Photo by Hija de tu Madre
Last year, I joined thousands of activists, new and old, at the Women’s March in San Diego. I even served as one of the lead organizers of the event, leading the PR team and helping to make decisions as part of the executive team. I fully bought into the movement we were creating that day, raising a fist and yelling out a call to action in hopes it might instill a sense of fear into our oppressors and light a fire within those ready to fight.
It felt invigorating. Even so, there were moments of frustration when people’s idea of equality fell short.
I marched again this year, though this time I did so in Downtown Los Angeles with a fresh set of thousands. This time I wasn’t involved in any planning, but shot a few photos for work. I didn’t even make a sign.
While I expected this year to be different, in both turnout and feel, what I didn’t expect was the thread of disillusionment running through me. There, among the faded pussy hats and punny protest signs, I felt like I was in church. I didn’t really care to be there but mainly because of something my mom, a semi-devout Catholic, has told me for years.
She says church doesn’t matter. What matters is faith. A person doesn’t need church to pray or believe in God. Church is just stacks of bricks and excessive use of gold trimming (my words, not hers, but same idea). Faith and resilience is something you carry with you, and God listens regardless of whether a person is speaking to him in his house or, in her case, the clearance section of Chico’s in the Fashion Valley Mall.
And while I didn’t buy into Catholicism, I’ve carried this with me in my ways. And I carried it with me at the march.
Over the last year, we’ve seen countless think-pieces discussing the #MeToo movement and subsequent #TimesUp initiative. Both of these movements have been incredibly powerful and important in raising the voices of women who’ve experienced harassment and assault, and who have had enough of being degraded and denigrated for all manner of reasons.
And yes, the Women’s March has been inspiring and empowering in many ways. Witnessing the resistance in action, and seeing that many women and their allies stand up for themselves is both remarkable and beautiful. It was one of many catalysts that set the wheels in motion for other movements to flourish. And I’m still proud to have played my part in building that wall of resistance, and in no way judge those who do take part.
But solidarity is just not something I can buy into, just as I can’t with Catholicism, because too often it’s used by cis white women to silence and relegate women of color, trans women and other marginalized people in the quest for their rights. I’ve been there, standing in front of someone looking to inspire and empower myself and others. They will passionately preach on the need to support women and listen to them, but then turn around and shut a woman down for daring to confront them about their internalized misogyny, racism and homophobia.
I’ve been on the receiving end of plenty of liberal women having no issue throwing me into the flames because I’ve questioned them. I’ve been accused of being divisive because I asked for inclusivity, and told I was not showing true solidarity because I didn’t smile and agree with everything a woman said. And before readers need to ask, yes, I do mean white women, but that’s not to say it doesn’t happen with non-white women as well.
And I’m far from the only one. Just a day after the march I saw at least a dozen posts from women of color bringing up these very real concerns, and their comments section and mentions getting lit up by offended white women and others. Among them was a Latinx woman, Patty Delgado, who posted an image of herself holding a sign that read “Hey White Girls You Are Also Part of the Problem.” That photo was screenshot and reposted by actor Michael Rapaport, who talked shit about her, then slid into her DMs to apologize. When she did not accept his apology, he told her to “eat dix.” Whiteness remains as fragile as ever.
When the idea of solidarity is weaponized in order to deny the place of transgender women in the movement, or to silence the necessary discussions of race and racism and to shame women holding discussions on consent and rape culture, I just can’t.
Frankly, there are just some women I don’t fuck with, even if I still want them to have all the rights and protections they should be entitled to as human beings. And I truly believe that’s OK. You don’t have to love all women to fight for them.
It’s likely the 53 percent of white women who voted for Trump weren’t at the march, nor the 40 percent of Latinos that believe he’s looking out for their best interest. It’s also unlikely that the 63 percent of white women who voted for a child molester in the Alabama Senate race were there either. But there were still plenty within the march that still work overtime to remind people that their fight is not as important as their fight. I know this because I deal with these women on a daily basis, either directly via infuriatingly face-palming conversations or indirectly via their social media posts or New York Times think-pieces. They’re out there, and I don’t fuck with them.
Even though I haven’t given up on the movement (and never will), and will continue to do my part to talk to those well-intentioned women missing the mark, I think I’m done marching at the Women’s March. I will do as my mom taught me, and hold tightly onto my faith and my beliefs in creating a just and equal world for all women, but particularly those left behind by the movement. And I’ll carry that with me at all times. My march will happen anywhere and everywhere I am.