My Experience Marching in Boston

The drumming of sticks upon plastic buckets guide me out of the Downtown Crossing station. Everyone files out, heading in the same direction. We cross Tremont street, I doubt anyone knows the exact location of the stage, so we rely on the chants in the distance. I weave in and out of people trying to get a better look. A sea of pink hats and pickets, unfold before me. I am surrounded by daughters sitting on their father’s shoulders, teenagers climbing trees and grown women clinging to monuments. From where I stand it is hard to hear the speakers, but no matter, groups have begun their own congregations.

Fast forward a little bit and I have found the stage. I can finally make out what the speakers are saying and they are so powerful. I feel so connected to the woman and men I am surrounded by.

When the time comes to march we have a slow start. I find myself locked in by people and fences for over two hours. I can feel myself getting frustrated as the air begins to thin. I close my eyes and feel the sun, because today, in the middle of January, it beats down on to my cheeks. I inhale my surroundings: strangers making conversation, strangers helping a man who lost his girlfriend to the crowd. High schoolers sitting on cranes make conversation with the people bellow laughing with them. Women link their arms as to not lose each other.

Here I am lost in my thoughts, reminding myself why I am here, why this is worth it. I have heard from many people including my own family that marching was a waste of time and pointless. However, I am here to shout for the voiceless and to stomp my feet for the weak. I am here for my sisters, aunts, cousins, and friends. I am not only here for the women in my life but for everyone who has been affected by the hate being spit out of peoples mouths; as common as hearing a hello. It is our job as humans to stand up for the vulnerable. I also stand there, my feet aching, for myself. My rights are currently being threatened. So no dad, we will not go gently into the night and wait for our turn to arise again four years later. We will crowd the streets: we WILL be seen. We will scream to the tops of our lungs: our voices WILL be heard.