Women marchers: Where do we go from here?
Activism can be fun. Getting involved doesn’t have to become a suffer-fest. That’s one of my important take-aways from going to D.C. to participate in the Women’s March on Washington, where women laughed, sang, chanted, and admired the amazing neo-classical architecture along the route.
I walked side-by-side with my daughter Sophie Peterson and her sister-in-law Brenna Lissoway. There were many grey-haired women like me, and also many women of the next generation, plus to my surprise, folks in wheelchairs and dads pushing toddlers in strollers. A group of Native American women from Arizona stationed themselves along the route, drumming and dancing. An a cappella choir blended their voices like strident angels.
The three of us had skirted the Capitol building earlier that morning, intending to meet up with the New Mexico contingent — hundreds of whom had arrived the night before after a 36-hour bus ride from Albuquerque. From the rise of Capitol Hill, we had what would prove to be our only overview of the March that day: we watched as rivulets of marchers in pink “pussy hats” (a not-so-sly dig at Trump’s vulgar remark about grabbing women’s private parts that emerged during the campaign) bobbed and flowed down every side-street toward the main stream along Independence Avenue. As the day progressed, we felt like water molecules held together by the molecular force of solidarity and carried forward by the inevitability of a high tide. You just surrendered to it.
Among a crowd estimated to be from 500,000 to 1 million, we were at a standstill from 10:30 a.m. to 1:30 p.m., prompting Sophie to remark, “Mom, we’re not a march. We’re an occupation.”
Unable to access a mobile signal because of the crowds, we didn’t know what was going on. At one point, we decided to move about 100 feet so we could at least hear the loudspeaker and maybe get a glimpse of one of the large screens. It took us an hour to squeeze over. Finally, we heard and sometimes saw the impassioned speeches (to name a few) by iconic feminist Gloria Steinem; actress Scarlett Johansson; Gwen Carr, mother of Eric Garner; CNN commentator Van Jones; and Muhammad Ali’s daughter, Maryum Ali.
On a practical level, the Porta Potties seemed unattainable. I didn’t pee or drink water from the time we left the hotel at 8:30 a.m. until we maneuvered ourselves into a bar on Seventh Street at 4:30 p.m. As the standing-room only crowd erupted in cheers and hoots at a bank of TV screens, we thought a playoff game was in progress. But, no. Each of the seven screens featured images and news of women’s marches from around the country and across the globe. It was our first inkling that this march had made an impact.
Later, we picked up some tacos and got back on the Metro. It had been a long march, for sure, but more than that: a first step. Where do we go from here?
Peterson has previously written the “Water Matters” column in The Taos News.
