” tattooed on my left thigh. It’s that bad.
So it will surprise no one to hear that the sign slogan I came up with—as I was on the subway home to host a sign-making pre-party for the Women’s March—was a pun that I took undue joy in: “Tweet others the way you want to be tweeted.”
It didn’t say everything I wanted to say. But it said something. And it said it in my own voice.
When my friends came over and heard my slogan, they politely forced a chuckle—while tackling issues with their signs that were, I admit, more pressing. I stuck with the slogan, but my sign looked so bad that my brother decided he’d redo it for me. It was a good call.
My initial plan had been to join several of my friends in the New York march, but, in the course of sign-making, I learned that two friends had an open seat in their car, and that they’d be heading to D.C. at 2:30 am. As one of the friends explained: she’d heard the Inauguration speech that morning on the radio and then rented a car. She had to go. It had become real.
I had just been in D.C. the week prior for the premier of a short opera that I wrote with composer Matthew Peterson. The opera is about refugees in a lifeboat who learn that they played very different roles in the war they are fleeing. The question that the opera asks is whether or not it’s possible for people who have different beliefs, different experiences, and different priorities to survive together. We leave the question open.
The show was at the Family Theater in the Kennedy Center and was one of the most exciting experiences of my artistic life. I was surrounded by incredibly talented singers, musicians, mentors, and fellow artists. It was the first time I’d heard a piece that I’d written get performed with an orchestra. I received my first professional reviews.
But there was a shadow cast over the entire weekend. At one point, I went for a run around the National Mall. In front of the Lincoln Memorial, workers were constructing a platform to be used for part of the upcoming inauguration celebration. I ran past it as quickly as I could (which isn’t fast, sadly), trying to gain strength by looping the lake with monuments to MLK, Jefferson, and FDR. And it helped some. But when my brother and I went to the train station to head back to D.C. we saw the giant American flags that they’d raised in honor of the Inauguration, and we both felt sick. We tried to book train tickets back to D.C. for the march, but they were sold out. We decided, instead to march in New York–and to host this party on Friday to prepare.
But I knew exactly what my friend meant when she said that it had become real. And I took the seat.
We arrived in D.C. around 8:30, exhausted. We knew we had a long day of lines and crowds ahead of us. Even in the middle of the night, the highway had been full of buses. The rest stop outside of D.C. was so full of women that one of the men’s rooms was being shared by everyone. It was packed, but the energy was positive.
The positivity continued, even at the metro station that we parked at, where lines were so long they had to temporarily shut it down. Someone gave me a pink hat. We wrote emergency numbers on our arms in case our phones died and shared the Sharpie. No one complained about the cramped conditions.
Because, of course, a crowd was a good thing. And when we descended from the Union Station metro stop, there was a rush of good energy. As I glanced back, I saw those same flags that had given me the sick feeling in my stomach just a few days prior and felt the hope and freedom that they should stand for. The stream of women and men–some in pink hats, some with strollers and kids—was seemingly never-ending.
And the signs! Some were funny, some were angry, some were vulgar, some were hopeful, some were all of the above. We did our best but could never get close enough to hear the speakers at the rally, so instead we walked around and read sign after sign. It dawned on me how happy I was to be part of this group and to support this platform.
It’s hard for me to understand why anyone—democrat or republican—wouldn’t support this platform. Because this march wasn’t about state’s rights verse federal rights. Or taxes. And it certainly wasn’t “people being sad about losing an election.” It was about human rights. Civil rights. It was about finding a way to survive this boat that we are all in together. It was reminding the man who just assumed power that we are still in the boat with him. And we’re not afraid to rock it.
More specifically, it was about protecting democracy. (“This is what democracy looks like.”) And separation of church and state. (“Keep your theocracy away from my democracy.”) It was about welcoming immigrants and refugees. (“Bridges not walls.”) It was about standing up for black rights (“Black lives matter!”); LGBTQIA rights (“I’d like to stay married to my wife”); Muslim rights (“My hijab covers my head, not my brain”). It was about education. (“I march for the grizzlies.” “Facts matter.”) It was about climate change. (“Science is real.” “There is no PLANet B.”)
It was about empowering women. (“Girls just want to have fun-damental rights.” “Women’s rights are human rights.” “Don’t tell me to smile.” “My dick doesn’t make me 30% better at my job.”) And resisting together. (“ReSISTERS.”) And it was about standing up to Donald’s bullying and misogyny. (“But then 200,000 women synced their periods. And the rest is herstory.”)
200,000 was what they predicted. I don’t think they’ve come out with an official estimate yet, but I can tell you it’s going to be a heck of a lot higher than that. The march itself was glacial—peaceful, slow, powerful, and too massive to stop. We didn’t all fit on the original route, so we carved out a much broader path toward the White House, filling the streets along the way. At one point, I climbed up some bleachers and just watched people file past. I was there for almost thirty minutes, and I didn’t get close to seeing the end of it.
So many people. So many individual voices expressed in so many different ways. Everyone fighting together—whether through puns or chants or vulgar cartoons or pussy hats—for the country we love.
While I watched, though, I saw this march through the eyes of people in my hometown in Missouri–particularly the evangelical Christians. Of course, many would be so turned off by the foul language and vulgarity that they might try to write it off. But then again, if Donald’s language and vulgarity (which was of a damaging, not empowering, nature) wasn’t enough for them to write him off as a candidate for president, then maybe they won’t be so hypocritical as to do that to the marchers. After all, the “pussies” and “nasty women” were just alluding to things that he himself said.
And many of the things we chanted, I’d like to think they would agree with: “No hate. No fear. Refugees are welcome here,” for instance. Or, “Hey, hey ho! Misogyny has got to go.” Others, they might agree with in spirit but wouldn’t like the “nasty” way we said it: “Can’t build a wall. Hands too small.” “Keep your tiny hands out of women’s underpants.” Others, they would undermine. Many are entirely unwilling to acknowledge that “Black lives matter” and feel the need to dilute the statement to the point of irrelevance by saying, “All lives matter.”
And most would be totally done with it all at “My body, my choice.” I even heard it suggested that it was a mistake to have such a broad platform for a march. They said organizers shouldn’t include pro-choice advocacy because women who support the rest of the platform might be turned off. But it was not a mistake. Marches aren’t about making “safe” statements. They are about making strong ones. The right ones. And at some point, the pro-lifers are going to have to realize that they can still be “morally opposed” to abortion and be pro-choice. I would oppose any legislation that forced abortions on people. But I cannot allow someone to try to legislate his personal morality or beliefs on what should be a personal health decision. And we cannot act as though that is a tolerable position for someone to have if we are all going to live here together and continue to move forward. It is as much a question of separation of church and state as it is a woman’s rights issue. Pro-lifers have to make room on the boat. I was proud to march for it.
And I was proud to march alongside and in support of the other groups, many of whom face far more oppression than I do as a white woman. There is something humbling and inspiring about marching alongside those who have suffered and persevered. It was also nice to see all the men. We are facing scary times, and needed this march to be more than a “white feminist” march. It was. The platform was not all-encompassing, but it was diverse, and it was one that we could be entirely proud of. We know it was right because it was for basic equality.
Some of the most interesting signs were the ones that expressed this sentiment: “I marched in the 60s. I can’t believe I’m still marching for the same things.” And looking around at the older women in the crowd, my friend wondered whether they were people who have always been out there for us—who have pushed forward for decades without ever letting us down–or if they were first-time marchers who have recognized that things have just gotten too bad. Either way, I’m grateful to them, and I’m ready to help carry the torch. The march for equality isn’t going to be a “one pun and done” situation. It isn’t a four-year situation. I realized on this march that it is one that is going to last the rest of our lives.
So it probably isn’t surprising that, for me, the most touching moment of the day occurred while I was watching from the bleachers. A woman was explaining some of the signs to her daughter. “You see, when there’s a war and people need a new home, some people think that they shouldn’t be allowed here because there isn’t enough space. But we think there is.”
“What about that one?” the girl asked.
“Some people want to take away birth control and abortions from women, but we think women should be able to make their own choices about their health and bodies.”
What an experience for a girl to grow up hearing that while seeing all of these strong women making strong, controversial statements, I thought, instead of sitting in a pew, being told by men that women should submit to their husbands—and that women should not teach men.
Some people might try to say that marching doesn’t make a difference, but they are wrong.
That girl is going to get to grow up knowing that she is just as capable as any boy because of this march. She’ll know that some women are going to be there for her—even if there are many who will fight against her. All of the girls and boys at the march in D.C. or the many huge sister marches around the country and world are going to grow up knowing that.
And we will make progress on these issues as long as we keep going—and as long as the next generations keep going. I get to vote because of many, many marches like this one. Marches that everyone said wouldn’t make a difference. The men were in power; why would they give it up? It took a long time just to convince the women themselves that they might be capable of casting a ballot. Susan B. never got to see it happen, but it happened. It’s slow-going, and it’s frustrating because the right thing can seem so obvious. But it matters. We cannot give up, let down, or be silenced.
We didn’t accomplish everything we need to accomplish by marching yesterday, but we accomplished something. A group of individual voices blended together to create something bold and beautiful.
And to Donald, my favorite chant of the march: “Welcome to your first day. We will not go away!”
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