Plus this

Last post for the week on the Women’s March on Washington—a seminal experience for me, and probably for most of the people who participated in this and sister marches around the world on Saturday.

So let’s finish up with another selection of the mostly hand-made signs.

First off, you’ll recall the official signs that went up in The Red Zone warning about parking on the occasion of the inauguration of the Kleptocrat. You may also be aware of the fact that prior to the event workers had scrambled around the area putting masking tape over the name on portable toilets supplied by Don’s Johns. They said it was because of a ban on “advertising” on Capitol grounds, but there didn’t seem to be a problem with the name on the latrines supplied by other vendors.

Anyhow, I was tickled to find this juxtaposition along the route my march took:

  

Here was a different kind of power tool:

There were variants on this sentiment about the patriarchy:

And the “I’m with her” proclamation:

As for the girls, well, they just wanna…

Given the administration’s attempts this week to crush scientific inquiry and sharing of research, I’m glad  that there was more than one sign with this aspiration:

I kind of liked this woman on the National Mall, taking a bit of a break—Lord knows it was exhausting, if exhilarating.

And on the way home on Metro, I quite admired this young woman’s style in tights:

Finally—whatever happens in the coming weeks and months, I believe that this sign pretty much encompasses everything:

This also

I mentioned that there was widespread tsk-tsking and clutching of pearls on social media from those opposed to the notion of women actually going out in public and protesting the kakistocracy that has slithered into national office. It seems that marchers on Saturday carried signs sporting concepts and words that should be reserved to the sole use of the Kleptocrat and his cronies.

So let’s take a look at some of them.

Like this piece of advice:

Or this statement of fact:

There was also this triad of women, banners and, you know, those…hats:

And once you got over that use of Anglo-Saxon language, there were statements about, gasp, body parts down there, that nice girls just don’t…

Now, this one would have caused offence among the smelling-salts crowd by using the dreaded “F” word—feminist. If they know that “AF” doesn’t stand for Air Force, it’ll send them over the cliff:

And I’m ending with this weary announcement:

Because hell.

And this, too

Writing about the guy at NKDPizza reminded me of the many men who showed up to march on Saturday. Yes—the event was styled the Women’s March on Washington, and the preponderance of those present appeared to have the XX chromosome configuration.

But there were many, many males there of their own volition, ranging from teens like this one:

To guys getting on in years:

And not just your metrosexuals, either (which is what the Alt-Reich has been assuring itself was the case, alongside their claim that only lesbians showed up at any of these marches, which were over-reported anyhow, if not altogether made up by the lying media…).

Basically—the men who showed up were the ones who are not afraid of smart, loud, confident and funny women.

I noticed it beginning with the Metro ride in from Bridge and Tunnel Land. Couple of guys in the car wearing those caps with Gulf War Veteran logos. They were not out for a trip to the Smithsonian; they’d come to defend their country once more.

Here’s another one—stating the blindingly obvious on the one hand, but on the other…the guy was just bloody magnificent.

And a lot of fathers there—grandfathers, too—including this absolutely enchanting pair:

The little girl seemed a little droopy when I first noticed her, but her dad was not flagging. You can’t see it from these shots, but her pink skirt has Superman symbols in the pleats. I wanted to kiss them both—she’s the future of us all, and he’s there to see her on her way.

A little bit later on, this fellow was rocking out to some mariachi music on his boombox—he’s got skin in this game, as well.

So—the XY chromosome set was well represented on Saturday. Because—as we who marched know (even if they who sat on their sofas don’t):

And this...

Let’s have a few more photos from Saturday’s Women’s March on Washington. Because some of these signs—and all of these men and women—are just da bomb.

Once more—the scene on Seventh Street:

Some of the observers around the National Archives:

(Focus in on that sign in the center.)

Representatives of Alexandria, Virginia:

One of the many shout-outs to the Ladies of SCOTUS:

And a lady of a different sort:

And a few more:

Sunday, on my way back from an appointment I stopped off at NKD Pizza in Arlington to get lunch/dinner (pizza goes a long way in my house). I was trawling through SoMe accounts of the march and didn’t hear when the pizza-maker with a possibly Israeli accent called me (I was one of three people in the place). When I finally woke up and took the box, he asked me if I’d been at the march.

I don’t think he could have seen what I was looking at on my 5” smartphone screen, so maybe it was the Women in Military Service Memorial shirt I was wearing. Or possibly it was just a shot in the dark. But I said I had indeed marched. So had he.

“People think it was only for women,” he said. “But I marched, too.”

“Good for you. Women’s rights are everyone’s rights,” I replied. I did not add, “Power to the people.” But I may begin to add that to my conversations.

Because that is what this is about: who's going to hold the power in this form of government.

Gratitude Monday: This is what democracy looks like

This Monday I’m thinking that my gratitude will be filling the entire week, because I spent Saturday in downtown DC at the #WomensMarchonWashington, and I have way too many pix that remind me of how proud and grateful I am to have been one of the half a million there to serve up in a single post.

So—yes, I joined 499,999 men, women and children of every visible color, structural makeup, most economic brackets, white-collar/blue-collar/no-collar employment status, probably most belief systems, a range of physical capabilities, and all ages, marching in our nation’s capital to register our intent to resist the clearly stated plans of the Kleptocrat and his kakistocracy to give away our national and natural resources to their corporate cronies, to dismantle all social supports for the most vulnerable among us, to let loose the dogs of corruption and to turn back the clock to a time when white males ruled freely, and women and non-whites hopped to when commanded.

I did not choose this lightly, because I don’t do well in crowds and I’m not especially brave. But the closer it came to the day, the more I thought to myself, “Self—you walk for MS. You have to march for the world. When they train those satellites on Independence Avenue, they need to find your head there.” I have friends who could not be there; I needed to represent them—to literally stand up for them because they cannot.

In fact, when I considered what I might be facing, I recalled one of the hand-made signs at a Walk MS in the Valley They Call Silicon, and I screwed my courage to the sticking place.

So I tied on my walking shoes, stuffed my ID and some money (in case of bail) in my pocket and headed out.

And I am deeply thankful that I did, that I was a part of this splendid crowd, this amazing day.

From the parking lot at Pentagon City’s Fashion Centre, it started: two young women with pussy hats weren’t clear on where the Metro station was. I showed them the way. And we joined scores of pink-clad people carrying clear backpacks and signs, in the atmosphere of folks attending a music festival.

(A friend of mine described the Reston station as looking like Lilith Fair.)

We piled onto Metro cars that were already chockers—and those SRO trains kept coming basically throughout the day. But no one shoved or bitched, not even when we sat parked for some minutes outside of L’Enfant Plaza (Ground Zero for the opening rally) before the driver announced that they’d closed that station and Archives due to too many people crowding the platform, unable to get out because of crowds outside.

So we got out at Gallery Place and just started marching.

Here’s what it looked like on Seventh Street:

I was getting oriented when a rolling roar completely filled the street. And here’s what caused it:

Yes, I forgot to mention in the second graf: there were also a few dogs in the March. And a former Secretary of State.

The atmosphere was militant and yet playful. There was some street theatre, and signs with rude words (which were the focus of many Kleptocrat supporters who commented on social media), and thousands and thousands of pussy hats. (Also the cause of much pearl clutching—because exposing the children to those hats! Horrors! Ignoring completely who brought the language and image into our national idiom in the first place.)

In fact, pink was a theme—pink hats, pink capes, pink jackets, pink shoes.

There’s been some discussion that the multiple messages carried through the streets of DC (and cities and towns in every state and in countries on every continent, including Antarctica) muddled the message. Not to my way of thinking. Yeah, there were signs for Black Lives Matter, for saving the planet, for immigrants, for education—but the March was never solely about reproductive rights. That was a huge part of it, yes. But women have concerns about all those other issues and more. And as we stated again and again: women’s rights are human rights.

I have to say, this was the most polite and considerate crowd I’ve ever been in (including Easter Mass). Genuine concern for everyone, starting with the Metro ride. Yep—room for more, come on in. Bump into someone, apologies all around. I needed help trying to get across Tenth and over a chain along the curb. Many hands to steady me, and people pausing until I made it.

I’ve heard reports from others, too, about clusters of people stopping to lend first aid to those suffering medical issues, calling the EMTs and directing the flow of marchers around until the ambulances came. 

A US Park Service Police mounted patrol came to the head of my march (listen—there were so many tens of thousands of people more than expected, that rivers of protest flowed on multiple streets and flooded the National Mall; for all I know there were a dozen different "marches" on Saturday) and gave us word on which way we should go to be safe because of crowds already building up.

People walking past them thanked them again and again.

(Also—this addition was made to one of the Park Service vehicles. I’m telling you—it was a droll crowd.)

They also thanked DC cops (who were not in riot gear, and who made no arrests. At all. All day long) for being there. Ditto thanking Metro Police, who at 1530 were still having to regulate the crowds flowing in and out of Metro stations.

It was like we were all channeling our grandmothers. Many of whom were there.

There were chants, most in the higher vocal range representing the preponderance of women:

This is what democracy looks like.

And a call-and-response between men and women that played off the different registers:

Men: When they go low

Women: We go high

There was power in all of them. (Including the one that went: Tiny hands, tiny feet; all he does is tweet, tweet, tweet.)

On my journey home, walking through the Fashion Centre mall, I noticed an addition had been made to the advertisement for the “inaugural store” (actually a kiosk in the food court).

Yes, I’m glad I didn’t let my pettiness keep me away from one of the great events of this decade. And I’m honored and grateful that I walked for hours and miles, for women's rights, for human rights.