11 Women (& Men) Across The Country On Why They Marched

This morning I woke up thinking, does it really matter if I march? What’s the difference whether or not I participate? But signs were made, plans were set, and I was still feeling excited about experiencing a protest. 

What I got in return was a lesson in democracy. The last time I had experienced anything as incredible was in May of 2011, when President Obama had announced we had caught Osama bin Laden. It was close to midnight, and my friends and I ran to the subway, eager to get to what would soon become the Freedom Tower. Everyone was ecstatic, a group collective of truly enthralled people. And that was the sentiment I felt at the march: celebration. 

On the subway platforms, in the train cars, you could feel the air of nervousness, as if everyone was holding their breath, looking around to see if everyone else was just as stifled as them. Upon arriving at Grand Central Station all the normal boundaries had disappeared. A woman grabbed the lid of my cap to inspect my women’s rights sticker closer. I felt a sense of intrusion at first, but it dissipated once I realized that not only was she harmless, she was supportive. 

And that was the morale of the whole march: one of support. Especially in a city where people go out of their way to remain independent, we easily forget the power of compassion. When we actively avoid eye contact on the subway, avoid small talk that prolongs us from reaching our destination, choose denial of those in need rather than feel uncomfortable, we leave ourselves alone and vulnerable. But today, being surrounded by fellow marchers, we let our walls down. We allowed ourselves to smile at strangers, offer words of encouragement, and to become engaged. 

There was a current pulsing with each step forward, sparking hope and optimism. There was no sentiment of anger or semblance of violence. If everyone had simultaneously burst out into song, it could have been a movie. And the stars were the children who must grow up with a President Trump. Whether they realized the gravity of the march or not, they were being immersed in an education. The parents were teaching the future generation what the words “bridges” and “walls” meant. What it meant to be equal to everyone, regardless of race, sex, religion or citizenship. And exposing them to the word “pussy” for the first time in their young lives, and attaching it to principles of power. 

I realized by marching, I was forced to reflect on the simple notion of respect. I was marching because I respected my fellow sisters and brothers. I was marching for my parents and my grandmother. I was marching for the new generations that didn’t have a say in the election. And the reasons I was marching, were the same reasons others were marching. And by connecting my voice to the crowd, our presence became that much stronger; each voice mattered, and each spirit was felt. I realized that finally, after months of hate filled poison, by marching we had found an antidote.

[Photo courtesy Justine]