I’m not done. I don’t believe any of the 3 million people who marched are done.
This is partly because, for me at least, it was a giant pain in the butt. I was on the go for 21 hours, folks. I had had an emergency root canal less than 24 hours before. I traveled by school bus. Now, I know that most people were waaaaaay smarter than that and rode on, like, a regular bus and so had less of a literal pain in the butt, but I imagine there was plenty of metaphorical pain to go around. It wasn’t easy, but it was just the beginning. Here it is just four days later and I’m already aghast at all the gag-ordering and refugee-blocking and homophobic justice-nominating. There is plenty of work to do.
But there is also plenty to celebrate, and we should take a moment and do that.
That’s a lot of pink hats, people, and most of them were handmade, either sewn or knit or crocheted. An ocean of soft femininity, subtle enough that I could just tell Maile that we decided cats were a great symbol of how women were going to fight Trump and leave it at that,* but with just the right kind of claws, speaking about something that still makes me so appalled that I start doubting reality again.
I finished my pussyhat on said school bus. I’m hard at work on more of them, and Maile is helping me. She also made my sign, because honestly, I couldn’t really think what to put on it–there’s just so much. How to pick just one issue?
I realize now that the issue, for me, is Maile–it all boils down to her. I donate and march and call and write and engage for her. So that she will be safe. So that she will live on a planet that still supports life. So that she will grow up to be a good human, surrounded by other good humans from different walks of life. So that she will never be impeded in any way because of her gender–or because of her sexual preference, her religion, her skin color, her nationality, or any goddamn thing that anyone might decide is something to discriminate against. And I march for every child like her.
There was a little girl marching next to me in D.C. She was a year or two older than Maile, but had her same eager desire to participate. She shouted, not shy, but confident–“Show me what democracy looks like!”
And all of us around her turned as one to face this sudden nucleus, and hollered back–“This is what democracy looks like!”
That moment was pure joy. That moment was the America I love, the one that is great, and that we are working to make greater.
*She was delighted, since she thinks her Patronus is a cat.