Jan. 21st, 2017

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I flew yesterday to get to the DC march, but couldn't get a direct flight from Boston, so connected in Rochester, with a long layover. I was waiting at the gate as people trickled in, and I gradually became aware that I was being surrounded by women. And while most were not wearing pussyhats, there was this...energy. At the Rochester airport, the day before the march. As we boarded, I counted 5 men and 40 women on our flight. When we deplaned, we were greeted by a contingent of pussyhatters cheering and welcoming us to the women's march. On the day of the inauguration, remember. When I trained down to my host's house in Springfield, VA, I encountered a lot more reminders of the inauguration, mostly in the form of Trump hats. And yet, none of the Trump people looked happy. Disgruntled, actually. Maybe because it rained on the inauguration, but maybe also because we rained on their parade.

There was no such rain on our parade. We left the house at 8:30 in Springfield and were in line before 9 at the train station to get to DC. We gave up and Ubered at about 10, having then possibly advanced halfway. And yet, even the line felt like a party. Women - and yes, a nice number of men - were hugging, cheering, chanting, adoring each others' signage, and basically thrilled to be there. The party was hugely amplified in DC itself, where it was clear from everything from the overflowing Portajohns to the complete inability of the march to confine itself to the march route that the numbers anticipated by the organizers were...just a hair off. Like, a few hundred thousand shy.

And that was pretty much all that was shy about the event. It was a screamfest and a joyfest, brilliant, hilarious, exhausting and overwhelming. Whether or not it actually breaks records for turnout size, I think it will be known as historic.


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September 2017


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