An Up-Close Look At The Inauguration & Women’s March Weekend

I have only lived for eighteen years. Compared to my parents or my grandparents, eighteen years can seem like hardly anything at all. I’m young. I haven’t all that much time to witness integral moments first-hand that I know will eventually fill the pages of the same textbooks I pour over to pass exams. But this past weekend, I experienced history. And it yanked me in different directions, crumbled me up, and threw me into the reality of my country’s political, social, and cultural reality. So I sit here, with merely eighteen years of life, a flashlight, and my notebook, desperately trying to put these past three days into cohesive sentences that I can make some sense of.

 

On January 20th, I marched myself, clad in vibrant pink Planned Parenthood gear, into the inauguration of our Republican 45th President of the United States. I had a golden ticket from my current internship with my district’s Congressman and an angry, frustrated heart from the election’s divisive rhetoric, so I took both and told myself I would witness the peaceful transfer of power while making my beliefs very clear to those around me. While I knew that my indiscreet choice of outfit would most likely earn some dirty looks from the prospective crowds, I could have never prepared myself for the ammunition that was shot my way.

 

“Stupid b****, you’re about to get what’s coming to you,” along with “Your body is the government’s property, don’t you even try to fight that,” and my personal favorite, “Our people are finally getting their time after eight years of being suppressed.”

I kept my careful gaze forward on the ceremony and my mouth closed, conversing with the kind, polite family next to me that had traveled across the country to see their candidate become president. Hillary Clinton’s face on the big screen brought roaring jeers and cuss words, while our new president’s image brought joyful tears and “God bless you.”

 

Rain began the fall the very second the Inaugural Address began, an address that sounded to me like the ultimate campaign rally cry more than a presidential speech attempting to unify both sides. I walked out with my thin jacket hardly defending myself from the rain, making my way to where the protests in attempts to join people that could relate to how I was feeling.

 

I ended up walking into an apocalyptic political arena.

Protesters screamed at supporters, spitting out dark, ugly words that were then snagged by the other side and flung back. Each side called the other idiots, worthless, insulted how they looked or how their kids looked. The closed off streets were flooded with people, their prospective posters stepped on and littering the pavement with muddled red, white, and blue. I saw men in masks throw bricks and take the mad, burning anger we all had in our hearts and use it to set cars aflame. My handmade poster and I sprinted two blocks to desperately avoid the tear gas and rubber bullets being used to break up the chaos.

 

When I eventually made it hours later to the parade route, where more peaceful protesters were gathered speaking and chanting and waiting for that limousine to pass by, I found myself overwhelmed and fighting back tears. It was a divided, hateful, and ugly America, and people I identified with politically were contributing directly to that destruction. They weren’t protesting peacefully or trying to engage their “opponent” in constructive debate or even civil conversation. My America was dirty, it was ravaged, and I walked home that day feeling numb from more than just the cold.

 

The next morning at 6:00 a.m., I put my pink uniform back on and got myself to the very front lines for the rally of the Women’s March on Washington. As I waited for three hours for the speakers to begin, I spoke to women and men from all over the world who were disappointed and fearful for their families and their neighbors. Two women told me they were on those same streets protesting the Vietnam War in the 1960s, and that they were frustrated as to why they were still fighting for civil rights all these years later. It was incredible hearing from women in charge of organizations like Planned Parenthood and the NAACP, along with influential female figures from around the nation, but the real inspiration was from the sheer number of people that came together. Floods of pink hats and signs conquered the streets of D.C. with a fierce, fiery energy that pulsed throughout the Capitol all day and all night. It was absurdly beautiful. On Sunday, I was invited to attend campaign training provided by Emily’s List, a national organization that supports women running for local, state, and federal political office. The momentum of the march prevailed there as well, as I surrounded myself solely with women inspired to go home and change their communities.

 

I am exhausted, but I am empowered.

That weekend illuminated a side of society I had never witnessed before, and I believe that my generation in turn is facing an essential call to action. We must remain committed to protecting women’s reproductive rights, our natural environment, funding for the arts, and happiness for everyone regardless of their race, gender identity, socioeconomic status, sexual orientation, or religion.

 

We must stand up and run for local leadership, call our Congressmen, and initiate new legislation. And we women must remember that we are more than our bodies—we are powerful forces of nature that can potentially save this country.

 

I may only have eighteen years in my back pocket, but I’m prepared to spend whatever I have left fighting for a future I can believe in. Are you?

 

Heather Riccio

Editorial Director | Writer | Tweet me @heatherriccio