Photo by YinXia Ng
While studying anthropology, I once heard a story about bonobos. Bonobos are great apes related to chimpanzees but with a big difference: whereas chimpanzees are male-dominated and highly violent, bonobos are female-dominated and use sex to establish social bonds and ease tensions. In both chimps and bonobos, males are larger than females, more so than in humans. While observing a group of bonobos feeding at a fruit tree, my professor saw a high-ranking male push a low-ranking female out of the way to get some fruit. She almost fell to the ground and let out a scream. Within seconds, the other females in the group descended upon this male, basically beating the crap out of him. He crawled into the forest, presumably to die, and was never seen again. Now I'm not one for violence, but clearly bonobos have something figured out.
When I was in high school, I said I thought a black man would become president before a white woman, meaning that sexism was even more ingrained than racism. I recalled this prediction on the morning of this election, gleefully adding that I hadn't thought it would be directly before. Sadly, I had underestimated just how deep sexism runs in this country.
Gender inequality can filter into every stage of a female's life: a little girl praised solely for her cuteness, a young woman exposed to constant and inappropriate sexual attention, a mother often given a heavier parenting burden despite lack of support, or a woman berated for not having children, and finally an elderly woman frequently devalued and ignored. It manifests every time the term "babysitting" is applied to a father watching his own children, in every cleaning product commercial that shows only women, anytime a woman's value is measured by her appearance, or whenever a victim is blamed for her own assault. It also permeates the lives of males, who are often infantilized and excused from tasks as simple as clearing the table after family meals (something I make even my five-year-old son do) to more important activities such as controlling themselves sexually. Things have certainly improved over time. The feminist movement of the 60's and 70's did pave the way for women to have their own careers. But it fell short. The old expectations placed on women -- to have a perfect household, be a great cook, be a great mother, look beautiful -- still exist in addition to the new expectation that a woman should also have a successful career.
A recent Marie Claire article called Alpha Girls of Silicon Valley describes an East Coaster's experience as a woman in the tech industry. She learned that her New York style of dress (such as a dress) was frowned upon as weak, with no other purpose than attracting men. Women dressed in a more masculine style. This irritated me. While under the guise of feminism, this mentality seems to view masculinity as inherently better than femininity. I like fashion and feminine clothes. And not because I want to make myself more desirable to men, but because I think it's fun. It gives me pleasure. Just as Hugo said in a Sofia the First episode when he comes out as an ice dancer, why can't we all just do what we like?
So these issues have concerned me for a long time and when I first heard of the women's march, I thought about going. But I made no plans. Then a couple weeks ago, I was simmering from a New York Times article about rural Americans voting for Trump when I got a text from a neighborhood mom friend asking if I was going to the march. I told her I was thinking about it and she told me she had a spot in her car. I had to consider. Ben had an important work event that day, so I would need childcare. And it is a big trip to do back and forth in one day, with some potential risks involved. But I confirmed my parents as willing sitters and after watching Obama's farewell address, my hesitation turned to firm resolve. I texted my friend back that I was in. She had everything already planned, had been planning for months. They had reserved a cheap parking spot in a lot on the DC Metro line. They would drive down early, take the Metro in, and head back to home after the march.
I chose my outfit with care. Aiming to merge comfort and practicality with style, I opted for a layered, mostly black ensemble: Black tank with mesh, long-sleeved black shirt, black leggings, charcoal grey hoodie. Good attire for a ninja heist or a funeral that involved parkour. Sneakers were a must, partly for the march and also in case running was required. A light-weight but warm jacket. And the pink Pussyhat that one of my fellow marchers had made.
I enlisted Nate and Willa's help in making the sign, which read "Marching for my Children". Nate drew a masterpiece of smiling family members holding hands along the bottom, flanked by butterflies, a tree with heart leaves, and at top a smiling sun and rainbow. Willa added her signature blocks of color to the sides. Since no sticks were allowed, I found a large ribbon and Ben poked holes so that I could either wear it around my neck or carry it over my shoulder like a bag.
I carefully laid out everything the night before, including the lentil/butternut squash cookies I had made as snacks. My mom friend had provided me with a handy runner's pack which clipped around the waist and fit my id, phone, and snack (since backpacks were not allowed). I attempted to go to bed early, but had the same jitters I used to get the night before a theatre performance - that nervousness combined with excited anticipation. When my alarm went off at 3:30 am, I was up. I put on my planned outfit, grabbed my laid out belongings and walked to my friend's apartment, just as our ride was pulling up.
The car included four of us: My friend, YinXia, mom to another kindergartener at Nate's school and a toddler. Her sister, Sydney, another Astoria mom who generously provided her car and did most of the driving. And their friend Holly, maker of our wonderful Pussyhats and whom they have known since their years at Suny Purchase. I had only known YinXia since September, from the school playground. Early in the year, I attended a morning meeting for parents and found myself sitting alone until YinXia invited me to squeeze in at her table. Eventually, we met up at playdates and parties. We bonded over our outrage with the election, the reason why she invited me to fill the one spot left in the car. I had never met the other two women, but we quickly fell into coversation and I felt honored to be included in a group of such intelligent, strong ladies.
We stopped at a rest stop somewhere in Delaware. Never before have I seen one so packed! A long line of pink-hatted women waited for the bathroom, everyone with a smile on their face. At a later stop, the crowd of women was so large that the men graciously allowed women to use the their bathroom.
We parked at our appointed lot, grabbed our signs and headed into the nearby Metro, packed with people buying tickets. Like the other New Yorkers there, we found the DC Metro machines unnecessarily complicated, but got our tickets and walked down to the crowded platform. The first train that arrived was packed and we were too far back in the crowd to board the second. Then the train stayed in the station, with an announcement that all trains were being held due to traffic ahead. We waited for a while and then YinXia, a seasoned runner, suggested we walk. Her sister pulled up our route, estimated about an hour walk, and we agreed. We wanted to move and the walk was pleasant.
Photo by Holly Bishop
We saw more and more marchers as we got closer to the meeting spot. One group of women wore red maple leaf hats and held signs that said "Your Sisters from the North" while chanting "Solidarity!" A moving display. A cheer went up and we caught a glimpse of former Secretary of State John Kerry walking his dog with a smile. We assembled on a lawn along the route, crowded with other protesters. The crowd was diverse. Largely, though not all, women, all races, all ages. The signs were as varied as the people. Some were funny, with phrases like "This Pussy fights back" and "Melania, blink twice if you need help". Some were more serious, with an image of a hanger and text "Never Again" or "Dissent is Democracy". Specific issues were addressed with pride flags, "Black Lives Matter" signs and Planned Parenthood sashes. Princess Leah was in attendance with a call to join the resistance. Despite the crowded conditions, the mood was completely positive. Everyone was happy and polite. Accidental bumps were accompanied by quick apologies and smiles. People admired each others' signs. A fair number asked to take pictures of mine and my companions' signs (YinXia's read "I Walk 4 My Daughters" and her sister's read "I Walk for my Sons"). As we waited, a woman started a chant "Tell me what democracy looks like" and we responded "This is what democracy looks like". Waves of cheers rang through the crowd, though we were never quite sure why. Eventually, the crowd got more packed and ready to march.
Once we started to move, the congestion opened up. Other chants erupted through the crowd, including "Hands too small. Can't build a wall" and "Hey hey. Ho ho. Donald Trump has got to go" and (hilariously) "We want a leader, not a creepy tweeter". Along the sidelines, crowds watched and cheered. One group held up a Mexican flag and included a woman with a sign that said "I am not a rapist". Unlike during the inauguration, the bleachers were packed. We only saw a few people protesting the protest with Trump/Pence signs. They were simply ignored and no harassment on either side occurred. No animosity existed with law enforcement either. We passed a group of smiling national guard members early on. Then later saw another group, monitoring the march. Marchers, including myself, called thank you to them for their service. One female soldier made direct eye contact with me and pointed, saying, "No. Thank you." I teared up. Another emotional moment was seeing a large Obama Hope sign lined elaborately with flowers, reminiscent of a funeral procession. Standing nearby was a man with a sign that read "My Mother taught me that just because you have a dick doesn't mean you have to be one". A woman walking near me called to him, "Your mother taught you well." When we passed the Trump hotel, now in violation of its lease, boos rang out through the crowd. When we pased the Department of Treasury, I couldn't help humming some Hamilton. Later, we spontaneously broke into a verse of This Land is Your Land.
Photo by Holly Bishop Photo by Holly Bishop
At the end of the march, folks just started dispersing. We made a brief attempt to get to the National Mall, but the area was blockaded. We observed some protestors engaging in newly legalized activities nearby. We decided to end the day with a nice, big meal. And perhaps a drink. Along our quest for food, which proved the most challenging part of the day, we saw more signs. One woman held a sign that said "Muslim women rockin' the vote since 610 AD". Most restaurants were packed with famished activists. It wasn't until we finally sat down at a table in a nice spot, that I noticed my fatigue. After a good meal and good conversation, we walked to the car and drove back.
Exhaustion hit me hard the ride home. After a long ride with more good conversation, we arrived home about midnight. In bed, I found myself still high on adrenalin and couldn't sleep without looking through the many pictures friends had posted of themselves marching in various cities. As I finally drifted off to sleep, I had one thought - what next?
I hope this march has urged people into the vital action needed to make this place worthy of our children. They deserve a world which embraces all genders, all races, all religions, and all facts. Even though these rights are pretty basic, they require work. And they require working together because alone each of us is smaller than the thing we are fighting. But if some apes can do it, we can.