The Women’s March in Boston

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Rain fell on Trump’s snarly Inauguration, but on Jan. 21 the sky opened up its blue parachute, with three sparkly helicopters reporting the crowds below.

In apartment buildings surrounding the Common, people stood on their balconies and in open windows unfurling their banners. Teenagers jauntily perched on the wrought-iron spikes around the Garden. A person stood for every blade of grass.The pigeons and ducks held their breath, witnessing the sea of humanity swelling around them. All shapes and sizes, all colors, all ages. Men who love their women, respect the rule of the day. This march was organized by women for all of us.There were port-o-potties hard to recognize, hard to reach their handles. Babes in carriages, children wedged between parents’ legs, none complaining as they looked up at all the shoulders, up to the older gals and guys in the trees. And no iPhone worked. There was no sound other than the speakers, the singers, the response to the calls for unity. To keep from losing patience with two and a half hours of speeches, we inched forward and back, in a sideways shuffle, and then stretched our arms to the sky to prove we could still unlock our bones. We could smell aftershave and cologne, spearmint gum, see the beautiful and cracked teeth, the seams on the backpacks, the loving hands massaging tired necks. And all around us: never-ending creative posters, all proclaiming the right to exist and be counted.

There were moments before the crowd could find the march entrance when we doubted our stamina, questioned the possibility of stampede, wondered how any medical aid could locate a problem, where were the police and how could they carve a safe path. Two hundred beautiful young adults with pompom hats appeared like genies to calmly usher the masses out of the Garden onto Charles Street. There was never an angry voice or a threatening move. We were the people Trump does not recognize. The everyday believers in women’s rights, accessible and affordable health care, clean air and water, a free press, a living wage, and human rights that recognize the equality of all our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers from all nations. They say we numbered 175,000 this day, but 25,000 lined the side streets supporting every walker. When the march was in motion, there was a smile ear to ear, a trust when looking into one another’s eyes. This day would overcome the gloom in our country and in our world.

In Boston, there is a kind of patriotism that protects rather than frightens. In Boston there is a conviction, a clarity of intention, an embrace of humanity we see as our lifeblood. In Massachusetts, we must be a sanctuary state. On the Vineyard, let us remember to respect our neighbor.

Liza Coogan

Vineyard Haven