My experience of the Trump administration has been one of constant attack on progressive movements I hold dear. Each day, there are new laws, regulations, broadsides, tweets, aimed at reducing diversity, de-regulating financial institutions, alienating international partners, spreading hate and violence. But yesterday I saw a small indication that all is not really lost.
I’d signed up a few weeks back to join another ‘Women’s March’ in Ithaca, this one in support of Planned Parenthood. The 2017 Women’s March, the day after Trump’s Inauguration in January, had been my first participation in such a public demonstration of solidarity; and it had been revitalizing, renewing my hopes for humanity and my own country. It followed an autumn of political despair. And the year and a half since has been marked by discouragement over the directions the political world (globally) has been taking.
Just before heading off to join the march last night, all dressed in pink as requested by the organizers, I learned that in fact this march was to be part of the Ithaca Festival parade! I’d never been in a parade before and wasn’t entirely sure it sounded like such a great idea. But…I decided I’d signed up and I’d go. On a whim, I called my cousin Nancy, ever politically active, to see if she wanted to come too. She did, and we headed off downtown to the appointed meeting place, getting there some 15 minutes early.
Then we waited…and waited….and waited. Standing around on Jay Street in the rain (me, with my pink umbrella decorated with a giant dahlia motif), we noted the variety of ages of would-be participants. There were women like us, in their 70s, middle aged women, and the young, many with crazily painted faces. Two young girls were dressed in the crinolines that Nancy and I remembered wearing as teenagers (in our cases, under our skirts rather than as skirts). Some had capes, others had hair of pink and blue. Children joined us; and men—sporting pink sashes, hats, or buttons. Groups were assembling in the streets (blocked off from cars), bands were practicing, a capoeira group was playing music with tall, stick-string-and-gourd instruments behind us, YMCA marchers, dressed in yellow, were cavorting in the street. Planned Parenthood volunteers passed out signs to supplement those brought by participants and sign-up sheets for future information campaigns and funding drives.
Eventually the groups on the cross street Cayuga, began slowly to move—At last! We made the turn onto the parade path, with four young girls leading the way, holding the giant banner proclaiming Planned Parenthood, which stretched across the street before us. Nancy and I held up our signs for all to see. Thankfully the rain had subsided to a mere trickle, so we didn’t need to juggle the umbrellas and the signs. As we moved along the road, two young women began circulating among us leading us in slogans. We shouted in unison, “No Gag Rule”—referring to Trump’s current attempt to prevent medical doctors from advising American women about abortion options. This gag rule was in effect internationally under President Bush, was set aside under Obama, and returned under Trump. Now Trump wants to apply it within the US. We sang out “Hey hey, ho ho, the gag rule’s gotta go!” in rhythms reminiscent of cheers at high school football games. Halfway along the parade route, Nancy’s daughter joined, with her two daughters (one asleep on her shoulder, the other in hand)—three generations of women walking together in support of this cause.
We also shouted “These doors stay open.” This simple, direct chant brought tears to my eyes, symbolizing as it did the conviction and strength we all felt. The sustained Trump and Tea Party attacks on Planned Parenthood were not going to succeed. There were women (and men) who knew how vital Planned Parenthood services were—cancer screening, well baby clinics, pregnancy checkups, as well as birth control and, yes, abortion—for those who couldn’t afford to pay (an ever-growing proportion of the population). We would keep the doors open no matter what the administration threw at the organization. Planned Parenthood served too many women with services that were too central to their wellbeing for these women (and their mothers and grandmothers) to give up this fight. The grandmothers among us still remember a time when abortion was illegal in the US. Women, desperate to avoid having a child (for a variety of reasons), resorted to back alley abortions performed with coat hangers and knitting needles by untrained practitioners in unhygienic settings. Many died. We weren’t going back.
As we walked along chanting these slogans at the top of our lungs, we were greeted by the people lining the streets. Some clapped, some yelled support, some pumped their fist in the air, some waved. The outpouring of approval, agreement, support, conviction was overwhelming. I did not see a single negative response from the crowds—composed of old and young, men and women, Americans and foreigners, students and shop attendants. Ithaca’s population was represented there. I had known that many supported Planned Parenthood, but the unanimity of approval that greeted us was a lovely surprise. The reminder that my own antagonism to the Trump Administration’s attacks on this organization was shared so widely gave me hope—something a little hard to come by under this Administration. It gave us all hope and renewed conviction to persevere.