When Rebecca called me the day after the Women’s March on
Washington was announced to see if I wanted to go with her and Fable—3
generations marching—I said “Hell, yes!”
I felt exhilarated at the thought of doing something with other
like-minded women to express my horror at the thought of this ugly white
(orange?), misogynistic, racist, homophobic, xenophobic, anti-intellectual liar
who would be our president, sworn in on my 61st birthday. I think it
was the first time that my stomach relaxed a little from the knots I was
becoming familiar with every morning when I awoke. I immediately texted Rachel
to see if she wanted to join us, and she, too, was 100% on board. “YES, YES,
YES!”
Eight years earlier, on my 53rd birthday, I sat
in my PJ’s in front of the TV, watching the inauguration of Barack Obama, my
face stained from tears of joy. I never thought in a million years that I would
live to see the day that an African American would be president. I didn’t think it was possible because of the
deep seeded racism still seeping through the cracks in our democracy. I wrote in my diary that day, “What an honor
to be born on this day—a day of rebirth for our nation. The first African American president! Today, Obama begins his journey and with it,
creates a NEW WORLD!” I believed it with
all my heart. I was euphoric and proud
and brimming with gratitude. It was also
on that day I decided to go back to my authentic self and let my hair go gray. January 20th, 2008 was a
touchstone in my life.
As wonderful as 2008’s birthday was, I knew that this
January 20th would be the antithesis. The black cloud of his looming presidency
would descend upon us like a thick miasma, oozing through our cities, our
neighborhoods, our homes. Suddenly going to Washington felt like the only
possible way for me to face the desperation I felt. I was beyond grateful for
Rebecca’s invitation.
Soon, however, Doubt crept in. And Fear—two long-time acquaintances of mine.
By this time, local marches had been organized, and some family members
suggested it might be better to stay at home and march here. “I’m afraid for
your safety,” said one. “The city will be teaming with Trump supporters. What if they have guns? What if they attack the crowd?” another asked.
“Isn’t it dangerous to take Fable? How will she stand all that time? What if
she gets tired? What if she has to go to
the bathroom?” Friends on Facebook warned of possible arrests, tear gas, rubber
bullets, water cannons, and tear gas. I
started to be afraid. I called Rebecca and asked her what she thought about
marching at home instead, not admitting why I was asking her. “It might be really powerful to be with our
friends and family here,” I suggested.
She agreed that it might be, but immediately said, “No, I think we
should still go to Washington.”
I know I am an idealist and a person who has strong ethical
and social convictions. I stand up for them verbally, sometimes too strongly,
because I feel everything on such a deep level, but I have never marched. I am
a non-partisan voter and not a member of any organized religion because I don’t
want to be labeled or associated with any dogma of any kind. That being said, I am extremely liberal and
strongly spiritual. But I also have fears
that are sometimes overwhelming, which do not feel like they are authentic to
whom I am. And sometimes they can be
debilitating. All of my life I have
thought about what I personally would have done if I had been born in Nazi
occupied Europe during WWII. Would I have been brave enough to fight in the
resistance, hide Jews, risk my family to fight fascism? Or would I have hidden my own Jewish ancestry
and closed my eyes to the Nazi horrors to save my family. I have been troubled by the uncertainty of these
hypothetical questions—aware of the fact that until we are confronted with a
situation, we have no way of knowing.
And not knowing has been a lifetime burden.
This would be my first march ever, so I didn’t know what to
expect and I would be lying if I told you that I was more and more excited as
the day of our departure grew closer. I actually started to get more and more
nervous, but I know that this often happens to me, even before I go on big
vacations or even before my theater company puts on our plays. So I hid those feelings and ignored the
Facebook posts best I could and tried to calm myself down in the middle of the
night when I woke up afraid, knowing that although I often am nervous before an event, I never actually am
when it happens. I also ‘checked in’ to my intuition, which always guides me,
and nothing told me we shouldn’t go.
My
friends and husband were all supportive, cheering me on and telling me they would
be with me in spirit, and I realized I wanted to bring something physical with
me so all of my loved ones would be with me. I decided to bring a handful of tiny pebbles I had collected the year
before from a high-action beach in Northern California. On high-action beaches,
the fine sand is dragged out to sea by the constant pounding of violent waves,
and the larger, polished pebbles remain. There was something about these
resilient pebbles that I fell in love with, each one a different color,
individual and unique, and I kept them in my jacket pocket for months before
putting them safely in a box.
I decided
they would be the perfect symbols of my friends and family to carry with me to
D.C.
The night before we left, I barely slept. I thought about
our plane and that it might be filled with Trump supporters—and that made me
uneasy. Southwest Airlines sent me a weather alert, so I added that to my list
of worries. Rachel was joining us in
Atlanta on our second flight. What if we
missed our connection? But that morning,
as Fable, Rebecca and I started on our journey, all of my fears disappeared.
Fable’s excitement and calm resolve was infectious. And then there was Rebecca,
who is always fearless. Although it was
raining, the storm hadn’t hit its peak yet and departure was on time. All was well.
We were met at our gate by a sea of pink hats and only one
red. My heart leapt. Of course, this was
LA. I should have realized. Atlanta
might be different, but at least we would start out on a good foot. We met Rachel in Atlanta and the four of us
approached our gate. Even more pink
hats! And not ONE RED HAT! THE DAY
BEFORE THE INAUGURATION!!! Everyone was smiling, full of anticipation, full of
conviction and fire and fight—men and women from all over the United
States. We talked to teachers, to poets,
secretaries and students. There were a few Trump supporters with garment bags,
but 90% of the passengers were marchers. We were thrilled.
We were lucky to be able to stay with Larry’s cousins,
Marilyn and Mike, in D.C. We got to their house around 7 pm and more cousins
arrived for dinner. Fable, who like us
had been up since 5:15, was in high spirits and played happily with Marilyn and
Mike’s grandchildren’s Legos while we all caught up and discussed the political
events. We still hadn’t figured out what
we would do on my birthday. All we knew was that we wanted to be nowhere near
the capital building and the inauguration.
Marilyn suggested we go to the National Portrait Gallery and the
American Art Museum, which was on the other end of the mall. We decided that art would be the perfect antidote
to the depressing day, so after sleeping in and buying supplies to make our
signs later on, we set off on a pink-hat filled metro to The Smithsonian.
Our time at the Portrait gallery was amazing. Fable wanted to see Alexander Hamilton, since
she is obsessed with the music from the play.
We then found all of the heroes of feminism
and civil rights, and we swelled with inspiration and gratitude. We read the inscription by each of their
portrait, realizing we are once again in the midst of the same struggles of
misogyny and racism that has plagued this country from its inception.
That night, we made our signs for the march. Inspired
by my pebbles, Rebecca decided to write the names of her friends’ and reader’s
names all over her body, so they, too, could be at the march. I finished my
poster first and while the others finished theirs, I wrote over 200 names on her arms, chest, and back. It was a
powerful act and couldn’t have been a better way for us to prepare for the next
day. Fable was with us the entire time,
working on her poster, and we all finally fell into bed at midnight. In spite of the pall of the day, I was filled
with gratitude for my family and excited for the march.
We left the house at 8:30, cheered on by Marilyn and Mike,
clad with our clear backpacks, pussy hats, and signs. I rubbed my stones gently and then zipped
them in my pocket. The sidewalk was already filled with other marchers, filing
towards the metro, and as we walked, more and more people stepped out of their
houses, joining the mass.
Cars honked in
support as we waved our signs. I cannot
express the powerful feeling that started growing inside of me, and by the time
we were in the metro station with thousands of others wearing pink hats and
carrying signs, I knew that I would fearlessly meet anything that happened that
day. It took several trains before we
were able to find one that had room for us, and since Rebecca gets
claustrophobic, we decided to get off earlier than we had planned and walk the
rest of the way. As we exited the station, we were met by thousands of marchers
waving their signs, walking towards the meeting point. I have never seen so many people, mostly
women, in one place, all smiling, filled with both love and fire, and committed
to all people, no matter their color, creed, nationality, or sexual preference.
We unfortunately couldn’t get near where the speakers were, and it was too wet
to sit down, but the hours flew by because of the excitement of the day and we
talked to people who had flown in from all over the country. When we all
started the march, the numbers had swelled and the crowd had grown thick. We chanted
and cheered and waved our signs and marched, together with people from all over
the US. We chanted “My body, my choice”
as the men responded, “Your body, your choice.”
We cried as a group of indigenous women, men and children walked past us singing, carrying
signs with a simple request for clean water, something we shouldn’t have to
fight for in a democratic society.
We answered the question, “Tell me what
democracy looks like,” with “THIS is what democracy looks like,” and every time
I chanted those words, I felt more and more power more and more love for my
country, a country where dissent is not only a patriotic act, it is imperative
when a demagogue has come into power. Fable was our mascot, smiling and waving
her sign, happy the entire time, never complaining, even when we were standing
around for hours. She never told us her
feet hurt, or that she was cold, or that she was hungry. She was our beacon of positive energy.
After the march, the subway was so crowded that we had to go
the wrong direction to get on, but we finally made it back. More cousins who had marched joined us for
dinner, and we all buzzed with the energy of the day, fired up to continue the
fight. The next morning as we sat on our
plane filled with marchers, ready to take off, the flight attendant thanked all
of us on the loud speaker for marching and the plane exploded in cheers. It
felt like the world was behind us and with us.
Once again, I reached my hand in my pocket and lovingly rubbed my
stones.
Marching was life changing for me. We stood against a
government that threatens to take away everything that we have accomplished in
the last 40 years, peacefully and without incident—a women-led march so full of
positive energy that even though we didn’t know until after the march how many people
were marching worldwide, we knew we were at the epicenter of something big and
important. I truly understood for the
first time the power of one…and one and one and one times 1,000,000. One woman’s vision created the march and each
person made an individual choice to show up.
This is why we vote. This is why
we show up to town halls, write letters, make phone calls, because when
everyone does, it makes a difference.
Our voice makes a difference. WE
have the power. And although it feels like the bully in charge does, with every horrible
appointment and abhorrent decision he has already made in his first few days of
office, he really doesn’t. We do. We just need to join forces and work. The
march was a call to ACTION by millions of Americans who wish to live in an ethical America,
a place where we take care of our marginalized citizens, protect everyone’s
rights and our environment, and work together. This march affected each of us,
and we have gone home to fight at the local level.
I still don’t know what I would have done had I been in Europe during
the Nazi occupation, but I have a better insight into how good it feels to
stand up against tyranny, and although I never was in any danger and we still
live in a democracy, I felt a new fire after the march to fight. I kept thinking, what if the women of Germany
had held a march like this at the beginning of Hitler’s reign? What if the women had stood up against hatred
and fear? I have a feeling if they had
and I had lived then, I would have joined.
We can do this. We just need to
show up.
THIS is what democracy looks like.
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