The day that I attended my first protest was the day after the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election and I was terrified. Protesting has never been something that I’ve ever considered doing, mostly due to the fact that it tends to be loud, obnoxious, attention-drawing and, in my past perspective, a bit pointless. If there was any one thing that led me to want to participate in this protest, it would be the emotions that I felt immediately upon finding out the results of the election.
On that fateful Tuesday night, as I scrolled through countless posts naming Donald Trump as our new President-Elect, I was a flurry of emotions. I felt fear, anger and most of all I felt incredibly anxious. Selfishly, like many others, my first sensation of fear was for myself. Being a black woman in the United States, especially living in the South, I can’t say that I’ve never experienced racism because that would be a lie. Up until this point, it’s been fairly easy to pass those experiences off as both rare and random, but even now, living in a state as progressive and liberal as Colorado, as Donald Trump’s campaign has grown stronger and stronger, I’ve noticed that many people are less ashamed of showing their true, racist nature to the world. We have white college students telling black college students that they’re going to get whipped in the fields, as well as telling Latinx college students, regardless of their citizenship status, that they’re getting deported as soon as Trump steps into office. This kind of hate that he has not necessarily inspired, but rather brought to the surface, is terrifying. After I realized how selfish my fear for myself was, I began to worry about the thoughts and emotions of my Latinx friends. For the friends who are legal and even born in this country, they’re having to deal with very hurtful assumptions being made about their status as well as having to worry about family members who don’t have the privilege of being a legal citizenship. Being black comes with its own issues, but I’ve never had to live my life in fear of wondering if my family would be sent back to a country that was completely foreign to them. For my friends who are DACA students, living here illegally while pursuing their educations, I worry that they’re going to be separated from everything that they’ve ever know. They’ve built communities and developed relationships in the U.S. while pursuing their college educations and seeing that being ripped from them would absolutely break my heart because legal or not, every person deserves a fair chance at pursuing their higher education. We’re all working to improve society, one step at a time.
With my friends and myself in mind, and an invitation to a Thursday night protest, I was ready to go. Seeing as I’ve only seen protests on TV in Atlanta, I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into. I knew that there was a chance that things could get a little rowdy, and maybe someone would end up getting hurt, but I prayed for the safety of all of the protesters and just hoped that things would be okay. I followed protesting rule #1 and went with a friend who was equally as invested in the cause. Boulder is an extremely liberal city, so I had a feeling that a peaceful protest would be nothing more than a peaceful protest, and luckily I was right.
When we first arrived at the protest, everyone had gathered around in a circle, holding signs with various phrases including “Nasty women vote for Hillary,” “Black Lives Matter” and “My Pussy Grabs Back;" all of them referencing various elements of this election. Everyone there was happily chatting and passing around flyers, letting protesters know about many inclusive events that are happening around the city soon. It was dark, but as I looked around the gathering, I noticed that the protest was lacking a bit in diversity. Nevertheless, although there were only 100 or so people, I was still pleased to see so many Boulderites of various ages there to support the cause. As the rally began, a young Latinx girl, no older than a high school junior, stepped onto the podium and began giving her speech about how this election impacted her, who she was worried about, and what she planned to do next. The next few speakers gave variations of the same speech. There was one speech, that really touched me. It came from a black, male, CU student. When he stepped up to the podium, he was so choked up that it took him at least 3-4 minutes before he could even speak. The crowd was noisy but encouraging. For a moment, I thought he was going to step down and say never mind, but he didn’t. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and began. He talked about remaining silent as people said incredibly racist and slanderous things about himself and people like himself. He talked about remaining silent as 2015 was filled with police brutality occurrences, one after another. The things that he spoke about were things that resonated with me and how I’ve handled social issues in the past. I’m guilty of ignoring them and hoping that they will just go away. Up until a year ago, I would never have posted a conflicting opinion or anything biased on social media out of fear that I might offend someone or start and argument. It’s 2016 now, and I’m not afraid to argue with anyone. By the end of this guy’s speech, I was deep into a reflection of my own actions and lack thereof. The final speakers were mothers, one of whom reminded me of my own mother. A 40-something, almost 50-year-old black mom who had a daughter who is about the same age as I am. The day of the election, her daughter was pushed into a pond by a white man on a bicycle who told her to “Trump 2016. Die N-word”. This made me so incredibly angry that I was shaking. This girl was just minding her own business and walking to work, where she would be a productive member of society, and this disgusting Trump supporter felt entitled to hurt her not just emotionally, but physically. This is why we need protests. Not because Trump won the election, but because his followers, who love to claim their innocence against the big, bad leftists feel entitled to interfere with someone else’s way of life.
By the time all of the speakers were done, we were ready to march. We marched for about 3 hours, waving colorful signs, holding hands and blocking traffic when necessary. When men yelled “her body, her rules,” girls yelled “my body, my rules” to show the world that as carriers of children, we are entitled to all rights of our bodies. No man, or even woman for that matter, will ever be able to dictate whether or not I can terminate an unplanned pregnancy. That is my choice, and my choice alone and by attempting to take these rights away from women, men are doing nothing more than pushing women towards unsafe measures of termination including the use of wire hangers. We marched past the frat houses, full of pretentious, white boys telling our Latinx brothers and sisters that they’re going back to Mexico and telling our black brothers and sisters that they’re going back to Africa. This is why we need to protest, because boys who have never worked a day in their lives and don’t have to pay for their own college educations, feel the need to tell hardworking people of color that we don’t belong here.
By the end of the night, despite all of my negative feelings earlier in the day, I couldn’t help but feel proud. Sure, it was only one protest that I participated in, but this was just one of many that I will attend. Not a single person at that protest felt out of place, and in my opinion, that is how this country needs to feel; like an inclusive space where nobody at all should feel ashamed to be who they are, do what they want, and love who they love. Donald Trump might be in the White House now, and there might not be anything that we can do about it, but that doesn’t mean that we’re not going to make our voices heard.
