January 21, 2016: The Women’s March on Washington
Fifty becomes fifty-one. I have been waiting for a challenge befitting our nation’s capitol, and This is IT. My good friend and writing coach, Donna, secured me a coveted ticket for the bus trip to the Washington March. Along with other members of the Somerset County Federation of Democratic Women, we made signs and prepared for the worst, writing our emergency contact information on our forearms in permanent marker and loading the ACLU phone number into our cell phones in case we got arrested. Turns out, we needn’t have worried.
When we pulled into the rest stop in Delaware, the place was wall-to-wall buses, the crowd, majority female, the mood, festive and supportive. The men were sharing their restroom with the women, and no one was assaulted. Imagine that… And I began to believe that this was going to be a transformative experience for the participants, and maybe even the nation. Like, when are people friendly in a rest stop?
Traffic was heavy on 95 in Maryland, mostly bus. The weather was gloomy, fog filling the deep chasm containing the Susquehanna River. I felt it fitting and symbolic, as a pall hung over our nation after Trump’s election and inauguration, empty stands lining the presidential parade route. When we arrived at the RFK stadium bus parking depot, our Bus 1 was turned aside and told to seek street parking. No room at the stadium. We gathered our signs and took a Bus 2 photo. Good thing, because we never saw each other again until the end of the day. We split up into our groups of three and made the 24 block trek down SE Capital Street. This beautiful neighborhood had turned out on their front porches to support us on our march. Every home had a sign with a quote by Martin Luther King, Jr. Even the infants were caught up in the spirit.
The Washington Monument was truncated, its top third obscured by the lingering fog. Washington would surely have wished to avert his eyes from the constitutional crisis we have brought upon ourselves. We don’t have that luxury. These are extraordinary times indeed.
The March was gigantic, estimated at over half a million people, yet there wasn’t a single arrest. A young man remarked that although he had never been in a group so large, he felt surprisingly safe. That had not been the case for him the day before, when rioters had broken store windows and set fires. This was like one huge, diverse family. I was agog at the variety of signs reflecting every viewpoint on every issue you could imagine, and at the amazing creativity on display. I joined in on chants and cheers, some led by little children in strollers. My favorite one provided me with the title for the piece: What does America look like? THIS is what America looks like!
The streets were so full that the start point for the march was moved repeatedly, until it became apparent to organizers that there really could be no march, since people already filled every inch of space from the planned start to its finish. We marchers didn’t know that, however, and with an inadequate sound system and the immensity of the crowd, very few people were treated to the speeches. Even though we were close to the stage, we couldn’t hear more than snippets of Angela Davis and the drums underpinning Alicia Key’s tribute to the mothers of young men and children killed by police officers. We became a bit impatient after hours of standing, and began chanting, Let Us March! Finally, they did, but they turned us around back toward the Capitol and sent us briefly up Pennsylvania Avenue.
By then, I had lost my buddies and needed to start back to the bus. I wish we could have had more time to explore, because I had several friends in attendance I met on the Selma march in 2015, but I didn’t want to miss the bus. Haseltons are never late. We have a family chant honoring that tradition, but I didn’t share it with the other marchers.
I jogged a bit of the 24 blocks back up Capitol St, and noticed that a Quaker church was open and offering free coffee and clean bathrooms. Best of all, they had the bumper sticker which I felt best captured the feel of the day:
Love Thy Neighbor. No Exceptions.
Even though all the police officers were aghast when they heard that we planned to walk to and from RFK because the Metro was overflowing with people, we all handled the distance with ease. It put the march back into the March. It felt so good to move in a wave among thousands of welcoming, committed, and interesting people.
I learned a few things on Bus 2 that evening. Three of our number had been born outside of the U.S.: one woman from Uruguay, a man from Paraguay, and a woman from Poland. All three said that Trump’s bluster, nativism, corruption, lying, distrust and control of the press, inability to tolerate dissent, all were familiar to them as the first steps towards dictatorship.
My mood turned somber as I thought about what they said. I hope we don’t all just go home and think, “Well, wasn’t that amazing?”, and go back to living our lives as if this is normal. It’s not. I fear for our nation under Trump, who stands for nothing and could fall for anything. I don’t feel anyone is safe unless everyone is safe. But in my lighter moments, and as I review the stories and pictures others have posted about the marches across this nation and around the world, I realize that the Women’s March on Washington was a balm to my spirit in these troubling times, a reminder that there are kind and open- minded people in this country, and together, we are a force for good that cannot be ignored. If we are vigilant, we shall overcome the overcomb.
The young people thronging the streets and chanting and dancing give me hope for the future, for it is their’s.
