Patricia Harrelson

In early December, when I saw an announcement on Facebook about buses chartered to take women from Tuolumne County to Sacramento on January 21, 2017, I signed up. I didn’t have well-defined expectations. I simply wanted to be with other people who were unnerved by Trump’s election and expressing distrust. This is a report of what turned out to be meaningful to me during the March.

Notwithstanding marching with 20,000 like-minded people, I was deeply moved by connecting with specific people already known to me. Cindy was not able to make the March, so I invited my newest friend and neighbor Carolmarie. When we arrived at the loading place for the buses, I discovered that three of my long time friends were also making the trek. I knew many of the women boarding the buses, including the two sisters of the subject of a biography I’d just completed. Shortly after we started to march, I stumbled upon a woman who lives in Todos Santos near my brother. Later, after the March, I would see Facebook posts announcing that childhood friends, former work colleagues and neighbors, members of my writing group, book group, and master swim team had participated in the same March—not to mention friends and family far and wide who had participated in Marches at other locations. All day, I was reminded of the abiding connections I’ve made over the years, people who were my emotional, recreational, and, yes, political safety net.

Words are my livelihood and passion, so I was attune to the manner in which they served me and touched others. All day, I sent messages and photos to Cindy, so she could take part from a distance. I was gratified when two passengers on the bus complimented me regarding some of my published writing. And there were the signs carried by marchers. I scribbled their messages in a notebook as I walked. Here is one carried by my friend that said so much:

I’m with her–>

<–and her

and her–>

<–and her

As we marched toward the Capitol, a roar could be heard forming several blocks ahead, which gradually moved through the crowd until we joined in, and then it passed on behind us. This happened again and again and made me think of the Helen Reddy song with the opening line, “I am woman; Hear me roar.” I was already feeling buoyed up by the company of women, and the repeating roar lifted me further. Likewise, early in the program when the Japanese Taiko Dan drummers performed, the rhythm felt like the heart beat of the crowd.

The program was heartfelt and filled with elected officials welcoming us, which felt promising. But the most significant moment of the trip happened long before we reached Sacramento when we were only 15 miles into the journey. I had to pee. The pressure rapidly became unbearable, so I asked the bus driver if there would be a restroom stop. “Yes, in an hour,” he said. I waited a few more minutes, but it was clear I couldn’t make it an hour. So I asked him to pull over so I could pee by the side of the road. He complied, and I flew off the bus as someone shouted, “Everyone look left!” I squatted by the tire to relieve myself as cars whizzed by. When I got back on the bus, everyone applauded.

The lesson for me was the importance of speaking up, even if it is embarrassing, doing what needs to be done, even if in less than ideal conditions. The relief I felt when I got back on the bus, the relief I felt during and after the March by connecting with others, confirmed that taking action, even when I’m unsure, can have satisfying results.

Tomorrow I’ll write about the March aftermath—which has been much more intense and unsettling than I expected—as I seek to define what proactive means to me.