Descriptive Essay: Women's March On Washington

Today is the day my voice will be heard. It is around 6 a.m. in Baltimore, Maryland. Penn Station is awakened by the abundant, resonant footsteps of demonstrators en route to the National Mall in Washington, D.C., for the Women’s March on Washington.

A cold-breeze greets me as my mother and I, hand in hand, descend upon the Amtrak platform. At such an hour, the underground billows with a galvanizing presence, instantaneously rekindling the flicker of hope I had lost on November 8, 2016.

“Kate!”, my mother ardently hollers as our once clattering train comes to an abrupt halt, “Watch your step, we’re going to ride in this railcar.”

Tightly gripping her hazel, fleece jacket with hands drenched in perspiration, I enter the metro and I am fortunate enough to find two adjacent seats for us.

I begin to take in my

As we trek through the crowd, we see a staircase at the back of the National Space Museum and stay there for the rest of the rally.

As time lapses we learn that there are too many people to march — validating the true measure of strength in numbers. As the speeches continue, Independence Avenue grows increasingly restless, chanting “March!” over the remaining speeches.

Simultaneously, as if on cue, one of the organizers clutches the microphone. “You may have heard we’re not marching,” she declares. “We are marching.” And with that, we surge forward.

As we begin to march, a throng of keen women and men flap and thrust their signs to the tempo of their chants. Taken aback with awe, I pause to take in my surroundings. Once again, the overwhelming spirit of liberation swallows us into a sea of pink.

I flinch, startled by the unforeseen beginning of the first chant.

An unknown voice in the assemblage loudly demands, “Tell me what democracy looks like!”

A shiver moves down my spine as my reply combines with those of the marchers around me, “This is what democracy looks