Marching with My Friends and Enemies
Haley Markbreiter got a ride to the Women’s March in DC
I wasn’t planning on going to the “Wombyn’s March,” but a space opened up in my friend’s mom’s van. We ate bagels, then passed out asleep.
The rest stop bathroom line extended out of the rest stop. Most people wore the pink pussy hats that had gone viral; a mom-daughter duo from the Teacher’s Union had dyed their hair hot pink. In another bathroom line, two older white “sorta Hillary fans” confessed that they had wondered “how to blow up Trump’s whole Cabinet. With a bomb.”
“That sounds pretty anarchist!” They laughed and shook their heads. They hadn’t been to any Black Lives Matter protests. Meanwhile, friends had been arrested on felony charges.
Even before the march started, everyone was already watching it on their phones, comparing pics of the growing Women’s March to memes of the slim inauguration ceremony turnout. The emphasis on numbers eclipsed the conversation on demographics: first with a backlash against the original all-white organizing group, then loud criticism of the Women’s March platform for removing (then hastily re-adding) its support of sex worker’s rights. White feminism’s refusal to recognize sex work as work was unsurprising to trans communities long exiled by TERF-y commitments to gender binaries organized around genitalia. Equally unsurprised were black women who had watched ‘fellow’ feminists support police violence, redlining, and school to prison pipelines while dismissing BLM.