On November 8th, 2016 a bigot was elected president of the united states. At 2:46am one of my best friends climbed into my bed and cried for 36 minutes because she didn’t know if her family would be forced to leave the country. At 3:59am the broadcast showed protests popping up in New York City. Lady Gaga stood in front of the Trump Tower and proudly demanded what she believed in. At 1:23pm my father called to make sure I was doing okay. He asked how my friends were, if we were safe. At 1:24pm I had to confess that I hadn’t gone to class that day because my body ached and I still couldn’t believe that I had woken up to the same news I went to bed to, I didn’t want to believe that he was really about to be sitting in the same office John F Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton and Barack Obama had before.

At 2:01pm I started plans for picket signs and first aid kits. I planned for the worst, expected to go blind or lose limbs fighting for a change in what had been decided by a government corrupt.

At 5:02pm my mother called to tell me she was proud of me.

At 11:52pm I watched pictures of my friends flood with comments from people who believed in this man’s views, believed that he was right, that he was what the US needed to be “great again” and at 12:00am I shut my computer to hide beneath my sheets to ignore the voices from outside my window talking about how protest didn’t change a thing, that it doesn’t matter what we do.

But everything starts with a voice. It starts with screaming, pleading, demanding what we believe in. It’s loud and it’s painful and it’s dangerous. Protest is what got us civil rights. Protest is why women are allowed to vote and protest could be the start of change.