As the Trump administration’s reckless path of destruction consumes the nation’s attention, The People’s March, which took place in Washington, D.C. on January 18, 2025, already seems like a distant dream. I took a bus, which was also my hotel, and spent the day on foot. My lean resources forced me to travel light: just a few necessities and a homemade sign that read, “We Demand A Sustainable Future.”
It is not typical for me to do something like this, but I felt compelled to go. My personal reason was that I viewed the march as an opportunity to tell Donald Trump that he did not have a mandate, and that I wasn’t afraid. I went by myself, which is not as pathetic as it sounds; it granted me a large amount of freedom, not only to immerse myself in the spectacle, but to move about according to my whim.
We had been instructed to meet in one of three parks depending on our primary issue. I arrived around nine as people were just beginning to congregate. We listened to speeches as the crowd swelled. The speakers riled us up, talking about justice for humans and justice for the planet.
When the time came, our group was directed to go last, which afforded us the privilege of observing the others. The river of people was awe-inspiring, not just in number, but in the imagination and passion on display. Theatrics were omnipresent, some people in costume, and many donning their pink pussy hats. Luckily, I was positioned next to some boisterous drummers, raising the vibration. Finally, our group was allowed to proceed down 17th Street.
The march moved slowly and rambunctiously past the Eisenhower building, with the Washington Monument looming ahead. Spectators eyed us with various expressions. For some, I suppose, we were dismissed as the lunatic left. For others, we were pure entertainment. The diversity of our messaging may’ve led some to ask what on earth we were trying to say? “This is what democracy looks like,” we chanted, as if to answer this very question.
When we arrived at the Lincoln memorial, we assembled to hear the speeches. I moved about the crowd, too fascinated by the pageant to listen attentively. A woman in a handmaid’s tale outfit lifted her red robe to wade through the mud past a silent procession of black-clad mourners. A man pestered them, “Why so sad?” he asked. Elsewhere, young activists surged their bodies against counter protestors holding large and gruesome anti-abortion posters. With their signs and with their voices they smothered them chanting “my body, my choice.”
After the march, I visited the Martin Luther King memorial, the White House, and several other sites. I met Taran, an artist who was exhibiting his enormous inflatable “Chicken Don” on the grounds of the National Mall. It was a sister action to the People’s March, he explained. Go here to learn more about it.
As evening approached, the MAGA supporters, who had arrived to view the inauguration, descended on the city. They were walking the sidewalks, buying and selling Trump memorabilia, or riding in pedicabs blasting YMCA. When it was time to return to Union Station for my bus ride home, I walked all the way down Pennsylvania avenue, holding my sign high.