Sometimes I realize I’m humming. It starts as an unconscious lips, tongue, and
breath thing that I, thinking-Lea, a spectator curious about the content, happen
upon with surprise. I don’t always
recognize the tune immediately and have to keep humming until I identify the
song.
Often during election seasons, “America the Beautiful” has
been my soul’s selection, looping continuously while I’m driving, typing, walking
in the woods, or washing dishes. But, its wistful lyrics - “and crown thy good with
brotherhood, from sea to shining sea" - seemed so poignant and unattainable in
2016. Instead, something stirring, something rousing, something rebellious kept
burbling up from my subconscious.
What was it?
Got it! “Sister
Suffragette!” A revolutionary cry from
actress Glynis Johns in the 1964 movie, “Mary Poppins.” Mary Poppins?
A song of revolution? Yes!
“We’re clearly soldiers in petticoats,
Dauntless crusaders for women’s votes…
Cast off the shackles of yesterday!
Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!
Our daughters’ daughters will adore us,
And they’ll sing in grateful chorus,
“Well done! Well
done! Well done, sister suffragette!”
Long before the election results were tallied, somewhere
deep within me this rallying cry ramped up.
But why? That battle had been
fought and won in 1920. Not so
long ago. And we are the daughter’s daughters those courageous, forward thinking
suffragettes fought for. Catch me at the
right moment, and I’m weepy with gratitude to those women.
Almost 100 years later, Donald Trump has been elected
president. Our right to vote is not up for grabs, but he has bragged that, for him, our private parts are.
For years, I’ve warned my daughter not to be complacent
about her rights, but why wouldn’t she be?
She has grown up in a world where women are CEOs, surgeons, and
senators, where she has known she can be almost anything she wants to be. Sure, tampons and sanitary pads are taxed
while Rogaine and Viagra are not, and yes, women are paid $.78 cents on every
dollar a man earns, but we’ve made solid headway.
Wait. Rewind. Having not needed a tampon in over a decade, I
wasn’t aware of that tax, and while I knew about pay inequality and thought it
unfair, I wasn’t really bothered by it.
Why not? WHY NOT? Why have I accepted that so quietly?
Flash to January 2017 and I’m not accepting it anymore. I’m also reeling at America’s choice for
president. Fortunately, so was Teresa
Shook, a retiree living in Hawaii who was so disturbed by Donald Trump’s win
that she posted her idea for a March on Washington on Facebook. By the next morning, 10,000 followers had
signed on to join her. My sister
Francie and I missed that initial call to action, but we had our bus tickets to
the march secured within a month of that posting.
In the weeks before the march, I worried. About cold feet and frostbite. About the
possibility of violence. About the
availability of bathrooms. That was the
main thing, actually. I worried about that a lot. So I added maximally absorbent sanitary pads
to my Women’s March pile of gloves, woolen socks, granola bars, and dried
apricots. Even if I were desperate, I
doubted I’d be able to convince my lifetime-trained body to release and go in a
pad, still, I felt better having a “what-if-I-can’t-find-a-bathroom” plan.
But the Women’s March committee assuaged my fears. By email, they kept me posted with updates
about permits, police coverage, suggested supplies, things to avoid, march route
maps, and guidelines to follow in case of disruptions. Plus, it sounded like they were renting
plenty of port-o-potties. By the time I
was on my knees on the floor, Sharpie in hand, preparing my poster, I was
unequivocally excited. This was the
antidote to Trump despair. This was
something I could do.
On Friday the 20th, I drove to Pennsylvania to
stay with my sister as we’d be waking at 4:15 AM in order to board the bus in
Villanova at 5:30. Francie’s friend,
Jen, pulled in at 5:00, and the three of us arrived at the bus with enough time
to order coffee at Starbucks. Our coordinator,
Kat, a welcoming, energetic blonde, checked us in as we climbed onto the
bus. We settled into our seats and
unpacked hardboiled eggs, granola bars, and water from our
specially-purchased-for-the-march clear plastic backpacks. I had decided on drinking minimally during
the day to reduce bathroom trips, and would allow myself only occasional, tiny
sips.
It was 5:45 AM, so while some of our fellow marchers
introduced themselves, many dozed off.
About an hour out of DC, Kat took the microphone at the
front of the bus, reviewed logistics and meeting times, and invited those who
wished, to share their reasons for marching.
There were teachers, physicians, healthcare workers and
coaches among us, women who worked with small children and with students. One teacher spoke of a student of hers, a
girl of color, who’d been accosted by two boys who called her a pussy during a
sports event at their school. "You can’t
call me that,” the girl had said. “Sure
we can,” the boys answered. “The
president does.”
“I’m marching for her,” the woman said. “For her and all my students, boys and
girls. I want them to grow up in a world
that values respect.”
Some spoke of marching for their daughters and
granddaughters, or in homage to mothers and grandmothers who had marched for
reproductive rights or even, votes for women. One woman said ruefully, “I can’t believe we still have to march... “
A mother reported her three year-old daughter’s remark upon
seeing the president on TV. “Mommy,
President Trump doesn’t have any parents.”
“No parents? Sweetie,
why do you say that?”
“Because he has no love, so he must not have parents.”
A sad silence settled in at this. “I’m marching for my daughter,” the speaker
continued. “I want her to know a world
that loves.”
My sister Francie spoke of our good fortune in having a
family united in our political views and in being fairly secure
economically. “I’m marching for those
more likely to lose jobs, insurance, and rights,” she said.
I spoke of my years at Eagle Hill, a school for children
with learning disabilities. I mentioned
volunteering in a women’s literacy program and on my town’s conservation
commission. “I fear that these, my
priorities, are threatened under this administration. I am marching for their protection.”
A woman from the Ukraine stood to speak, but was choked by
tears and sat down. Later, she tried again. Still weeping, she spoke of the relief her
family had felt and the welcome they’d received when first they moved to this
country, and how that contrasted to the belligerence unleashed by Trump’s
bullying. “I am marching because you are the America my family moved
to. I fear the America this man
represents.”
When we reached Washington, our bus lined up behind an
armada of others angling for access to the lot at RFK stadium. Francie, Jen, and I shrugged on our coats and
plastic backpacks and donned our pink pussy hats.
A week ago, my friend Ben texted to say his wife Kristen had
“been knitting pussy hats 24/7.” She was unable to attend the march and wanted
to support the effort. Would I like a
hat? And how many others were marching
with me? She would make hats for them
too. Jen grinned as she pulled hers on and
said, “I love that someone I don’t even
know made this for me.” As we descended the steps to the lot, we marveled at
the swarm of people in pink hats weaving among buses that tiled the vast lot.
Francie had printed out the march route from the Women’s
March website, so with that as our guide, and thousands of other pink-hatted
marchers before us, we headed for the starting point at Independence Avenue and
3rd. As we walked, people
leaned from windows and front stoops to wave and thank us for coming. In one neighborhood, residents had posted black
lawn signs bordered in white with quotes from Martin Luther King Jr: “We must live together as brothers or perish
together as fools.” I was surrounded by
sisters, and quite a few brothers, bent on that unity.
A sand-colored tank attended by two MPs was parked at an
intersection. One of the soldiers, a
slight African-American woman, smiled at us, but her blocky, red-faced male
cohort stared straight ahead, his expression gruff. We thanked them, as we did
all police and MPs on duty that day, but his attention did not waiver.
Still, the mood was ebullient, and as our throng surged
within sight of the impressive domed Capitol building, I felt my first real
sense of where we were and the importance of our message. “Are
you listening?” Francie called out.
In front of us strolled three young women garbed in cloche
hats and ankle-length black coats with purple, green, and white sashes – suffragettes! I trotted to catch up with them and timidly
started to sing. “We’re clearly soldiers
in petticoats, dauntless crusaders for women’s votes…” They turned to smile at
me, and, despite her youth, one woman knew the words. Together we warbled, our
voices growing stronger together,
“Cast off the shackles of yesterday!
Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!
Our daughters’ daughters will adore us,
And they’ll sing in grateful chorus,
“Well done! Well
done! Well done, sister suffragette!”
As we neared the gathering place, we could hear amplified speeches and cheers. Further down the block, filmmaker Michael Moore
loomed large on a Jumbotron screen, and press vans lined the avenue. Shoulder
to shoulder, ass to stomach, elbow to hip, breath to breath, people were packed
tight. Movement was difficult, but everyone
was polite and cheerful, saying “’scuse me” or “Oops, sorry,” when a toe was
scrunched or a cheek poked. It was past 11:00 AM, and the program had started
at 10:00, with the march planned for 1:15. We had missed hearing Gloria Steinem
and the march organizers, but we threaded our way closer to the screen to hear
actress and activist, Ashley Judd.
Periodically, a whisper of a whoop would start among those
assembled blocks away. It would roll toward us, gaining power and volume as thousands of people took deep breaths and joined in the wave. It swelled around us, triumphant, joyful,
defiant, unified, and we inhaled deeply then expelled a roaring whoop,
sustaining it as long as we could, heaving it forward to those beyond
us, who took it up and carried it further.
On and on it went, mounting, echoing, and fading, conveying the vast
breadth of the exuberant multitudes.
Since movement was limited, reading posters was a pastime both
entertaining and empowering. A sampling:
“Dissent is Patriotic”
“If you cut off my reproductive rights, can I cut off
yours?” (with a drawing of a pair of scissors)
“Keep Your Rosaries off my Ovaries”
“I’m With Her” with arrows pointing in every direction.
“Free Melania”…and it’s varaiation:
“Melania, Blink
Twice if You Need Help”
“Mr. Trump, if my vagina were a gun, you wouldn’t try to
regulate it”
“A Woman’s Place is in the Resistance”
“Love, Not Hate, Makes America Great”
“A woman’s place is in the House…and the Senate”
“Make America Kind
Again”
“Tell me what
democracy looks like!” A call rang
out, a single voice, and hundreds boomed in response, “This is what democracy looks like!”
All colors, all ages, all religions, and sexual persuasions. This is
what democracy looks like. In his farewell speech, President Obama urged
the nation, “Our Constitution is a remarkable, beautiful gift…but it has no
power on its own. We, the people, give
it power with our participation and the choices we make.”
The 1:15 march time came and went, and speakers droned on
with poems and calls to the choir for equality, unity, rights, and healthcare. These
were why we’d all traveled to DC, but wedged body to body with our fellow
Americans, inhaling their exhalations while crushing dry stalks of sage and
drooping tomato plants in the remnants of a crowd-pulverized community garden, the
choir was eager for action. “Oh no,
another poem,” moaned someone nestled into my armpit. The poems were powerful
and uplifting, I’ve no doubt, but we’d heard a lot of them, and it was time to
go. A baying cry went up and was
multiplied by thousands. “March! March! March! March!”
One block over, the crowd was still immense and slow moving,
as was true of the next. Finally, we
turned onto a street still surging with people, but we could stride and dance
as impromptu drummers and bands thrummed on corners. We advanced to the mall, a demanding but
effervescent sea of people in wheel chairs, babies in backpacks, little ones in
strollers, elders on canes, women - and quite a few men manly enough to wear
them – in pussy hats. Those hats made a statement and evoked a sense of unity,
and again, we were grateful to Kristen for her gift.
Eventually, we turned toward the mall, thrilled to spot the
obelisk of the Washington Monument rising before us. We merged onto the greenway with the flood of
pink-hatted people as they swept in from side streets, and lent our voices to
that soaring, soul-lifting whoop as it rolled in with them.
“Why did they go with that style? It doesn’t fit at all,” said Jen.
“Maybe that’s the point,” Francie offered.
“Yeah. Slavery didn’t fit in with American ideals either,” I
said.
Down the lawn, beyond the pulsing sea of people, posters,
and pink hats, gazed the windows and portico of the White House. The Obamas had emphasized that this was the
people’s house. Now the people clamored
for attention, but it seemed Trump had closed the door to many. Like Francie, I hoped Congress was listening
and watching.
“Tell me what
democracy looks like!”
“This is what
democracy looks like!”
In their wisdom, the event organizers figured clenching had taxed muscles as much as
marching. Upon cresting the slope between the iconic sites of our nation’s
capitol, a phalanx of port-o-potties – probably fifty of them! – welcomed weary
protesters. The lines were long, did we
really want to wait? Despite my worry
about the discomfort of holding, I’d opted to sip water sparingly, and that
strategy had saved me. Still, “Don’t pass up the
opportunity to use a bathroom” was a pointer in the protest guidelines, and we
embraced it. As was true of the march as
a whole, even people desperate to go were patient and polite, awaiting their
turn and making sure they weren’t cutting in front of anyone else.
It was 4:30 and we were due back at our bus by 5:30. I was loath to leave as people continued to
flow onto the mall chanting and proudly brandishing posters. “Women’s Rights are Human Rights!” “Black Lives Matter!” “Protect the Planet!” “Love Trumps Hate!” Determined. Buoyant.
Powerful. In my heart and head, this is what America looks like. What I want it to look like.
Moving against a tide that rushed as strongly as ever toward
the mall, we headed down Independence Avenue toward RFK stadium. Our hiking boots had been comfy, our plastic
backpacks light throughout the euphoria of the day. Now, we limped, exhausted. I took off my backpack and carried it in
front of me to relieve my knotted, aching shoulders. Jen checked her Fitbit and it registered 9.1
miles walked. Felt like it. Still,
homeowners waved from their windows and yards and said, “Thank you for coming!”
and that helped.
Again we passed the two MPs on duty before the sand-colored
tank and thanked them. The woman now held
a bouquet of yellow flowers. Her gruff
companion seemed softened by the day’s events.
He smiled broadly and said, “You did good, ladies. Safe trip home.”
