Why I Marched
On January 21, my son, my mother and I participated in the Women’s March in Washington D.C. We made signs and braved a sea of protesters. I am a strong woman, but I wouldn’t consider myself the protesting type. So why go?
I think it was good ole women’s intuition. I was drawn to it. And well, maybe I am simply afraid.
- Afraid of what may come next from Trump’s Twitter account.
- Afraid of not seeing the day when women achieve the goal of equal pay for equal work (I really thought we were getting close on that one).
- Afraid that my child will think that using hateful rhetoric to get ahead is in anyway acceptable.
- Afraid that the feeling of nausea and dread that I’ve had since Trump won the election won’t go away.
The dread is still there, but the hope is back too. Bearing witness to the mass of people who stood up, squeezed in and braved overflowing port-o-potties to make it clear to the new administration that democracy is alive and well, and we will not, as many signs said, “go quietly back to the 1950s.”
“A hero is someone who understands the responsibility that comes with his freedom.” — Bob Dylan