I woke up on 9 November in a state of shock and disbelief. As I tried to go about my day, I found myself suddenly crying when the reality of a Donald Trump presidency started to set in. Thoughts of gay marriage being overturned, Muslims getting humiliated for their beliefs, his denial of climate change, his sexist and misogynistic language permeating our society made me sick to my stomach.

Tens of thousands of post-election protesters plan further action across US Read more

This was not a bad dream I could awaken from but a new era that put many of our basic rights and freedom at stake.

I knew there was a protest happening that evening from Union Square, in New York City, to protest Trump. Being a mom and 42, I didn’t think this would be part of my evening. I was chopping vegetables, trying to prepare dinner for my family, but all I could think of were Facebook posts I saw that said, don’t mourn; fight like hell.

I had taken so much for granted, suddenly aware of all the progress that we had made in the last eight years. I could see how much ground that we had gained on issues like gay rights. The US had problems, but our president was a person who shared my values. Where even just a few days ago I was thinking about how much work still needed to be done in terms of social equality, healthcare and the environment, I realized we were probably going to lose ground going forward.

And I had done nothing meaningful to impact the election. I had known that this could happen, but I didn’t believe it. It couldn’t. But it did. I was never super enthusiastic about Hillary Clinton, but I had believed the media when they said that she was probably going to win so I had done nothing. I didn’t canvass. I didn’t call voters in swing states. Now it was too late.

My 15-year-old daughter was also feeling deeply disturbed by the outcome of the election. Up to this point, she had never expressed any interest in politics. But she had been looking forward to seeing the country’s first female president, and now she was comprehending her own reproductive rights at risk, and that the man who would be her president had bragged about sexually assaulting women. She was angry and upset. When I asked her if she wanted to join some of our friends protesting, she said yes.

It was the first time in her life she didn’t just want to passively watch events unfold through her social media. She was going to take action. We told my husband to watch her younger brother and to finish cooking dinner and we grabbed our coats and headed out the door.



When we arrived at the protest, we were energized immediately by the passion we found there. It stretched for several city blocks, and I could see a second crowd growing a few blocks away. Finally there was a place where we could assemble and speak our hearts and minds about Trump’s horrible policies on immigration, abortion, Islam, gay rights. We screamed and shouted in unison – pussy grab back; fuck your wall; he is not my president.

I could imagine Trump looking down at us from his penthouse window saying “Look at these idiots.” We may look powerless to him with our presence 500 feet below. But we are here and we have our voice. Thousands of us. We are not going to stand for his bigotry! We don’t want this country to ostracize or condemn innocent people because they are different. We need to protect our environment for our children. We need to have a president that doesn’t objectify women.

Can protesting change any of this? Probably not. But we have to try, instead of just clicking “like” on Facebook posts we agree with.

We need to get out there and show the world that this is not America, and we will not accept this president. We are powerful together and we need to spend these next four years getting him out of office. He is not my president.