A year ago today, I went to the Women’s March with my daughter. We stayed up late the night before painting signs and packing trail mix and raw veggies for snacks. We drove in to Boston two hours early, parked, and headed to the spot. We made it around a corner and to a stage and large open space. It was a sea of pink hats and hopefulness. There was an immediate warmth in the frigid January Boston air. Thousands of smiling faces:
Where are you from?
Here, have a hat.
This revolution is love!
I love you!
Pussy grabs back!
Love is resistance.
The mood was joy. Women (and some men) together, moving towards the roar: singing, sighing, weeping, shouting, resolved.
We heard the speeches, sang the songs, met up with my daughter’s college group, and took it all in before sitting on a bench to wait for the march to begin. As excited as I was to be apart of something so important, I was having trouble standing and walking for long periods of time. It was the beginning of what would turn out to be my cancer journey only we didn’t know it yet. I offered to wait while my daughter marched with her schoolmates realizing I couldn’t, but she chose to wait with me on the bench and binge-eat trail mix and listen through the rally.
One day after our country inaugurated a billionaire who champions racial inequality, religious persecution, and putting reproductive rights and pussy in the sweaty hands of white men, millions of women took to the streets in dissent. And I sat among tens of thousands of them holding my daughter’s hand in solidarity.