Why I took my toddler to a Women’s March
When Trump was won the US presidential election, it really threw me through a loop. I wrote this post not long after I found out the result, questioning if I would ever want to get my daughter US citizenship given what was happening to my home country. America had changed into something that I barely recognised and didn’t really want to be associated with.
It felt like a bad breakup. We had been so close once, but now it had betrayed me and I was heartbroken.
I’m still not rushing out to get my daughter that passport, but things are looking much better than they did back in November, thanks to the millions of nasty women (and men) all over the world who took to the streets yesterday to fight back.
An estimated 670 Women’s Marches took place worldwide, including around 4 million people – which is pretty insane if you consider the fact Trump isn’t even the president of a lot of those people.
They just can’t stand him. Or what she stands for.
Me, Adrian and the Popple joined a sister march in Edinburgh with over 2,000 other people who think that Trump is the worst. We gathered outside the US embassy and stood against sexism. Racism. Homophobia. Fascism. Numptyness. We stood for quite a long time until the Popple decided she’d had enough of this whole protesting thing, and then we left to go get her some lunch.
(We ended up getting Mexican food, which kind of an anti-Trump protest in itself. I didn’t realise it at the time because I was too busy stuffing my face with delicious black bean quesadillas and guacamole. Come mierda, Trump.)
A political protest isn’t really an ideal day out for a toddler. There wasn’t anything for her to play with, she couldn’t run around, and she didn’t understand why people in pink cat hats were holding signs that said things like, “This Pussy Bites Back”, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun…damental Rights” and “We Shall Overcomb.” But I’m still so glad that I took her.
The key moment for me came early in the protest. We were standing near a woman who was holding a simple white flag with a red heart painted on it.
“Heart,” the Popple said, pointing at it.
“Yes, heart,” I said. “It means love. The heart means love for everyone.”
“Heart,” she said again. “Heart. Heart. Heart.”
That’s all I really wanted her to get out of this event – that it was about love. Love for all of our American friends who got thrown into the fight of their lives and came out swinging. Love for all people, regardless of their gender, race or sexual orientation. Love for what can happen when people gather together to stand up for something that they truly believe in.
Love trumps hate. Each and every time.