I’m home now, after marching in the Los Angeles Women’s March. My pussyhat is off for the night (though I won’t wash “DEFY” off my fingers). I’m sitting with my boyfriend, looking at pictures from protests around the world, pictures from almost everyone we know who marched in cities across the country and pictures from our own day downtown. In the LA protest, an estimated 750,000 people came out and there wasn’t a single arrest. People carried signs, many of them had Princess Leia on them. They were expecting 80,000, but as my group of friends waited on the platform for the Metro, as trains too packed to get on passed by, as we walked deep into the crowd so full that it took us a half an hour to even begin the march, we marveled at what we were a part of.
As we marched, everyone was polite and smiling. We praised each other’s signs and hats. People had them hanging out of windows. We thought our street was jam-packed, until we saw a cross street, equally packed with people, and thousands more standing on the bridge behind them. The next street down was a mirror of ours. Whenever we got cell service, we’d share another picture of protests everywhere in the world, including Antarctica! We chanted. We shouted. We realized how very many of us there are. In fact, this is the largest protest in U.S. history. IN HISTORY!
There were so many men marching with us! They wore shirts saying, “This is what a feminist looks like” and held signs along with us. There were Girl Scouts, old people, babies in strollers. Hell, there were dogs in pink hats! As we started to learn the numbers, here in LA and around the globe, there was a sense of elation I can’t describe.
The night before, I spoke to people about why I was marching. I said that, even if it didn’t make a difference to Trump, I wanted kids to see this. I wanted them to know that we fought. I want my niece and nephew to know I was there. I wanted the world to know we weren’t just lying down and letting it happen. As it turns out, the world wasn’t doing that either.
It’s hard to look at the pictures without tearing up. It’s hard to even talk about them. They’re good tears. Sometimes, as I write yet another story about women’s rights or women in Hollywood, or why yet another female character gets passed up, it’s hard to know who’s listening. You can very easily feel like you’re shouting into a void. Today, the world shouted together. I’m proud to have been there. I’m proud of everyone who marched. I’m proud of those who couldn’t, but cheered the marchers on, made them pussyhats, designed their signs, sent messages of support over Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat and more. My heart is full. Don’t stop fighting. Never stop fighting.