The future is still female.

I was never much of a protester. Or at least I never used to be. I was ignorant and lazy. I didn’t understand how standing around for hours was the most effective way to create change. Surely if all those people donated the monetary equivalent of all that time we’d get further? I thought.

As the Women’s March on Washington approached, the idea that I wasn’t going to participate in the single largest feminist act of my lifetime because, I’m not even sure, I didn’t like crowds or something (really I hate them, but who doesn’t?), made me want to punch myself in the face. If I didn’t go to this, who even was I?

Then their platform came out. A comprehensive, boldly intersectional set of demands that I wanted to wallpaper my entire apartment with. I often think the feminist movement can get in it’s own way, trying to be everything to everyone, as women are wont to do. But the platform of the march was firm. It was not for all women. Gender Justice is Racial Justice is Economic Justice, it read before jumping into police brutality, incarceration, and, of course, the right to chose.

There were pink pussy hats for miles. Everywhere you turned were smart, funny, or just plain practical signs directing us to moral order. The moment I rose above ground from the escalator of the cramped metro station, I saw a girl, no more than five (still young enough to believe a girl can be a genius), with a sign that read “This year I march. In 12 years I vote. In 30 years I run.”

That’s when the tears came.

And they didn’t really stop for like five hours.

We all have our march stories, I won’t bore you with mine. But on the ride home the next day, we stopped at a gas station, hours outside of D.C., and almost every person there--mostly women--were sporting some visual display of patriarchal resistance. We nodded to one another with large, knowing smiles and complimented whatever clever message was screen-printed on our t-shirts and hoodies as we floated from the pump to the checkout line, like the elusive “male gaze” had gone to bed, and it was just us. If the march was a one-time, dream-like state, this cloudy afternoon was a glimpse into normal life--pumping gas, buying gum-- if only women felt safe enough to live unsilenced.

If only we were always this visible.

The women’s march wasn’t perfect, far from it, but the leaders acknowledged it’s flaws and worked harder. After all, we have to start somewhere. The largest protest in U.S. history was inclusive, it was compassionate, and it was peaceful. It was female.

I’m not going to cloud this email with links of all the atrocities going on right now, the attack on our democracy, although it’s all I read. Instead here are some actions you can take once a day. OK, a few more, and representatives to know and call (put them in your phone!). On a brighter note (ish) I loved this piece by one of my favorite critics on the broader cultural context of Hillary’s defeat. Speaking of Hillary, her march was the hardest, and my heart is still with her. Sadly, this is not an alternative fact (these are). I just finished a great female-led show that should’ve gotten more credit. Also, delete uber, probably Lyft, too. And as always, laughter and head nods from the Reductress.

If there’s one thought that keeps me going, it’s that the future is female. It has to be.

x

Emily