What I Saw at the D.C. March (And What I Must Do)

WASHINGTON, D.C. — On Friday, I took a bus from Nashville with more than 50 men and women to participate in the Women’s March on Washington. I bought my ticket shortly after the election, basically on a whim. I wanted to go on the record as being appalled. I wanted to see what it would be like. I wanted my body to be a dot among hundreds of thousands. As a Clinton voter in Tennessee, I wanted to feel like I counted.

I skipped the rally portion of the day entirely. Almost immediately upon arrival — and our bus got there early — it was clear there were going to be far more than the expected 200,000 attendees. This may sound silly, but thanks to extensive music festival experience, I know that sanity and safety can be found along the fringes, so I made my way out of the rally area to the back of the crowd.

Except there was no back of the crowd. I walked without any real sense of direction and found myself in the National Mall. While it was heartening to be around so many people who share my values — to know that I’m not crazy, and not alone — I can’t say I had a fun time. It’s bizarre and fucked up that millions of people all over the world felt the need to do this. Believe me, everyone there would rather have been somewhere else. I can only share what I witnessed around me. The crowd in Washington was mostly white, but not completely. I’d estimate that 30 to 40 percent of attendees were men. The overall vibe was polite and pink. (In a crowd of half a million, “vibe” is very important, trust me.) It was undoubtedly a Women’s March, but at the same time, there were thousands upon thousands of people advocating for and affirming the rights of others.

I saw men in yarmulkes and women in hijabs. I saw Christian clergy holding signs promising to stand with Muslims. I saw a Sikh man with his turban dyed blush pink — he was with his daughter. For the first time, I witnessed crowds of white people shouting that Black Lives Matter. There were disability advocates all over the place. Native Americans praising the water defenders. I saw signs about health care, immigration, the environment. There was a sign that said “Proud Queer Latina for Black Lives.” Signs that quoted MLK. Signs that quoted bell hooks. Signs that quoted Audre Lorde. A black lady holding a sign that said “Ain’t I a Woman?” — a question asked by Sojourner Truth in 1851. I saw exuberant teenagers EVERYWHERE.

With all due respect to the people with the signs proclaiming they “Can’t believe” they “still” have to “protest this shit,” well, I can believe it. We need to do more than protest. An all-female family from New Orleans came dressed as Joan of Arc. Joan of Arc wasn’t a protestor. She fought. She died. She was a teenager and a martyr. The French do not speak English today.

On the ride up, I was thinking of the peaceful demonstrators in Ferguson and Standing Rock, and the abuses they suffered from law enforcement who met them with water cannons and riot gear. No such thing in Washington. I saw smiling beat cops — I even participated in a boisterous cheer started by one! I witnessed a friendly woman in the National Guard telling protesters the best route to the White House. There were no arrests, no smarmy “anarchists” (bored white boys) looking to make trouble. And thank goodness, too — the crowd was so large and so dense, that one glass bottle tossed into the crowd would have ended in a stampede.

And now here I am, sitting in my comfortable home with my dog on my lap, writing this article. Good for me, I got fuzzy feelings for reaffirming that the value I learned by age 6 — be nice to people — is still a value for most of the world. So, now what? It’s not enough to feel righteous, to sit and glow with fervent goodness and hope that others will be warmed by my shining light.

I have to do better. I have to do more. I left the Women’s March on Washington not as a stronger feminist, but more acutely aware of my whiteness than ever. I felt safe there. I feel safe here. Who, in this country, is at imminent risk? Muslims, black and brown Americans, LGBT. I am none of the above. Don’t get me wrong — I am enraged by the president’s sexism and misogyny. I feel a visceral disgust, triggered in the ancient part of my brain that keeps me from touching fire or drinking poison. But my race will keep me safe from the worst of it.

I do not feel the dreaded “white guilt” (as if guilt is the worst emotion a person can face!) — I feel a transcendence. I must use my time and money, I must put my body on the line, I must put what skills I have to use. More and more, I see this is going to have to be the rest of my life. I’m putting this in print because I must hold myself accountable.

So, now what? What will my role be? I’m still trying to figure that out. I want to evolve from a voter into an activist. I want non-voters to evolve into voters. I want liberal Christians to talk to their fellow believers. I need to talk to more white people. I need to listen to more black people. I want male allies to believe women when we tell them our stories. If you disagree with every word I’ve written, I want to know: What are your grievances? We need to listen to the legitimate grievances of Trump voters (jobs, health care) while still punching Nazis in the face.

If this march proved anything to me, it’s that I am not alone. People who believe in "Love thy neighbor," and that all men are created equal — with all due respect, we must stop preaching to the choir. To keep the religious metaphor going, I feel what can only be described as evangelism. We need to get out and talk to people. We need to run for office. There’s only one president, but there’s a city hall in every town in America.

So far, I’ve given up one weekend. I will give up more. We have to do the work.

All photos by Ashley Spurgeon.