I know a lot of y’all are tired of hearing about the Women’s March. And that’s fine, but since I had the privilege of getting to be a part of it, I will take up an entire post to talk about it – and Dad, since I’m the political black sheep of the family, you probably want to skip this post.
The march, for me, was not protesting Trump. I have accepted that for what it is and have moved on. In the spirit of being an American, I hope he does well, and does well for this country, because well, I fucking live here. But that is by no means an endorsement — I still think he sucks. I marched for equal pay – women still only making 80% of what their male counterparts make. I marched for women who have been abused, violated, threatened, taken advantage of. I marched for every woman who needs Planned Parenthood for their healthcare. I marched for every good man who believes women are their equal. I marched for myself, for my girlfriends, and for every woman who couldn’t.
The march for me was incredibly emotional – and it wasn’t even something I expected from myself. I teared up more than once seeing this giant movement (over 60,000 was the estimate for the Atlanta march) of women come together. I really have never thought of myself as a protester, but I guess when it is something you believe strongly in, you change your tune. We saw women of every age, men of every age, children — it was just amazing. And thankful that I live in America where something like this wouldn’t get me thrown in jail. These protests were peaceful – many of the signs expressing love for all. I’m not going to spew on about it – I am very much in the minority here in my state of Alabama (even though they represented with a few thousand of their own here in Birmingham), but I am so very grateful that I had my own place in this giant spot in history. Our voices will be heard.