The Women’s March on Washington

Lauren Insinger, Staff Writer

All I wanted for my 17th birthday was to be a part of a movement.

I remember when I was eight years old, Barack Obama was elected President in 2008. In 2009, he would be inaugurated the day before my 9th birthday, the greatest early present I would ever receive and the country regifted Obama’s presidency for my 13th birthday too.

This past election has made me feel excited, robbed, saddened, angered, motivated, and tired. But I think the day I felt the most robbed, the most saddened, the most angered, was this past November; when Donald Trump was elected the 45th President of the United States.

Trump would become our president the day before my 17th birthday.

I was scared by the CNN announcement and irritated by the apologies from acquaintances because I knew that I wasn’t going to take this lying down. There was no time like the present to try for change. To be a part of a movement.

I was out to lunch with my mom when I saw another reminder for the Women’s March on Washington on Instagram. I finally told her that that’s what I want for my birthday: to be with like minded people and be a part of history.

The Women’s March on Washington was an ode to the March on Washington in 1963. The sole purpose of this march was to connect the feelings from various historic events like the March on Washington, Seneca Falls for women’s right, and others.

Weeks later, we stepped onto the Greyhound bus that left the night of Trump’s inauguration. On my bus alone, there were at least 30 other people. But there was also a line of five other Greyhound buses behind us, and nine others going to Washington at the same time from South Carolina.

We left from West Ashley at 9:30 p.m., and drove through the night. We then arrived in Virginia to get on the Metro. A sea of feminists and progressive people crowded into one room with signs and chants ready starting at eight o’clock in the morning. It took just about an hour to get into a smaller room to get our Metro passes.

We finally got off the train at 11:00 a.m., walked two corners, and there was a sea of the infamous pink hats paired with signs and warm jackets to combat both the patriarchy and the 36 degree weather.

My mother and I sat on a small concrete wall to listen to Michael Moore give six steps on how to save the world and keep the women’s agenda alive by calling their representatives and running for office themselves. Being surrounded by hundred’s of thousand’s of people who chanted the same chants and believe in the same future as you was unbelievable.

Celebrities like Scarlett Johansson, Michael Moore, Zendaya, Madonna, and others were a part of this movement in different parts of the country and urged those to fight for their rights and not let this revolution die.

We marched from Independent Street to 14th to the Constitution building, and then turned left to be on the street to the Washington monument.

That’s where I almost broke down.

“This is what democracy looks like” is something everyone marching chanted, but to say it in front of such a notable monument in the capital of the free world was unreal. Every race, gender identity, sexual orientation, economic standing, every kind of person was present at the march and really enforced the fact that a people united will never be divided.

It was about three o’clock, and we made it back to the Metro, my mom squeezed my hand. I asked her why and she looked at me and said, “I’m so proud.”

No further questions. That was her two cents.

We climbed into the same long Greyhound bus and headed home. Everyone was physically exhausted, but everyone was inspired and ready to call the senators, governors, congressmen, and other officials in the morning to make them remember that yes, we are here and we will be remembered as the world goes on.