Three Weeks Later

     Believe it or not, it's been only a little over three weeks since January 21, the day of The Women's March, when millions of women, men and children around the planet peacefully demonstrated in support of human rights and in protest of the violation of these rights inherent in newly-inaugurated President Donald Trump's political agenda.
         But, as the world has learned over these past three weeks, The March turned out to be more than a march;  in fact it was the beginning in our country of a movement  that sprung from the hope, empowerment and renewed sense of patriotism that was born on that day in January and, for those of us who were part of The March either in body or in a spirit of solidarity, has grown only stronger since.
          Today I have a guest blogger,

...my friend and fellow patriot Basia,

...who I asked to share some reflections on her experience of being among the Washington, DC marchers three weeks ago. 
      
                            Three Weeks Later: Reflections on the Women’s March in DC  
                                                                     By Basia Nowak
      The last few months have been a time of many firsts for me. I am forty-seven, and for the first time ever, I campaigned for a political candidate (I made phone calls and canvassed for Hillary Clinton, mind you, just a few times, but I did it—I came out of my comfort zone). For the first time, I made calls to my senators in December once Trump named Stephen Bannon as his advisor (and I have made many calls since Trump’s inauguration). And for the first time, I marched in a protest, demonstration, whatever you want to call it, and I did it at the Women’s March in DC on January 21.
     I was a bit nervous about attending the march. I did not know what to expect. What if Trump’s supporters were out in droves the day after his inauguration, heckling us, throwing stuff at us? What if the people around me got crazy and did the same? What if the police got too aggressive? Well, it turned out to be a peaceful, energizing, and life-altering event for me. (The police actually were high-fiving us and taking selfies with marchers, and we in turn were thanking them for doing a great job. We didn’t see any Trump supporters along the route.)
     A dear friend of mine from Columbus and I traveled to DC and stayed with my sister in Kensington, MD, just north of the outerbelt. I knew the day was off to a great start when as we were walking to a bus stop, one of my sister’s neighbors ran out of her house when she saw us and asked: “what shoes are you wearing?” It’s a neighbor that my sister has never really spoken to, but we were all in this together. She knew exactly where we were heading. The bus ride to the metro was uneventful, but the metro ride was amazing. Even though we were toward the end of the line, the car was already crowded and got even more and more crowded. Eventually, no additional riders were allowed on. 

     My first order of business was to meet up with alumnae from Whim ‘n’ Rhythm, a Yale University senior a cappella singing group, of which I was a member in the class of 1992. Representing women from classes between 1981 and 2017, we sang our traditional closing song, “The Hammond Song,” on the steps of the National Archives.
      For anyone who's interested, here's the link to the Youtube video: https://youtu.be/O1Jk6iGBpxc

     It was an amazing way to start the day.

I marched with great friends (including two from Whim ‘n’ Rhythm) and my sister.

 My neighbor knitted the pussy cat hat that I wore.

     She brought it over the night before I departed. I had no idea that she knew I was even going to the march, and we never really even talked about politics. It was a wonderful surprise! (I met a family from St. Louis at the march, a Whim alum and her daughter and husband—the husband knitted the hats for them!)

I was teary-eyed when I saw the crowds of people.

     It was truly an incredible feeling to be among so many people who cared about the direction of our country and women’s rights. We were supposed to march on only one street, but we ended up marching on three or four parallel streets because of the number of people who showed up for this historic event.
     I was not sure if I should bring a sign. I’m not that creative. All I could think of was “My Body, My Choice” or “I Stand with Planned Parenthood,” since this is one of the main issues for which I was marching (others were marching for a lot of different issues).  I chose to be boring and not make a sign, and I was glad I didn’t. My hands were free to take lots of pictures instead. There were a lot of signs about women’s rights, Trump’s ties to Putin and Russia, immigrant rights, climate issues, and so much more.

     This one was my favorite, as I have two sons, ages twelve and fifteen. We try to teach them daily to be good people and not to bully others.

     There were also lots of great chants as we marched, including “Tell Me What Democracy Looks Like—This Is What Democracy Looks Like,” “No Hatred, No Fear, Immigrants Are Welcome Here,” “My Body, My Choice (with men saying, “Her Body, Her Choice”), and “We Need a Leader, Not a Creepy Tweeter.”

       Some drummers helped us along the way.

     So, as I look back on this momentous day, I think about what it all means in the end. It was not just a moment as some feared. It is movement. The millions of women, men, and children (there were a few children in DC) who marched around the world (on all seven continents) have shown us that we are not alone in our concerns, that we can make a difference. We can come out and protest in public for all sorts of issues (I went to my first local protest this past Tuesday); we can protest in private by making calls and sending emails, postcards, and letters; and we can also protest by talking to people and making sure that our voices are heard. There is hope! We are stronger together.