By Judy O’Gorman Alvarez |
On Saturday I joined four friends from my Middletown-based book group – as well as 1 million others – to attend the Women’s March on Washington.
We found a chance to rally with others who are concerned about some changes the new administration may make, and make our collective voices and presence known.
All through the traffic-laden drive along Route 95 on Friday evening, we passed cars full of women – some wearing the pink hats suggested by the Women’s March and some sporting signs that read “Nasty Women” on their windows.
We had arranged to stay with one member’s sister in her Silver Spring, Maryland apartment, just a short Metro ride from the march.
On Saturday morning we traveled along with hordes of others into Washington. According to media sources, people took more than 1 million rides on the D.C. Metro that day, the second highest ridership after Barack Obama’s inauguration in 2009.
That figure doesn’t take into account the rows of charter buses that streamed into the nation’s capital. We met women from Pennsylvania, Vermont and Michigan, some having left their homes at 1 a.m. and would spend their second night on the bus.
There were so many women – all ages and races, wearing T- shirts with messages, holding signs and banners declaring support or distaste for various issues.
And the pink hats! Thousands upon thousands of hats – many of them the popular knitted ones with cat-like ears, but others of all sorts – fluffy hats, cat ears, hats on top of hijabs and more. Men, women, children and even babies blended in among the sea of pink-crowned heads.
It was a horde of sisters, but also a great number of men. What was particularly warming was to see families of all generations – grandmothers and grandfathers, parents and small children – marching together.
It wasn’t meant to be a protest, but many had come to do just that.
On Saturday I joined four friends from my Middletown-based book group – as well as 1 million others – to attend the Women’s March on Washington.
We found a chance to rally with others who are concerned about some changes the new administration may make, and make our collective voices and presence known.
All through the traffic-laden drive along Route 95 on Friday evening, we passed cars full of women – some wearing the pink hats suggested by the Women’s March and some sporting signs that read “Nasty Women” on their windows.
We had arranged to stay with one member’s sister in her Silver Spring, Maryland apartment, just a short Metro ride from the march.
On Saturday morning we traveled along with hordes of others into Washington. According to media sources, people took more than 1 million rides on the D.C. Metro that day, the second highest ridership after Barack Obama’s inauguration in 2009.
That figure doesn’t take into account the rows of charter buses that streamed into the nation’s capital. We met women from Pennsylvania, Vermont and Michigan, some having left their homes at 1 a.m. and would spend their second night on the bus.
There were so many women – all ages and races, wearing T- shirts with messages, holding signs and banners declaring support or distaste for various issues.
And the pink hats! Thousands upon thousands of hats – many of them the popular knitted ones with cat-like ears, but others of all sorts – fluffy hats, cat ears, hats on top of hijabs and more. Men, women, children and even babies blended in among the sea of pink-crowned heads.
It was a horde of sisters, but also a great number of men. What was particularly warming was to see families of all generations – grandmothers and grandfathers, parents and small children – marching together.
It wasn’t meant to be a protest, but many had come to do just that.
The signs had an array of messages – some supportive and some crude; there were several references to the infamous tape of Trump talking to Billy Bush in 2005. Most messages referred to the rights marchers feared may be compromised: reproductive rights, immigration, and LGBTQ rights.
Signs that read “My Life, My Voice, My Body, My Choice,” and “In Our America All People are Equal.” Some made us chuckle: “Girls just want to have FUNdamental Rights,” and “The Elephant in the Womb.” And some made us chuckle and cringe: “Tiffany, blink twice if you need help.”
The Women’s March website had prepared us to bring only small bags or clear backpacks to tote protein bars and water. Yet we passed no police directing or enforcing any rules. The daughter of one of our friends, a third year law student, gave us advice to stay on the fringe of the crowd and write contact numbers on our arms in Sharpie. That was in case our phones had no service or were lost or confiscated in an arrest or scuffle.
Signs that read “My Life, My Voice, My Body, My Choice,” and “In Our America All People are Equal.” Some made us chuckle: “Girls just want to have FUNdamental Rights,” and “The Elephant in the Womb.” And some made us chuckle and cringe: “Tiffany, blink twice if you need help.”
The Women’s March website had prepared us to bring only small bags or clear backpacks to tote protein bars and water. Yet we passed no police directing or enforcing any rules. The daughter of one of our friends, a third year law student, gave us advice to stay on the fringe of the crowd and write contact numbers on our arms in Sharpie. That was in case our phones had no service or were lost or confiscated in an arrest or scuffle.
Yet, with the exception of young nimble marchers who climbed trees and lampposts, there was no violence, no civil disobedience, and despite the enormous crowds, no bumping, elbowing or crushing. It was a kind and committed crowd.
As we stood for hours listening to the array of speakers – activists, humanitarians and celebrities – some inspirational, some a little militant, we stood shoulder to shoulder among the pink hats.
When we started to grow tired of standing in place, hungry, tired and damp, I would catch sight of a woman seemingly a couple of decades older than me, standing strong and uncomplaining. Perhaps years of marches under her belt, or perhaps someone who just couldn’t pass up the chance to show solidarity.
While we waited to march, much later than the 1:15 p.m. scheduled time, word came through the crowd that there was barely any room to march. Volunteers spread the word to head to the White House on any street possible.
Swept up in the flow that veered down Pennsylvania Avenue, from every side street, hordes of more marchers streamed in to join the crowds.
Spontaneous bursts of chants rang out: “This is what democracy looks like,” and “No hate, no fear. Everyone is welcome here.”
It was part cacophony, part symphony of sounds echoing through the streets. With no immediate end of the march – no demand to see someone or see immediate change – the crowds dispersed slowly. A little anti-climatic for our first protest.
We were committed to take the next steps the Women’s March on Washington organizers suggest: 10 Actions/100 Days. The first step is to send postcards to our Senators about what matters most to us.
Then we headed home, pink hats in hand, tired but inspired and proud to be a little part of history.
As we stood for hours listening to the array of speakers – activists, humanitarians and celebrities – some inspirational, some a little militant, we stood shoulder to shoulder among the pink hats.
When we started to grow tired of standing in place, hungry, tired and damp, I would catch sight of a woman seemingly a couple of decades older than me, standing strong and uncomplaining. Perhaps years of marches under her belt, or perhaps someone who just couldn’t pass up the chance to show solidarity.
While we waited to march, much later than the 1:15 p.m. scheduled time, word came through the crowd that there was barely any room to march. Volunteers spread the word to head to the White House on any street possible.
Swept up in the flow that veered down Pennsylvania Avenue, from every side street, hordes of more marchers streamed in to join the crowds.
Spontaneous bursts of chants rang out: “This is what democracy looks like,” and “No hate, no fear. Everyone is welcome here.”
It was part cacophony, part symphony of sounds echoing through the streets. With no immediate end of the march – no demand to see someone or see immediate change – the crowds dispersed slowly. A little anti-climatic for our first protest.
We were committed to take the next steps the Women’s March on Washington organizers suggest: 10 Actions/100 Days. The first step is to send postcards to our Senators about what matters most to us.
Then we headed home, pink hats in hand, tired but inspired and proud to be a little part of history.
