I traveled to D.C. from New York on Thursday evening Jan 19 to stay in D.C. for a few days before the Women’s March on Washington on Saturday. I drove with a friend Jessica and three sisters, in their grandfather’s Crown Victoria. Seats like a comfortable faux velvet couch, white fuzzy dice from the rear view mirror.
We spent a lot of time making signs, sashes, buttons, the works. It seems like everyone I know in New York is coming.
The day of the march, we leave the apartment where we are staying near Dupont Circle, the feeling has changed completely from the day before, where the few that were out were mourning inaugural zombies the day before. On the streets, people are streaming out of their apartments, towards the trains, towards the march. The metro workers tell us the trains are full, we will have to walk, it will only take thirty minutes. We’re two miles away from the march, but the streets are already packed with people.
We stream closer and closer, the crowds are growing. We are all trying to get to the rally spot, but there are so many people, it would unbelievable if we did. We are essentially already marching, thousands of women towards the official march. A jovial atmosphere persists in the crowd. It takes hours, but we reach the march that is in progress. There are women as far as the eye can see.
What is incredible about this march are the sheer numbers of course, but also who is here. The most common sight is to see whole families of women, grandmother, granddaughter, mother, aunt, sister. There are husbands and boyfriends and brothers. There is no defining age or race of the march. People are here who would never ordinarily march.
There is a calm and persistent feeling. A march is not a parade, it is a demand. It is a pilgrimage. We feel anger, of course or we would not show up, but we are also simply a presence. You can ignore us in the boardroom, but you’ll see us in the streets.
Photos by Julia Fredenburg