Speaking up, marching out

The metal floor beneath me disappeared, shrouded by the coats and bags of my fellow passengers. My feet fought against the hard stops and jerks to avoid slipping and stepping onto someone else’s feet. I never had issues with personal space, but by the end of the metro ride towards the National Mall, I was more than ready to be free from the packed subway car. After we exited the station, my boyfriend, his mother, their family friend and I headed south toward the National Mall. There were so many people headed in the same direction. It felt like being part of one of those giant wildebeest migrations I’d seen in documentaries.

The people around us varied so much in appearance. People of all ages, ethnicities and walks of life. Women dressed in nice clothes, who looked like they might have stepped out of the office for quick coffee, held signs among hippies with flowers in their dreadlocked hair. The variation in people made me instantly feel comfortable because it truly felt like anyone belonged.

The further we walked, the more people we encountered and the harder it became to weave between them. Eventually, we got stuck in the middle of the crowd. Mobility was very limited. People took turns scaling the nearby pedestrian crossing light and taking photos of the masses around them. Amidst so many people, I felt a seesaw of emotion between anxious and excited.

I was two days too young to vote in the actual election, but at the March I was finally able to voice my opinion and show support for my beliefs. I felt proud being there. Seeing the numbers that turned up made me feel like there was a fight still worth fighting.