Yesterday I became part of the Women's March in Boston.
Like most days, yesterday had its trials, the first one being actually getting to the march. I left from the suburbs, taking public transportation as advised. Apparently the MBTA, the Boston area transit system, had expected 50,000 marchers. Wow! Were they in epic fail. I was leaving early (I thought) but hundreds of people were stood in line for the train. Which was coming. I ran across the tracks and jumped on the last car, already jammed from the first stop! No one else could get on all the way into the city. And I would have to stand, along with many others.
I felt so bad for those we were leaving behind, because the prospect of boarding later trains looked grim. On my train, we were a friendly bunch and I loved looking at all the pink hats and the protest signs. After twenty-five minutes my hand clutching the overhead bar began cramping up soon to be replaced by a worse problem. At Kenmore Square, still some distance from the march, the train was "taken out of service." An experienced Boston-area MBTA traveler learns to expect this, but not today, oh please, not today.
Today. We all scrambled off the train and I followed the huge crowd out of the station onto the street. From Red Sox games, at least I knew where I was, but still I followed the crowd.
How would my bum knee and bad back get me through this unexpected second march? Looking up, on my left stood a huge sign: BOSTON STRONG! So right away, pain be damned, I knew I could do this.
Now we refugees from the subway had our own march, on this warm, cloudy day with no wind, all the way down Commonwealth Avenue through Back Bay, seven double-long blocks (like fourteen) and that was only part of the hike.
Now I would miss my friend whom I was supposed to meet up with a half hour earlier. While I trudged along, by myself but not alone, for this was the pre-march march, I thought back to my first ever event like this. 1969. On the morning of a huge Vietnam War protest in Chicago, I put on a good outfit, dressed my three year old son accordingly, and boarded a commuter train for downtown. At the Civic Center in front of the new untitled Picasso statue, a huge crowd had massed. We chanted, "Peace Now!" and "Hell, no, we won't go!" Nothing I had to worry about being female and a mother.
A young man heaved my son on his shoulders so he could see. We listened to the speeches and cheered. Then some of the cast from Hair sang "Good Morning, Sunshine!" We had tickets to Hair and this was beyond thrilling to leave my staid suburban neighborhood and be part of this event.
My first venture into marching for a cause was again, downtown Chicago, maybe ten years later, this time for the Equal Rights Amendment. Summer. A hot sunny day. I was with my friend Elaine, and all the women marching wore white. Again, big crowd. Very proud to be a part of this, although it failed, like the war protest.
|ERA March, Betty Frieden|
In every failure is the germ of a later success.
So here I was decades later, a grandmother, not a young mom, trekking through Boston's Back Bay to meet up with 50,000 other like minded individuals.
Nearing the Public Garden, four brawny Boston cops marched down Commonwealth, shoulders touching, like maybe this peaceful crowd might attack them. I flashed the peace sign, and the African American cop nodded and grinned. The white guys didn't. Some young girls in the crowd had flowers to hand out. The past came barrelling back. Shades of the summer of love!
|Summer of Love|
When I reached Boston Common, where cattle used to graze, people filled the area, overflowing everywhere, and just like on the train, there was not enough room. In case anyone had ideas about driving a truck into this crowd, big trucks and snowplows blocked all the entrances. I stood across the street at the entrance to the Public Garden, and I could hear the speakers over the mikes set up. I saw the American flag and the viewing stands and an ocean of people: women, men, kids, dogs. People of all creeds and races, intent of making a statement that everyone should have equal rights and not face discrimination or harassment because of who they are: female, minority, immigrant, disabled, lesbian, gay, bisexual or trans. I saw them all and I read the signs, many of which were clever puns, and they covered the spectrum of what was on out minds from the ACA to free speech, a free press, and keeping government out of women's bodies. And much more.
|Boston Women's March|
A few times I was moved to near tears, just thinking about all of us here and the people in Washington and Los Angeles. I had no idea that Chicago and Austin drew such huge crowds along with Paris, Singapore, Amsterdam and Park City, Utah and other cities one did not imagine. Millions of people, all in solidarity, all with one goal: to send a message to the man in the white house and all of congress that our concerns were real, that we must be heard.
The speeches ended. My back and my knees had tolerated being on my feet for over two hours, but my hip had not liked standing. Pain! I hobbled through a few blocks of the march, and the signs were so cool and the kids didn't cry, and the dogs didn't bark and I heard that with that many people, there was not a single arrest!
The march (it seemed more of a shuffle in the early stages) turned into Arlington Street. Still hobbling, I passed a church and the bells pealed "We Shall Overcome," and "Amazing Grace." More tearing up.
I peeled off into the Arlington Street MBTA station. OMG! Just like this morning! Trains arrived, already too packed for anyone to board. Even with extra cars. Did I mention there was NO WIFI at the speeches. I think so many cell phone sucked it all up. But underground, there was wifi, and I texted my husband to pick me up at the only stop where there was room on the trains: Heath Street, not on our normal routes. He finally arrived at the stop, and found me waiting at the bus stop at the VA hospital.
I hope those naysayers, those not inclined to interest themselves in the rights of others,when they observed us, peaceful and sincere and not out to bust anyone's chops, reflected on what all this was about and the strength of our numbers, numbers multiplied in cities across the world.
Women who manage jobs, families, housework, volunteer work, and endless complexities, are a force to be reckoned with when they come together in solidarity. And we are on the move. Don't let the pink hats and signs with cute puns fool you. Sisterhood is powerful.