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 This is what a feminist looks like
by Chandra
It all began with a question at a Christmas party. The host asked if I was interested in going to March for Women’s Lives on Washington DC. I replied that I was, but wasn’t ready to make a commitment. I called some people, my mother, a friend, an old roommate. I was trying to find someone who would go with me. I suggested making a vacation of it, see DC, see a few museums, and check out the March.
Fast-forward four months. The March was in 2 weeks, and I still hadn’t signed up. I hadn’t found anyone to go with me. I couldn’t go by myself. That would be silly. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. It seemed like a lot of time on a bus for women’s lives. I wasn’t excited.
As I was driving home Saturday afternoon two weeks before the March, I was hypnotized by the road, my mind was wondering, and I couldn’t figure out any reasons to not go March for Women’s Lives. I didn’t have any plans that weekend, I don’t really mind sitting on a bus. I could use the time to catch up on the library books piling up next to my bed. I talked myself into it. I called and tried to sign up, and was placed on a waiting list. I learned there were seven buses from Maine and there wasn’t room for me!
Four days later, I got bumped onto the Pink Bus (it helps to be friends with the organizer and her girlfriend). I paid a small fee for bus transportation, and began to get excited about Marching on Washington. I learned it would be 11 hours each way, for a total of 22 hours sitting. The bus will leave from Portland, Maine at 8:00pm on Saturday night, and return sometime Monday morning. I had gone to DC once to present at a conference. I didn’t remember much about it, and didn’t really leave the conference center (ie no tourist sites for me.)
Five days before departure, I realize I have to go to a bridal shower in Massachusetts the morning of the trip. It meant three more hours in a car, in the opposite direction. I didn't let it get me down. I was still pumped, I was going to March on Washington, like Martin Luther King Jr. and other people trying to change the world. The day before we were going to leave, I went to Bowdoin College (breaking land speed records on the Maine Turnpike) to help with their send off. The Bowdoin contingent had made a giant uterus. I began to have an idea of what I had gotten myself into. We talked about pro-life protesters, and how to make sure we didn’t get hurt.
The day of departure I was bumped to the Yellow bus to take on the role of Bus Co-Captain. I was charged with the responsibility of making sure 47 people got there and back. I was ready, I was packed, I was apprehensive of what we would find there.
There was a rally in Portland. A state representative sang us onto the buses. We were on our way. At the various rest stops we stopped at, we saw other buses full of marchers. The excitement grew. We arrived at the Bus Bank armed with a Metro Card, some signs, and the attitude that we were going to change the world. We each made our way to the area between the Capitol building and the Washington Monument- The Mall.
The Maine Delegation had a meeting place. There were hundreds of thousands of people there; old, young, female, male, of every color, of every religion, of every sexual orientation, of every possible combination. We rallied on the Mall. We started to March. It took about 3.5-4.5 hours to March. We chanted together, as two people, as 50 people as 50,000, as 500,000. “This is what democracy looks like, This is what equality looks like, this is what feminists look like” “Hey Hey, Ho, Ho, George Bush has got to go” “My Body, My Choice”. We marched and chanted as one voice. One million one hundred fifty thousand voices against the president, against close minded politicians, against people taking choice away.
We rallied again at the end. Celebrities screamed themselves hoarse. Lawyers encouraged us to change the world. Three generations of women applauded our dedication. I fell asleep face down on the Mall, sunburned, slightly hoarse, dehydrated, and thrilled.
The ride home was quieter. I asked bus riders to share their stories, their favorite parts, and signs and posters they enjoyed. Mostly we slept through the rainy 11 hours.
We left the bus slowly, as if unprepared to face Monday morning. Riders thanked the driver, gathered their marching gear and drove away without a glance back.
I am so glad I went.
This is what democracy feels like.
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