The scene about 3:30 p.m., at the edge of the National Mall.
Inside Day One
of the Trump Resistance
Half a million strong, hear them roar in the Women's March on Washington
WASHINGTON, Jan. 21, 2017 -- We are walking slowly near
Ground Zero of the Trump years, at the low end of the National Mall directly
across First Street from the Capitol. The thick, white plastic flooring put
down to protect the grass is decorated with the rainbow of more than a dozen
wet, abandoned ponchos.
Nearby, I find a damp invitation: "The honor of your
presence is requested at the ceremonies attending the Inauguration of the
President and Vice President of the United States." It is the ticket for
entry to the "silver" section of the Mall "standing area" and
advises, "Please Arrive Early Due to Large Crowds."
It is little more than an hour past dawn on Day 2 of the new
administration, and Day 1 of the Resistance.
We had awakened before 6 a.m., to assure parking at the D.C.
Metro's suburban Greenbelt station -- the end of the Green Line -- and arrived
about 7 a.m. to find half or more of its 3,999 spots already filled. The system
had opened two hours early to accommodate the anticipated crowd for the Women's
March on Washington. We joined the flow of people passing through the entrance
and turnstiles, and were directed past filled passenger cars to the back end of
the subway train.
The mood was happy, mostly women aboard and many holding
signs for the march that was expected to draw a crowd of 200,000 -- but dwarfed
expectations. Our car reached standing room after the first stop en route to
the city. We emerged from the Navy Memorial/Archives station to a misty, gray
morning that would never see the sun.
Navigating the area on foot was no problem; no map was
necessary. We just followed the crowds homing in on the intersection of Third
Street and Independence Avenue, where
the rally was to begin at 10 a.m. with speeches and music.
We took evasive
action to skirt the crowd and found ourselves on the Mall and facing the
grandstand set up outside the Capitol for the Trump-Pence inauguration. It was
still decked out in the red, white and blue glory of flags, banners and bunting
from the rainy day before.
Rounding the Smithsonian's National Museum of the American
Indian, we reached the side of the stage set up for the rally about eight
bodies back from its perimeter fence. We were nearly two hours early, but the
mood was already being set. A woman was exhorting early arrivals to stand with
their signs next to a man wearing a giant Trump head and tell him their grievances.
Signs were everywhere to be seen -- some with low-key
expressions of defense for women's rights, family planning, immigration, love
and understanding, but others crude and pointed in their disdain and anger.
"If I Want the Government in My Vagina, I'll Fuck a
Senator," one declared. "Pussies Against Patriarchy," read
another. And there were the likes of "Peein & Putin," "Don't
think about grabbing my human rights," "Prosecute sexual assault of
the Predator-in-Chief," and "Lock Him Up."
From a table behind GiantTrumpHead, women were handing out
free "pussyhats" -- the knitted hats with little kitty ears that have
become a signature of the female opposition to the new administration. The work
of a group effort through The Pussyhat Project, each was
packed with the name of and a note from its volunteer maker.
Bonnie managed to
get a hat before they ran out, the demand far exceeding supply. (The maker, Danna
Myers Hook in Reno, Nev., included on her enclosed note a women's issue she cares about,
saying, "I want my girls to know they are not alone! We all need
community!")
But thousands of people had brought their own pussyhats and
made up a bobbing wave of varying tones of pink in the sea of people.
From our vantage point near the stage, we could barely see
the arriving dignitaries, but recognized activist-feminist writer and Ms. magazine founder Gloria Steinem as she
walked up the stage ramp, a red scarf around her neck.
We had no idea then of the magnitude of the still-arriving
crowd. But we could hear them roar -- a shout that would begin somewhere in the
mass of humanity and spread like the wave of hands across a stadium.
Unable to see the front of the stage or clearly hear the
opening speakers, we wedged our way for about 10 minutes to get through the packed
crowd behind us back toward the lower end of the Mall.
It was about 10:30 a.m. The
Mall was filling up. For most of the people, the stage show had become
irrelevant. The Women's March had become about the people themselves, and they
grew in numbers beyond comprehension.
Best-guess estimates numbered it at half a million. There
was no way to tell. By early afternoon it had filled most of the Mall's
plastic-covered center, stretching half a mile back from First Street toward
the Washington Monument, whose upper third was invisible in the low gray sky.
We walked, admiring the signs, for two hours. Some people
carried babies; a girl about 3 years old carried, with parental assistance, an
"Equality" sign. There was a dog wearing a vest bearing the message,
"Even I don't grab pussy." (Its people assured us the dog also was
not a crotch-sniffer.)
We paused for half an hour to sit on a floor, unwind and
warm up a little inside the National Gallery of Art. Many sought indoor toilets
there, since the outside facilities (including those from a company called
Don's Johns, whose name was covered up on some because of the similarity to
that of President Donald John Trump) had not been cleaned or emptied. Close to
a hundred people stood waiting. And a line at least of a tenth of a mile long
snaked through the lobby of people trying to pass through security and leave
the building.
Word spread from those following news accounts online that
the formal march had been canceled because of the enormity of the turnout, but
it was supplanted by spontaneous actions as uncountable thousands objecting to
the nation's 45th president moved slowly along the Mall and its perimeter
thoroughfares of Constitution and Independence avenues toward the giant white
obelisk memorializing the nation's first. It was a surreal scene encompassing
228 years of American history, for good or ill.
At times, the flow stopped and people, pressed pretty much
against each other, were unable to move because the crowd was so densely packed.
Eventually, we reached the end of the Mall near the Washington Monument grounds,
and tried to walk up 15th Street from Madison Drive. Ahead of us, we could see
a throng appearing just as thick for blocks ahead.
We took evasive action,
walking against the flow of yet another mass of humanity on Constitution Avenue
and then up 12th Street where we encountered another surreal scene -- outside
the Old Post Office recently reopened as the Trump International Hotel.
A security fence between the sidewalk's edge and a side
entrance had been adorned with several hundred signs left by marchers -- much
like flowers for the dead at a war memorial, but as derision rather than
tribute. For all the hostility and disdain those signs expressed, there was at
least one that stood out with remarkable humor at the end of the barrier:
"I Heard There Would be Wine."
On the front side of the hotel, marchers filled Pennsylvania
Avenue close to 20 abreast and stretching beyond sight -- many "flipping
the bird" with upraised middle finger as they passed the building. Two men
sporting souvenir Trump inauguration T-shirts bearing his picture stood outside
the fence watching the marchers, while Trump security guards and District of
Columbia police officers observed from its inside.
Grandstands that had been set up for the inaugural parade,
and shown during the televised spectacle to be less than full, were partly
taken up by wearied marchers.
The flow of people on the main routes was still mostly
toward the White House, but we never got there. We had already logged six miles
and most of nine hours on our feet. We could only hope there were more waves of
"the roar" -- so loud that the new occupants of "the people's house"
would hear them.
It was after 4 p.m., and the sun still had not graced the
day.
Only the people -- the "We" of the Constitution
Donald Trump had sworn a day earlier to protect and defend -- had graced this
day here and in cities across America, to say nothing of those who marched in
cities across the planet, in numbers both remarkable and unexpected.
It has been close to half a century in America, back to the
Vietnam War era, since so strong an expression of political dissent had been
heard.
We are awakened. And another sun has risen, from within.
Wearing a pink pussyhat and Nasty Woman shirt, a woman waves from a 10th-floor balcony overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue.
photo credits: Top photo at the edge of the mall by David M. Ettlin; all others by his wife, march companion and art director, Bonnie J. Schupp.
Some notable captions: That's me posing with Big Head Trump, and with Bonnie in her selfie modeling her pussyhat. After the march and retrieving our car in Greenbelt, we drove back into the District of Columbia to visit our friend, the Rev. Darlene Kelley, pastor of the Clinton Street United Methodist Church in Kingston, N.Y., and prized student when Bonnie taught junior high English in Baltimore around 1970. Darlene, with five women friends from her bartending days in New York City, came to D.C. for the weekend to take part in the march. Bonnie gave her the pussyhat. We have since made email contact with its maker, Danna, who said she participated in the "sister march" in Reno and that it had about 10,000 participants.
2 comments:
I loved reading your account of the day! I can imagine the energy and excitement! Thanks for contacting me!
I enjoyed your description of the "Awakening" and also the posted photos. Wish I had been there!
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