We Marched. I Cried.

I was in tears; many times.

  • Tears of depression flowed because the nation had come to this: so mucked up.
  • Tears of inspiration flowed because so many people, so willing, so motivated, so bright—such energy knows no limits.
  • Tears of regret flowed because we lacked a positive, unifying vision of where to direct our energy.

We need a way forward. We need to collaborate on something, perhaps with Trump. We need to move forward toward the thriving, inclusive, fact-checked world we desire.

  • Too many speakers emphasized their special identities, which I respect, but their individual needs don’t unite people and move us forward, together.
  • Too many slogans wanted to dump Trump, question the election, and critique his complexion and hair.
  • Too many chants of anger, frustration, disbelief, and grief.

As a tall male standing among mostly women, I could see above thousands of heads. The passion and pink seemed endless, up and down Independence Avenue. A woman beside me stands in a divot of the sea of people, as short as I am tall, persevering five hours stuck below the shadows of the crowd. Occasionally, she thrusts her sign above her head to where it briefly catches the light of day: “RESPECT!”

Is resistance the only project that binds us together? Is saying “no” our only rally cry? Sadly, maybe so (another tear).   But without doubt, the March was a grand gesture: a loud guttural, emotional moan by a hurting nation and hopefully a call to action (more tears).

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Hull is a Senior Fellow at the Center for Leadership in Global Sustainability http://cligs.vt.edu/
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