By Connie Dilley, Toronto, on attending the Women’s March in Washington, D.C.:
The first hint of how big this was going to be came in the dead of night at a service area, somewhere in Pennsylvania. The fog had been thick all night and the bus driver was ready for a stop. At four in the morning, all the restaurants and little shops were closed and the lights dim, but the place was full—full of women, lining up for a toilet, laughing, many wearing pink toques with little ears, ready for whatever was to happen. Coming from both Canada and the U.S., 8 buses were waiting to complete the trip to the Women’s March on Washington.
Several impressions endure; the numbers of people, both women and men, some children on shoulders or comfy in strollers; the posters; and the atmosphere of determination.
People were everywhere. They walked up and down every street, a great web of humanity. There were so many, yet I saw no attempt from authorities to exercise control. The orders had been, no backpacks (unless transparent), no purse larger the 8”X6”X4”, no sticks on posters. But there were no check points. As this was truly a grassroots endeavour, there were no trained volunteer security people, keeping order or giving directions, no one patrolling anything. People had a vague idea of where the stage for the rally would be and the direction of the march after the rally. I for one never saw the stage. On any single street, people would be walking in both directions, trying to find a way to get out of the gridlock (or find a port-a-potty, of which there were few), and reach the Mall, reach the Stage, get to the head of the March. The rally took hours and was transmitted through loud speakers and on giant screens. As people grew tired of listening to speeches (Angela Davis, Michael Moore, Madonna, and dozens of others) the cry went up “March, March, March,” but that looked impossible. People had overflowed the sidewalks and clogged the parade route. We finally had to exit backwards and enter the Mall at the height of the Washington Monument. Yet there was perfect calm, people watching people, united in their frustration at the election’s outcome. It was really a women’s march.
For me, the posters were the best. Aside from those supporting Planned Parenthood, they all seemed to be hand-made, graphically witty and colourful. Many were angry (“Keep your little fingers off our bodies”), offering resistance (“Not my president), or proposing optimism (“Love trumps hate”). Many addressed the pussy issue in various ways, and suggested that those who practice sexual harassment should not live in the White House. My favorite was “You’re so vain, you probably think this march is about you” because it hit so directly at Trump’s overblown consideration of himself. “Free Melania” wasn’t bad either. Some of the chants were predictable but one that got people giggling was “We need a leader/not a creepy tweeter.” Every now and then, a great roar would begin and ripple through the entire crowd until you really did hear and feel how vast the March had become, and how loud the response was to “I am woman. Hear me roar!”
Yet, for a parade or a demonstration, the atmosphere around me was uncommon: a mixture of pride in women and solidarity, and a deep anxiety about this uncontrollable, lying man who is now president of the U.S. Congratulations were not in order, at least not yet. There was fight in the mass, but uncertainty about what actions would change the trajectory of Trump. The general feeling was that this was just the beginning, and that we should be ready for a long haul. “Never give in! Never give up!”
After two nights of foggy bus rides, and 23,000 steps on Saturday under gloomy clouds and damp, chilly weather, I felt sober rather than elated. One poster caught that mood: “If you’re not worried, you’re not paying attention.”
Note from Class of 1962 Web Coordinator: This article expresses the viewpoint of one of our classmates. It does not represent any expressed opinions of officers or spokespersons of the Alumnae Association.