My husband wants to know why I’m going to participate in the Women’s March.

“You remember those school projects that you did as a kid, where you’d have to interview your grandparents?”

My husband doesn’t quite understand where I’m going with this one, but he nods his head anyway.

“You’d ask them where they were when XYZ historic event happened, and they’d tell you that they were at work or at home or out with some friends.”

“Yeah, so….”

“Someday our grandchildren are going to ask us about this event. They’re going to want to know what we did when Trump got elected president…I don’t know about you, but I am damn well going to be able to tell them that I fought.”

When I set foot upon that road today, I stand there with the weight of my children, my grandchildren and all the future generations resting on my shoulders. I march because I will not stand in place and let the wave of bigotry, misogyny and racism crash over me and wash away the gains we have fought so hard to make.

I march because my children are young. Today they are little white girls. Tomorrow they could be proud lesbian women. They could be transgender men. They could marry an immigrant man, or give birth to mixed race children. I march to clear a pathway forward for them, so no matter what they dream to become, they can have it.

I march to let the world know that I will not sit idly by and let the worst dregs of humanity, a sea of misogynists elected into office, pass law after law about what my girls can do with their bodies. I shake my fist so that they may have a choice.

I march because I am a mother, but also a worker. My accomplishments have been made possible because I got a good public education, I had sexual education classes, I had access to birth control and was able to decide when I would (and would not) have children. I will not stand and be shackled because men fear what I can do if simply given the chance.

I march because I am a survivor. I have had my pussy grabbed. And my breasts and my butt. I know what it is like to sob in rage, frustration and sorrow.

I march for the men who choose to pick women up and put them on their shoulders, who don’t need to beat and tear them down to make themselves feel strong. I fight for my nephews, for a world where boys and girls are taught to respect and honor one another.

I march because I am an outsider. I am a foreigner. I speak differently. I carry with me a tapestry of humanity, a rainbow of languages and skin tones, whose beauty comes from seeing all those differences blend together to create a multicolored vision of how the world can be.

I march for those who can’t. Those who fear retribution. Those who are sick. I represent myself, my family, my community and all of those voices who cheer me along the way.

My march journey is etched in my head and my heart, it starts in my past and will continue on for as long as my legs will allow.

Someday your grandchildren will ask you the question: “Where were you when the people took to the streets?”

What will you tell them?


Lynn Morrison is a smart-ass American raising two prim princesses with her obnoxiously skinny Italian husband in Oxford, England. If you've ever hidden pizza boxes at the bottom of the trash or worn maternity pants when not pregnant, chances are you'll like the Nomad Mom Diary. Catch up with her daily on Facebook and Twitter.

1 Comment

  1. Jenny Kanevsky Reply

    Brilliant, moving, perfect. Well done, Lynn. Sharing the shit out of this.

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