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| Leading the march and stopping traffic along the way Photo by Hannah Hier |
5+ million worldwide, 673 marches on all seven continents
including Antarctica. One of the biggest global mass demonstrations in all of recorded
history
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| Photo by Mya Kalaya |
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| Marching onto Cathedral Green Photo by Hannah Hier |
When I blogged about the Women’s March in 2017, I said I
would march again and on Sunday 21st January 2018 I did just that.
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| No matter the weather... Photo by Mya Kalaya |
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| Glorious signs! Photo by Jazzy Maya |
I’ve read so many wonderful blogs and articles on the Women’s
March movement, galvanised as it has been by the year’s many flagrant
injustices – the #Metoo and the #TimesUp campaigns – and the increased sense
that in spite of the backlash, something is happening for the better. That in
spite of the many, many egregiously damaging things that are done to women and
girls everywhere, all over the world, from countless micro aggressions to the
truly hideously macro, there is a shifting in consciousness taking place that
threatens to unseat those people who have enjoyed power at the top for too
long. What can I add to their brilliance that hasn’t already been said?
Except maybe that’s the point.
As women and girls, we are
too often socialised to believe our voices are less important than those of the
men or boys in the room. We have been told repeatedly to shut up, that we talk
too much, that we’re shrill, that we nag. We may have shelved the scold’s
bridle – a medieval torture instrument worn by the unfortunate victim of a
husband who deemed his wife too vocal, but there are still plenty of places and
spaces and people who will do the same job. The internet, social media, parliament,
a Daily Mail reading middle aged man in a café in Keynsham will all tell you
that your voice is too loud.
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| Photo by Mya Kalaya |
Fuck that shit. Fucking fuck it. *
One of the biggest impacts of last year’s marches for me was
seeing all of those fine women of all ages and all colours get up on a podium and speak for the world to hear. Not before or since had I ever
seen women hold the floor in this way. It had such a profound impact on me
because it WAS so unusual. I am used to hearing the occasional token female
voice, but I am not used to hearing it as standard. No one is and we NEED to.
Everyone needs to. It needs to be a sound we hear, as standard, as often as we
hear a male voice. The fact that we don’t is one of the reasons why men on the
whole believe that they talk less when they talk more in meetings, and that
women talk more when they, in fact, talk less. ** It’s the unconscious bias of
privilege at work. But not just at work. Everywhere, including the Waitrose café
in Keynsham. Did I mention that some strange little man tried to shut me up in
there? Apparently I was talking too loudly on my phone, and he felt it was his
duty to inform me of just how loud my voice was, while standing over me and
getting right into my face. He got more than a toasted tea cake back (I
slightly hope that I managed to precipitate divorce proceedings from his
clearly long-suffering wife who was disgusted with him ‘Stop it Alan!’ etc).
And so, yes, I marched and I shouted. More specifically, I
samba-ed and shimmied through the streets of Bristol, in highly inclement
weather while brandishing a disintegrating sign. I helped stop traffic. I waved
enthusiastically and whooped and hollered at the many, many cars of people who
were beeping their support, and the dancing woman standing in the multi-storey
car park. I marched with women and men of all ages, and with kids and the
occasional canine. I stood among a sea of umbrellas as several brilliant women
stood on a park bench and gave some great speeches at the end. My pussyhat was
soaked through, as was the hat I’d knitted our fearless organiser of the march,
Dalia. I was cold and wet but with a warm heart, a glowing heart actually, and
a fierce sense of purpose.
Since last year’s march, I have written things and read
things, and stood up in front of a crowd and read a poem about my boobs (!), and
I have smiled, and wept, and got angry, and laughed, and shouted with brilliant
women. I have held them and they have held me. I have told men like Alan that
they are rude. I have never felt so powerful before in my life, and never, ever
felt less alone. Together we are powerful and our voices will only get louder.
And so I will march again.
And again. And again.
And I will keep marching until
we hear women’s voices as often and as loud as we hear men’s.
*We’re not ‘supposed’ to swear either. If it’s good enough
for Brian Blessed, it’s good enough for me. I wish I had his booming baritone. I
am working on it.
**Language and Gender, Mary Talbot (2010)
