Originally intended to be a one-time event in Washington D.C. in response to the election of Donald Trump, gender inequality and general concern with the incoming legislative branch, the Women’s March organizers never expected to exceed their 200,000 person permit. The Washington Post now estimates that over half a million people participated in Washington alone, almost three times the amount of attendees as Donald Trump’s inauguration on Friday morning. There were over 670 additional events worldwide, bringing the total participant number to over one million men and women.
Two weeks ago, I spontaneously decided to be one of those half-million individuals. Without knowing what I was getting myself into, I packed a bag, decorated a poster to explain how excited I was to smash the patriarchy and donned my Hillary shirt. I was ready to be a part of history.
Armed with Starbucks and snacks, I was out the door by 5:30 am on Saturday and at the march site by 9:30am. From the moment we stepped off the metro, there was nothing but a sea of pink hats and posters filling the sidewalks and roads—whether the city had been planning on it or not, D.C had already come to a standstill and would stay that way until I left the city.
Over the course of the following twelve hours, it was the genuine kindness radiating throughout the never ending crowds hat struck me the most. Every single person was there for someone, for something, or for a combination of both. Many were crying, more were smiling, and everyone was cheering. I had a conversation with a group from Minnesota, ate trail mix with a girl from Maryland, “WE ARE-d” a complete stranger with a Penn State jacket, and watched as two women in front of me realized they had graduated from the same college in the same year. We instantly became members of the largest family I had ever seen—a family who shared the same values of freedom, equality and understanding. I walked away not only more informed, but energized to carry this acceptance and thoughtfulness with me wherever I go.
Saturday made me proud to call myself a feminist—standing amidst almost unbearable crowds with mile after mile of amazing women and their supportive husbands, boyfriends, brothers and friends, I can say that I truly believed in our power to do anything that we set our minds for. We stood up for the rights we deserve, called out the man who thinks he can treat women however he wants without consequence, and initiated a movement that will catalyze a better world not only for us, but for all that follow. “Empowering” does not do the experience justice—the 1.5 mile walk was clearly just one stop on a very long journey that I cannot wait to continue with the countless other Americans I realize stand on my side.
But even more importantly, I now understand, this march represented much more than 50.8% of the population or the almost three million individuals who voted to break the glass ceiling rather than reinforce it. It was for every mother, daughter, sister, and aunt— it was also for the fathers, the sons, and the uncles. It was for all races, all ethnicities, and all viewpoints. It was for the LGBTQ community, the refugee community, and the immigrant community. It was for all Americans, whether they were present or not. It was for the country that we will never stop believing in, even though we have a large mountain of racism, sexism, xenophobia and factually inaccurate tweets to climb.
As I sit and write this in a minivan going 70mph on the highway heading back to State College from Washington D.C, I can’t help but think that with every second that passes, I am technically moving further and further away from one of the largest, most defined moments of feminism in American history. By the time the work week starts, the streets will be empty; all remnants of pink hats and colorful posters will have vanished from sidewalk corners. The metro will return to its normal level of crowds, and I will soon be making my daily trek across campus.
The funny thing is, however, with every mile that we drive, I can also feel myself getting closer and closer to a future that I and over one million other people believe in. Yesterday, I expected to see nothing but anger, screaming voices determined to change our country over night. I will not deny that there was an overwhelming sense of frustration echoing with every single step taken; at the same time, the voices I heard were ones of determination and confidence and reflected a strong belief that the innate goodness in people will ultimately come through. Our protest did not represent rage striving to burn down our country, but a collective hope trying to build it back up.
After all, one of the most popular cheers was “The people, united. We will never be divided.”
I think that speaks for itself.
If you’re interested in learning more about the March and the work that put into it, check out the official Facebook page. Aside from documenting the experience, the page provides a plethora of resources on how to get more involved with everything that matters to you—there is absolutely no reason that your voice can’t be heard even though the march is over.