I can’t march at the Women’s March tomorrow, even though I’m only an hour or so away from Washington D.C.
Not because I don’t want to. No, I desperately want to.
As a little girl, feminism meant my mom was having her Mormon Feminist Book Group over and they were going to laugh and be loud, but if I lurked in the hallway, my mom might see me and they’d have a cookie or mint brownie for me.
When I was eight, I declared that a women’s right to choose was very important to me after seeing the phrase listed on a poster about Al Gore’s campaign promises my brother made for school. My mom laughed and told me to tell that to my dad.
When I was in my early teens, my mom had talks with me about the concepts of modesty and “purity”—about how it wasn’t my responsibility to keep a boy (or even a man) from having “impure” or inappropriate thoughts about me. She protected me from unfair burdens society wanted to put on my small, preteen shoulders.
Anytime my mom took me anywhere, she’d point out women she thought were special or significant. “See, you want be like her when you grow up,” she’d tell me. Occasionally she’d throw in, “she’s gonna be rich,” with a smile.
These types of moments shaped my childhood, my teenage years and my young adulthood with memories of being taken care of, being taught by, and being mentored by strong women I respect, admire and love. I’m proud of this history. This history has taken my definition of feminism from free mint brownies to equality of genders, kindness and respect for everyone.
I would love to march tomorrow because I’m in the process of learning how to grow my activism and advocacy. I’m getting more involved in the democratic process, I’m calling my representative and senators, I’m sending e-mails, I’m signing those petitions.
I want to march because Women’s Rights are Human Rights.
I want to march because I’m learning more about feminism beyond my suburban white girl feminist context; I’m trying my best to study intersectionality with race, gender, sexuality, etc. while also learning about how feminism and disability intersect for myself. I’m doing my best but it will be a lifelong journey.
I want to march in honor of my favorite teachers who broke through the brain fog and anxieties I had with their patience and compassion. I want to march in honor of the mentors I had at every job I’ve ever held, who have helped me learn to be a better person and better employee. I want to march in honor of the doctors and nurses I have entrusted with my health with–and the study that says female physicians might save more lives.
I want to march because I have been loved, cared for and raised by strong women. (Mostly one woman. Hi, Mom. You reading this?)
I want to march because I am so passionate about protecting young girls and their futures. Interacting with teenagers in some of my volunteer work is one of my greatest joys and the young women I have met suffer through so much but still offer their time and support without a second thought.
I want to march because I want to represent disabled women, particularly those with dysautonomia. I want to march because I want to champion how important the ADA is and how critical it is for the health of our country and our people.
I want to march because I want to be a part of something bigger than myself. And also because their graphic design team is totally on point.
I’m not well enough to march on Saturday though.
My body is too symptomatic to make the trip. I can only stand up for about 15 to 20 minutes right now and can only manage walking a couple of blocks before I need to rest for a while.
My heart will be at the Women’s March in D.C. and at all of the sister marches where I have friends—and in New York City where a lovely couple is marching on my mom’s and my behalf through the #MarchingWithMe program.
My gratitude is with everyone there, showing up in numbers to make a point: that we are stronger together, that we believe that everyone deserves a healthy and happy life just because they exist. I thank those representing disability rights and health care rights from the bottom of my heart.
It means everything.
Artwork by Jennifer Maravillas, “Our Bodies, Our Minds”