My loved ones marched for our rights today. So many people turned out in New York City that the Women's March route was jammed packed from one end to the other, with crowds spilling into side streets and adjacent avenues, and for hours no one could move. I was so proud of my husband and daughter, and my daughter's boyfriend, turning out for the cause. I watched the mammoth marches all over the country, and the world, from home. I could not march, as I have pain and mobility issues, and this is part of the reason my husband decided to march, for me. But as day turned to night, and the marchers kept going, no one dispersing, I wanted so much to be a part of this massive movement. I felt lonely and left out. I know it is not the way I am supposed to be feeling on a day when the forces of resistance have been so thrillingly mobilized.
What I meant to do when I sat down here was to write about these two days in which the world changed. Yesterday, as the Obamas flew off in a green military helicopter, my heart was heavy and tears flowed. I changed the channel after that. I only watched the inauguration to bid farewell to the Obamas. I had no stomach for the spectacle of the new president, a man of stunning dishonesty, moving into the White House. And now on TV, press secretary Sean Spicer has just taken the podium in the White House briefing room to berate the press for reporting that Trump's inauguration crowds were sparse compared to Obama's. WTF? He was clearly sent out there by his boss, who earlier had tweeted out a photo of Obama's crowds in 2009, pretending they were his. The press corrected him, and Trump is apparently apoplectic. Well, he achieved one thing: The stunned newscasters are now dissecting Spicer's angry, petulant statement, and are no longer covering the marchers. I think I should stop writing now.
My husband just texted that he is on his way home.