Yesterday, while walking down 5th avenue with a couple thousand other people, chanting and waving signs in the air, I caught sight of one in particular. A girl, standing along the edges of the barricade, her sign accented with the trademark #WhyIMarch. Written in simple black letters on a piece of white poster-board, her sign told her story: "Because last night in Grand Central station, three men came up to me and said 'grab her by the pussy' and proceeded to do so. And the NYPD officer standing by said, 'It was just a joke'".
I do not know this woman, and I will likely never see her again. But standing there, surrounded by men, women, and children of all ages carrying signs advocating for planned parenthood, for LGBTQ+ rights, for climate change and for racial justice, I almost burst into tears. On my left, a little girl in a stroller waved her American flag, chanting along "Tell me what democracy looks like, this is what democracy looks like", and a lesbian couple on my right held hands, marching together in solidarity. I want to promise that little girl that the world she will grow up in is of the same vein as that of this march- of equality, of love, of hope. I look around at the men screaming, "Her body, Her rights", the aging women with their canes and their signs, at the plethora of pink knitted hats dotting the crowd, and I want so badly to tell her that things will be alright. And I almost do. Because in this moment, it almost feels as though they will. As though democracy will prevail, despite the fact that we have watched it be compromised in the face of wealth, notoriety, and power, again and again and again.
I almost do, but then I don't.
I was only ten years old when Obama was elected to office for the first time. I don't remember much of the world before that time, but I remember being told that this was a changing point for America. That perhaps we could put our violent history aside and begin to truly come together. My most formative years were spent under the Obama administration. I got to grow into myself knowing that I now lived in a world where same-sex marriage was legal, where climate change was widely recognized, where the reality of melting-pot America was seen as beautiful.
In a way, the rise of Donald Trump was the catalyst for my friends and I to grow up, to let go of our innocence, our childhood. I had just turned seventeen when talk of the upcoming election began to spread like wildfire, and I began to realize that I would be able to vote this year. That I could be a part of change in the making. I watched as candidates such as Ben Carson and Donald Trump rose in the polls, confusing me as neither of them seemed to have any concrete plans for how to better the country. I watched Hillary gain a following. I cast my vote for Bernie in the primary. None of it felt real.
A month before I turned 18, I graduated high school, truly leaving my childhood behind. A few months later, I moved away from home, to one of the biggest cities in the world, for college. I began classes, I made friends. I begged my family to come to their senses and make the right vote. I registered for absentee voting, sent in my ballot, and felt secure in the knowledge that America would do the right thing. After all, aren't we a country that prides itself on its progressiveness, the land of the free, the home of the brave? The beacon of hope, the new world with the statue standing right on the edge, proclaiming, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!".
On the day of the election, I woke up, went to get bagels, and discussed with my friend how amazing it was that a woman was going to become president. We went to a watch party, expecting the night to be a kind of celebration. Only a few hours later, I stood on the steps of our University Library with hundreds of other students, crying, feeling cheated, isolated, rejected. We had won all the battles, but it seemed we had lost the war.
To this day, I still don't understand how the most qualified presidential candidate we've ever had can win the popular vote by 3 million and lose the election. Or, scratch that- I know exactly why. Because she's a woman.
Because in this country, being a reality TV star with a big mouth, lots of money, and questionable opinions makes you qualified for the highest position in America. We voted, and the public decided that the white man with little experience, lots of secrets, and a loud voice is the best person for the job.
I went to an all girl's high school and now I'm studying at a women's college, and so it probably comes as no surprise that I fit all the "feminist stereotypes". I consider myself a liberal democrat, wear a necklace with the female symbol on it, and will fight you on the definition of feminism any day (it's a movement for equality, people). And this past weekend, I watched as girls I had gone to high school with, girls who have been raised since they were in elementary school on our school motto "Girls with the will have the ability", posted about their support for Donald Trump's presidency on social media. Some went to the inauguration, some attended parties at their colleges in celebration. My high school even had a viewing of the "inauguration festivities", as they wrote.
I've tried to understand it. I've tried to sympathize, to take on their mentalities. I have tried, and I can't. I can't understand how someone can be a woman in this country and stand against everything that has been fought for for years, that allows them to live the lives they live today. I can't imagine turning my back on that, turning my back on the women who devoted their lives to promoting gender equality, the women who allow me to receive an equal education to a man, to have the type of job I would like one day, to have kids or not to have kids, to get married or stay single. Every aspect of the way I am able to live my life is because of the women who fought tirelessly and fiercely, and I can't imagine feeling as though it's okay to turn my back on that.
I've watched Tomi Lahren spout about how the women's marches are useless, how they aren't really achieving anything (speaking of, Tomi- why do you think you're allowed to have a platform to say these things? It's because of all the women whose legacy you're denouncing). I've had boys tell me that I am not oppressed, that I should shut up, that I should go to prison just like Hillary for saying I believe in equal rights. I've had family members tell me to give it up, that my place is in the kitchen, drinking a glass of wine and cooking dinner for my husband. I've heard it all. Every excuse for insecurity, every attempt at mansplaining, every argument against feminism or misinterpretation of it- as women, we have seen them. We have suffered them. And this election was a reminder that we could devote our entire lives to something, work harder than anyone has ever worked before, could succeed in our fields, and could still lose. These days, it almost seems we can never win.
It's time like these we need things like the women's march more than ever. Times where we need to come together and fight for all the good things about our country- for equality, for justice, for peace, and for freedom. For the right to live our lives in the way that makes us happy, and to not have to fear our president or our police when we walk out the door. We need the young boys and girls marching, need them to be the ones to carry the legacies we have fought so hard for into the future. Need them to not let all the progress we have made disappear.
This past weekend, all seven continents marched in protest of one man. One. It's the largest protest ever recorded in history. Despite its shortcomings (femininity being associated with possessing a uterus, many signs seeming only to fight for values of white feminism, etc), this march is undoubtedly one of the most powerful things to come out of our recent history. It- and we- will not be soon forgotten. And bigotry, hatred, racism, and exclusion will not win. Fear will not reign. Not today, not tomorrow, and not ever. Because we march. Because we fight. Because we will continue to do so, no matter who or what the world throws at us.
We will march. And we will march. And we will march.
