By Jennifer Weiner. We raised our fists in solidarity for abortion rights. We chanted with poets. We ate granola bars and nibbled raw almonds and we pledged to go back home and keep working. Then word started to filter out that the march component of the march might not happen exactly as planned โ too many people.
My 9-year-old had had it. It was time to go. A helpful official at the Smithsonian metro station asked where we were headed, and gave us options for getting to the red line. We live in a big, diverse city โ hardly the burning, drug and crime-ridden hell-hole that President Trump imagines, but definitely a place where there is poverty.
And racism. And homophobes. And doctors who despise Obamacare, and women who hate Hillary Clinton, and disgruntled white guys who look at a world in which they no longer feel at home and voted for the man who pledged to put them back on top.
What will it be like to live, for the next four years, under the rule of a reality TV huckster who boasts nonstop about his so-called achievements, who calls the press his enemy and has promised to shut down and silence dissent? And I worry. But I know I will have memories of this march, this crowd, the can-do spirit and the solidarity, and I will hope for better days to come.
Check it out here ยป. By Emma Roller. As protesters flooded past the Trump Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, they booed, hissed, and made obscene gestures. One hand-drawn sign depicted Mr. Trump as Jabba the Hutt, the classic Star Wars villain, with Princess Leia standing triumphantly on top of him, choking him with a chain.
