Leelanau Women March on Washington

Photos by Geradine Simkins and Madeline Vedel

The January 21, 2017, Women’s March on Washington, D.C. — a day after a presidential inauguration that has shaken this nation to its core — attracted more than half a million demonstrators to the banks of the Potomac. Protests in hundreds of cities across the continent and throughout the world drew millions more (including thousands here in Traverse City), making this one of the largest organized demonstrations in U.S. history. Women (and some men) from Leelanau County and the Traverse City region filled approximately 20 buses en route to D.C. for the historic march. Writer Anne-Marie Oomen of Empire penned this report.

What I Understand by Marching in D.C.

By Anne-Marie Oomen
Sun contributor

Forty-Four hours and twenty-two minutes from the time Bus 1 TC pulled away from Leelanau Studios to the time we arrived back at the parking lot. About nine of those hours were actually spent at the march in Washington D.C. I offer here what I saw, what I felt, the “understandings” that are now seared in memory, even some thoughts I do not yet fully understand. I can speak for only myself, not for the 48 other women on my bus, but I will try to offer my experience.

Driving down through dusk and into night, I stare through high wide windows of the charter as it tears through heavy fog—southern Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania and on, and all the way we feel at speed, suspended, rolling forward over highways like some immense bird following the barely visible surface. But we are not alone. Like specters rising all around, other busses, hundreds of busses appear and disappear on the highway, tearing open the tissue of fog, driving with us, past us, behind us. We become a narrow flock.

We settle in, sleep badly, up and down, whispering, texting, back and forth, restless in the highway vibrations. I doze, then wake to see a waning moon become obscured in fog. I wake again, see down a steep slope into a dark valley dotted with pale light. Wake again, a grey dawn, our last stop, and see hundreds of women pour out of busses in a plaza suddenly too small for all of us. We stand in line wearing pink hats, invade all the bathrooms, and not a few men are startled to find themselves sharing sinks with a row of women brushing their teeth. A convenience store sets up free coffee and hands it out. I wrap my hands around the cup and bow to the women behind the counter. They give us a thumbs up. Among many of us, a feeling rises that I will call quiet determination, the feeling that I am doing my work.

Around 9, our busses pull near Independence and Third, and we can see the white dome in the distance. The site of the Capitol stirs me—as it always does. Even on a cloudy day, the majesty, the place on the hill. This is us. And then I see the streets. From every street in every direction, people arrive. The streets are filling, more every minute. Women of every age, color, nationality, and dimension—most wearing pink hats. Mothers with young daughters, babies, toddlers in slings, fathers with children on their shoulders, people with strollers, elders with walkers, wheelchairs; veterans, internationals, indigenous peoples. Boyfriends and young men. Entire families. We are all awake, mostly smiling, but again, that quiet determination feels pervasive. This is even more us.

What do I notice after the people and pink hats? Signs. Everywhere hand-held signs that are clever, defiant, reverent and irreverent, determined and beautiful. I realize signs represent the diversity of individuals coupled with the diversity of language. Niki photos the funniest ones. Electile Dysfunction? We shall over-comb? But the dominant themes are clear and telling: women’s rights (and LGBTQ, POC, immigrant, indigenous and differently-abled) equal (as a verb) human rights, and must be protected. The second motif calls for real respect, for women and all. So we carry the signs, brief but important words on poster board or our tee shirts.

The women off Bus 1 TC pick up their signs, enter the human river and almost immediately, we are separated from each other and become part of the larger throng. Using our buddy system, Niki (Nicola Conraths is my buddy for the day) and I follow the crowds, headed toward the stage. Within minutes we are closed in, hemmed on every side. We shift sideways, sliding into tiny spaces between other women, keeping our heads up. We wiggle our way. Youngsters climb the few trees and view the crowd. One young man shouts directions from the branches, but soon it’s clear, we will move in small increments—a lesson I feel in other ways. Finally we can see the side of the stage, an angle of the jumbotron. We try to move closer, but we are a mass-mass. One woman suddenly leans against my back, and I’m not sure if she’s annoyed that we have moved into her space or if she is resting. For several minutes, her back leans against my back, a kind of balance, and because I can’t move, I hold, still and firm, and decide that whatever is happening, I’ll simply wait, warmed by our body heat. After a while, she pulls away. I never see her face.

And then, voices. A chant. Glo-ri-a, Glo-ri-a. It’s not religious. The crowd is chanting for Gloria Steinem, nationally known feminist, and I think I see a glimpse of her on stage, and yes, on the slice of jumbotron. There she is. Her words are muffled but the response from the crowd is not. It’s not a conventional response cheer, nothing like what pervades sports arenas, but a wave of warm greeting, high and clear, a whoop extended to a love-cheer like none other because it consists of thousands of women’s voices. It is the first time I hear it, rising to crescendo, filling the canyon of buildings, strong as a bell. I will hear it repeatedly through the day. Each time, it confirms an impulse. It strikes me again: this is our work, to be active, vocal citizens.

We stay until the crush of bodies is too much, even for us, then wiggle our way back to a wall where Muslim women in hijab’s stand, holding beautiful Shepard Fairey posters that say, We the People Defend Dignity and We the People are Greater than Fear. The media is interested in these women, and so we sit near them as photographers and journalists approach and interview them. One of the women, from Milwaukee, says she is less afraid for being here.

We re-enter the slow amoeba of crowd. Further along a tiny raised stage where a young woman and colleagues practice “no amplification” directing. The young woman shouts the directions we need to hear, and the crowd repeats, thus extending her voice beyond the range of her voice. She shouts:Move to the left. (Not a political statement.) We respond those same words. Follow the street. The same. Slowly we get the picture. We are being directed to the street parallel to Independence Avenue. We follow. On the way, at a small amphitheater where we step out to watch the human river. A parade of “Indigenous Women of America” stream by, singing softly to their drum. Some people join their humming song. A group of veterans pass, a group of transgendered folks pass. From somewhere in the march the scent of pot rises, drifts, and fades. We stand again, enter the marchers, walking slowly. We learn later that the crowd grew so fast that the main rally was caught in place, and these side marches formed. We spot enormous cardboard puppets, a beautiful tree banner, a man with a bible shouting apocalyptic scripture. The stream of pink hats, shirts, signs moves slowly forward, sometimes chanting “This is what democracy looks like.” It is diverse, multiple, compound in ways I hadn’t imagined. I see no trouble, experience no fear, but feel a persistent quiet rightness. I lose track of time. (Later, we learned from our team mates Karen and Nora, who stood in the rally for four hours without moving, that the main march also broke from its prescribed route, entered the Mall, and peacefully crossed it.)

We continue the side march toward the rally. We hear again that women’s cheer, sometimes a distant refrain, sometimes so close it vibrates in our bodies, echoing off the concrete. By now, we are tired, but even the porta potty lines are too long (over an hour), so we stumble into a packed McDonalds, and there, the ever efficient American fast food place, we get hot coffee in less than 15 minutes. We try to find our team mates, but phone service is down, and the app for the Women’s march was overwhelmed almost from the beginning. We finally get texts through. Time to head back. We’ve been here that long? The busses, our blue chariots, are gathering near the Kennedy stadium some two miles away. We rise and move out again into the throngs of women, tired but walking steadily in the opposite direction. I realize my body has taken on the vibrations of the cry, an interior pulsation that stays with me every step as we move away from the center.

Back on the bus, we greet each other like family. We get phone service again. The first thing we learn is how big we were. Early estimates come in at half a million. We all feel we were more than that, especially those of us who moved around, who saw the extent of the packed side streets. Then we start to get reports about the sister marches. Large crowds everywhere, even abroad. How many in Traverse City? Word comes. At least a thousand, quite possibly two, maybe three. A sweet gasp goes up. There is no gloating, just satisfaction.

I start to ask the women on the bus: What stays with you, what shifted? Here are some responses from my notes:

I want to harness this moment.
We showed up. We can change things.
Being there reminded me we have a broader community.
We are galvanized for action now.
Being there made you aware of the diverse elements, a cross-section of the world.
The physical sensation of the sound. The power of that sound.
The majority of us are invested and now we know what it will take.
I don’t feel quite so devalued.
I’m here for the immigrant issue. I have a green card but…
I don’t hate; I just want that real respect I felt there.
A woman in the crowd passing her baby to other women in her circle.
I felt maybe, just maybe, history shifted a bit.
I feel that we are a force.
We were massive, now will this administration listen?
We’ve made the powerful statement. Will we be ignored anyway?
I was scared in the crowd, but then that faded, and I felt secure among women.
I’m ready. Now, will the media overcome their fear and report honestly?
The marshals on the rooftops.
I was so glad to be part of it.
The kid in the tree, calling out the crowd news.
I marched for my daughters; I felt them every step.
The police were so nice; one cop wore a pink hat on her cap.
This was my access to activism.
A little girl on her father’s shoulders holding a sign that said, “I am the future.”

When we rolled back into the parking lot in Traverse City after all those hours, what finally brought me to the tears I’d repressed? The men and families waiting for us in the lot, many with their own signs of welcome. Here they were, the fathers who had stayed home and looked after the children, the husbands who had minded the fires, the boyfriends and brothers and guy friends who just wanted us to know they supported what we did. For all the beautiful moments of connection on the bus, in the march, this one caught me by surprise — though it shouldn’t have — of course these good men would come. I wrapped my arms around David and thanked him and he thanked me.

I am grateful. In that march, I could exercise my freedom to assemble peacefully. It is a right I exercised properly and proudly but in that moment, it also felt like a gift that could be taken away. May we treasure it and protect it. But what else? When I look at this piece of writing compared to my piece from a week before the march, I feel the difference better than I can write it. I wrote that piece from a compelling need to stand up and in for people I cared about when our new leadership gives every indication of not caring, of actively repressing our rights. Mine was a reaction to real fears. That still stands but by degrees has intensified. I’ve also read the signs. Rights and respect. Action. Direction. These are old themes, some of the same marched for by suffragettes a hundred years ago, now re-invigorated and restored by new necessity. After this march, my approach feels both humbler and more determined. I feel affirmed; I hope I’ve affirmed others, but I’m also aware of the sheer smallness of me, the largeness of the march, the one still to come. I know we are still on that march, and will be for a long while. As we go, we will have to become even more multiple, inviting, and varied. We will have to encourage even richer communication with people whose opinions differ from us. We will have to be even more determined and clearer—that action, that step-taking, that call sounded in thousands of women’s voices.

We reached out Facebook to ask other Leelanau women who traveled to Washington, D.C., for their perspectives:

Denise Sica

Despite several obstacles that nearly held me back from traveling to D.C., my visceral feeling was to get there no matter what. So I decided to push through them and make it happen. I am beyond grateful to have been able to attend such an inspiring and meaningful event.

We are inundated daily through social media with issues, stories, letters to write and petitions to sign — these are all very important and social media can be a great means of communication and action. That being said, there is nothing that compares to the act of gathering massive numbers of humans together in solidarity to be seen and heard and felt by one another and the world. This is the history of democracy in action, showing up with your body and your voice.

The expression of views, the creativity in the way these views are expressed when people show up in person — is a beautiful and powerful thing! I wanted to be in Washington D.C. to direct this energy at the Minority President Elect (elected by the minority) and all the government officials who have the responsibility of representing the people of this country, and the values of our constitution. It was so very important to me to say to the rest of the world that TRUMP DOES NOT REPRESENT THE PEOPLE OF AMERICA! It is my hope that this day of marching has been a powerful statement to other nations and also to our government officials, giving those who are in agreement with ours to continue their good work because we have shown that they have the support of millions, and to those who are working against the values of equality – We are witnesses, we are watching, we are not going away.

It was a profound experience to be at the march with elderly women who have lived through the struggles of women’s rights for many decades; with Native Americans who have suffered the initial genocide of this country; with African Americans who are still fighting to be treated with dignity; with disabled people for whom the effort was greatly magnified but were so determined; with immigrants fearful of their security; and with young children whose mothers and fathers are worried for their futures. While this March was called the Women’s March on Washington, it was a march by and for all peoples who are struggling to be treated equally. There were people of all colors, ages, religions, ethnicities and gender identifications who were there to say ‘We are all humans who deserve equal rights and equal respect, to be treated with dignity and fairness’. Of course, especially women who regardless of their race, are always at a disadvantage to their male counterparts.

The peaceful and supportive nature of all people I encountered stands out in my mind. Besides those who were participating in the March, I made it a point to observe or engage with workers in the Metro, the D.C. Police Officers and even some military who were on the street. The police were non-aggressive and appeared to be mostly supportive. A beautiful African-American female P.O. was riding in her squad car wearing a pink pussy hat with a big smile on her face and a giving us a peace sign. Other officers were helpful with directions and information. I made my way through a thick crowd on Constitution Avenue to see what two U.S. Marines were doing on an elevated platform at the side of the street. They were happily assisting marchers who wanted photos taken from on high, as phones were being passed up to them one after another. This was a March with a glowing spirit of cooperation and solidarity amongst all present.

I knew this would be a huge event in Washington D.C., but I must say that I was surprised to see the numbers around the country were way beyond anyone’s expectations. The marches around this nation and the world were equally as important as the march in D.C. to the overall impact of the day. It brought me to tears to see the photos of all the cities and small towns including Traverse City which had record numbers of participants.

It was personally important and meaningful to me knowing that my two daughters were marching (one in Memphis, Tenn., and one in Lansing) as well as my mom & dad were marching in Sarasota, Fla. Three generations, all at the same time, in different places, working together.

Going forward we must contact our legislators regularly to make our views known. Anyone who is able should run for office in whatever capacity they can to become a voice and a vote. We must keep our energy as a collective group going and continue to show up in numbers for important issues. I hope to see this momentum and energy directed to our local and state issues as well. Governor Snyder should not be leading Michigan in any way after all that we know about the Flint water crisis and his apparent lack of concern and lack of accepting his responsibility for this. It’s time to shut down Line 5 before we have an environmental disaster in our Great Lakes. Stop the pumping of fresh water out of Michigan aquifers for the ecologically irresponsible act of plastic bottling and the selling of it which benefits private companies at the expense of our public resources. The list goes on…

Geradine Simkins (words written before the March)

I am leaving for the Women’s March in Washington, D.C., today in less than hours. I am so excited to be a part of this historic/herstoric movement!

Why am I going?

I am going to the Women’s March because I can, I must. I am an American and I have the right to peaceful dissent, and I feel compelled to add my voice to the millions who refuse to accept “the normalization of Trumpism.”

I am going to the Women’s March because the President-elect has proven himself to be divisive and dismissive of scores of US citizens, not a force for unity or equality. That is something I must, as an American citizen, respond to, and it is not something I feel deserves to be celebrated today.

I am going to the Women’s March because I have three adult children, two young women and one gay man. Each of them carries a burden of discrimination and inequality on their shoulders simply because they are women or gay. And yet, they are each white, middle-class, well educated, gainfully employed. They have privileges in this country that others do not have simply because of the ‘luck’ of their birthrights.

I am going to the Women’s March to stand shoulder-to-shoulder as an loyal ally with my fellow citizens — people of color, diverse classes, different faiths, with disabilities, Native people, the LGBTQIA community, immigrants—who are more marginalized and more vulnerable than my children are. They are likely to suffer more under the new administration. They deserve my support and my camaraderie and my friendship.

I am going to the Women’s March because of its provocatively broad, inclusive, bold, and progressive unity principles that include fighting for civil rights, LGBTQIA rights, worker’s rights, immigrant rights, and environmental protection.

I am going to the Women’s March because I want to build a better future not only for my family and myself but also for the whole human family. In the words of our great national leader, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.: “Our goal is to create a beloved community and this will require a qualitative change in our souls as well as a quantitative change in our lives.”

I am going to the Women’s March because women’s rights are human rights, In the words of the inimitable and inspiring Maya Angelou: “Each time a woman stands up for herself, without knowing it possibly, without claiming it, she stands up for all women.”

That’s why I am going to the Women’s March.

Annabel Skrocki

What made me really want to travel to D.C. was to support and stand for the women who fought for our rights so long ago. I also wanted to represent our small community we live in and get my voice heard because it needs to be heard more now than ever.

Before we marched there was a rally and during the rally one of the speakers brought up several of the mothers who lost their sons due to a cop taking it too far and shooting them without rationalizing the situation. They were standing on stage with Janelle Monae who had them say their sons’ names and we would chant back “say his name!”. This was so incredible and amazing to be in the presence of these strong and powerful ‘mothers of the march’ and hearing the names of their sons and knowing just how hard it might be to say their names and have that courage. It made me respect each race and culture even more. No race or culture is above another. We are all equal.

Something that surprised me was the amount of men there to support all these “nasty women”!! It was so awesome!!!

Something I plan to do next is continue the fight. Continue for my voice to be heard. Call my Congress, representatives let them know I don’t support Donald Trump and their repeals on Climate Change, LGBT rights and Planned Parenthood etc. I plan to write letters and make petitions for my fellow peers to sign against their ignorant decisions. This revolution has only begun!!!

I also marched because I will not accept this new ‘norm’ of bigotry, racism, sexism/misogyny and hate against all who are not a white straight male. As a young female who cannot vote yet I want my voice heard against Donald Trump’s policies. I have the utmost respect for the presidency but I have no respect for Donald Trump and how he plans to treat women and our brothers and sisters of different race. That is also why I marched.

Madeleine Vedel

I decided to travel to DC for the Women’s March because I was devastated by the election. I desperately needed to act, and to connect with the many who felt and feel as I do. I also have to accept my role in not urging more friends to the voting poles. I know quite a few who voted 3rd party or didn’t vote at all. I had spoken with them, but not owned my power to really get them motivated.

I’ve not done much politically before, besides reading, caring, occasionally discussing subjects of concern. I’ve reposted political statements and ideas on Facebook over and over again, signed many a petition. But does that help at all?

This time it really hit me. I’ve nearly never marched in my life, never made the effort to really get up and do something, to inconvenience myself, to push myself.

And I thought, I’m feeling this, as is my soon to be 81 year old mother in NY. How many people like me who’ve never marched will find it in themselves to be there?

So I reached out to the organizers and did what was needed to get on one of the busses. I took two days off from work – which I can scarcely afford -, left my teenage kids with a full fridge, and joined my fellow Michiganders.

I was amazed by the sheer numbers of people marching. The crowds never thinned in the seven hours we marched. Such solidarity, such passion. I loved seeing the many many different signs and posters. I loved seeing all those home-made pink Pussy hats – each one with a different skein of pink/red/magenta/salmon yarn. Some with ears, some knitted, some crocheted, some sewn, some with proper ears. Creativity and humor abounded.

There were many reasons people were there, many messages to be communicated: to defend Planned Parenthood; to stand up for a woman’s right to be respected and heard; to stand up for minorities and people of color; to protect the rights of immigrants on our soil; to protect our climate and the need for science and scientists to lead this discussion, not politicians and plutocrats; to defend our access to health insurance and affordable medical care. We need to act to salvage the values and rights we’ve enjoyed to this point and make sure our children will be able to enjoy them too. And of course, there were many signs that were simply anti-Trump or pro-Hillary.

I was delighted, surprised and pleased, by the calm, by the peacefulness, by the smiles the cops shared with us, the patience and support in their eyes and voices as they gave us directions to a metro station, or to a local restaurant. We even saw one cop in her car with a bright pink Pussy hat on. She waved to us and was totally fine with my photographing her. That’s one of my favorite portraits from the march.

What’s next? Well. I’m trying to do as Michael Moore has suggested and write or call my congressman and senators about the issues that I care about — frequently if not every day. I’ve already gotten into a bit of an email tussle with Congressman Jack Bergman about the Affordable Care Act. I was quite dismayed by his party-line response to my heartfelt plea that he reconsider his position on the ACA. So I wrote another letter hoping that maybe, just maybe, I might get him to think outside the box.

I would like to be more involved locally, join Planned Parenthood, the Sierra Club and the ACLU. I wish I had more time and wealth to spread around. But I will do what I can as I am able. I’ll certainly try to attend more Democratic Party meetings and gatherings, and connect with my friends and neighbors to help those in need.

I feel that with the current administration, many of us will be in need of assistance, but pride and fear will cause us to shrink back and hide. I’m personally terrified of the repeal of the Affordable Care Act. Last year I needed surgery on a broken shoulder, and thankfully received it and had it covered by Healthy Michigan (the extension of Medicaid supported by the ACA). But now, should I slip and fall on the ice, or step wrong and break an ankle … I don’t know what I would do. I certainly don’t earn enough to save for an emergency, nor could I pay for health insurance without the help of the ACA provided subsidies.

While I am in good health, and able, I will do my best to be there for others and urge my friends and colleagues to also reach out. I fear many of us will be going through hard times and we need to notice, consider, and be there. We can only get through this if we link hands.

Jacquelyn Kendall

The decision to go to Washington was not really a decision. I’ve been marching since 1969 in the interest of social justice but never imagined I would get the chance to participate in a demonstration that would support every demographic I am concerned about in our country and the world. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

The most powerful moment for me occurred before the rally started, as I was surrounded by the most diverse group I have ever been in and thousands more were streaming in to join us. The power, the energy, the commitment in the polite, purposeful people around me clogged my throat with an emotion I could not identify. And then I realized that this was a holy time for me, a sacred place filled with hundreds of thousands who shared beliefs similar to mine. It was humbling and empowering at the same time.

I was most surprised by how tickled I was to come upon demonstrators in non-march places going and coming — rest areas, gas stations, the packed platforms of the Metro and the more packed trains. We ARE everywhere and we are not GOING AWAY!

Ashlea Walter

Trump’s Presidency was a wake-up call for me, a call to action. I had been complacent through most of the Obama administration because I was mostly happy with the general political, social and economic trajectory of our country.

I have an insatiable desire to help our community and change things I feel I can change for the betterment of our community. I firmly believe that one person can make a difference and felt called to “show up” at the Women’s March in Washington, D.C., for people without a voice because the March wasn’t really for me. I realize that even as a woman, I come from a place of privilege — I am white and have a good education, career opportunities, supportive men and women in my life, a healthy family. I felt called to be a body and voice for others in our world who do not have a voice to stand up to the Trump administration’s ideals.

It was an incredibly empowering experience to see so many people who also made the effort to show up and defend our rights. I see the March as a beginning of a movement, not just a one day happening. I firmly believe that there is room for everyone to succeed, thrive and have a voice in society. Just because we bring others up, doesn’t mean white men, for example, get pushed down. There is room for everyone and I will continue to roll my sleeves up to make room for everyone’s voices at the table. Rise up!