The March of Progress

One Trans Woman’s Experience at the 2018 Denver Women’s March

I marched today. It felt good.

However, when my wife and I got into the car to drive to the Denver Women’s March this morning with our son in tow, I was apprehensive. I didn’t know what to expect. I mean, we went to the Denver Women’s March last year too, but that seemed like ages ago. It was practically a different era. Back then, we were afraid of what might happen over the next year. This time, we bore the weight of what did happen. I was worried that this would change things.

“Women’s March 2017 — Pennsylvania Ave” Photo by Vlad Tchompalov on Unsplash

Driving downtown, I worried that the relentlessness of the last year might have dulled the movement. I worried that the crowd would be smaller, and the message less impactful as a result. I worried that despite all efforts, the movement was going to fizzle out — that it was going to be replaced by the same apathy that almost always follows a long, hard fight with societal inertia.

More personally, I was worried that I still wouldn’t feel welcome.

A lot was said in the wake of last year’s Women’s March. Many people rightly criticized it for failing to incorporate the huge variety of experiences and perspectives women have across the country. It centered the experiences of upper-middle class white women while ignoring women of color and other marginalized groups. Queer women, for example, were largely shuffled off to the side — trans women doubly so.

These critiques dovetailed very well with my experience of last year’s march. The Denver Women’s March was lily white, and it’s safe to say that REI-chic was the unofficial dress code. The women around me held their signs in one hand, and a latte in the other. Often, their signs equated womanhood with a particular genital configuration, or set of chromosomes. So, while I was glad to see so many women, and admired the cleverness of their signs — their ferociousness, even — I could no more see myself in them than I could see myself wearing a $250 North Face jacket.

I felt out of place. I felt like a bystander. I went to the march for solidarity and intersectionality, but felt progressively more marginalized the longer I was there.

Still, I was hopeful that this time around it would be different. It seemed like the organizers had heard the criticisms and had taken them to heart. I‘d read that the Colorado organizers in particular were trying to be more inclusive of marginalized women, including queer and trans women. In fact, one of my friends, a trans woman, was scheduled to speak after the march. So, I dared to hope that there would be an increased understanding of trans folks and the need for us to be included in the women’s movement.

But, that didn’t change the fact I was apprehensive. It just made me feel like I had more to lose if it turned out I was wrong to hope for something more.

So I was pleasantly surprised when the first thing I saw as I got out of the car after we parked near the capitol was a woman wearing the LGBT pride flag as a cape. I hoped it was a indication of more to come. As we got closer to where everyone was gathering, I was on the lookout for more signals that things would be different this year.

I was disappointed when it became clear that women of color were still criminally under-represented, and REI-chic was still the unofficial dress code. My mood lowered even further when it became clear that signs with things like #resist on them were still frequently dual-wielded with six dollar lattes. To me, it was evidence of a sort of a commodified form of resistance that I worried would disappear the moment it fell out of fashion.

But, as I looked around, I was happy to see that many of the signs had changed. There was less of a focus on anatomy and clever wordplay, and more calls for intersectionality and social justice that did not confine themselves to the concerns of upper-middle class cishet white women. There was more substance to go with the style.

As we made our way to the “Queer Contingent” rallying point where we were supposed to meet our friends, I found myself thinking that maybe the movement wouldn’t fizzle out.

Photo by Emma Shinn

About a hundred yards away from the rallying point, I saw a sign that said, “Yes, pussy grabs back. And: Not all women have pussies. Don’t be a TERF.”* It was hard not to smile. It was exactly the sort of thing I wished I had seen last year — especially given that the sign was carried by someone who appeared to be a cis woman. That one sign pointed out the reductive nature of many of the other signs and helped to ensure trans women felt welcome.

Still, I was afraid that it would all go south soon.

However, when we finally made it to the meetup place for the “Queer Contingent” I felt the tension that had built up in my shoulders release. It was a small group — much smaller than I had hoped — but it was much bigger than it was last year. Trans and LGBT pride flags were prevalent, as were signs supporting queer folks of all shapes, sizes, and flavors. It was wonderful.

I didn’t feel out of place. I didn’t feel like a bystander. I had found what I was looking for — solidarity and intersectionality.

Was it perfect? No, far from it. But, it was progress.