Why I Marched: Women’s March on Washington, 21 January 2017

20 January 2017 was a momentous day for America; a day in which one of the most arguably controversial presidents-elect was sworn into office in Washington DC. It was a significant day for me, too- it was my birthday.

Every four years, I celebrate the anniversary of my birth as America watches the inauguration of the leader of the free world for the next four years. After the excruciating election this year, I swore off media (as much as one can in the information age) for the month of January. And this weekend, I was going to celebrate my birthday in Paris, in blissful expat adventure mode, willfully pushing away the news of the catastrophic dystopia looming before us. That is, until I learned about the march.

As an American expat, one of the most patriotic things I’ve been able to do is vote in the presidential elections. I have, without fail, sent my absentee ballot to my local county board of elections every four years. I’ve also had the unique experience of watching American elections outside of America with the rest of the world, and I have seen how the rest of the world watches with us. Some anxious, some amused, but all watching, waiting.

And, as if out of a Simpsons episode, there was Donald Trump being sworn into office. A morally corrupt, selfish man who speaks a lot but says nothing, other than spouting racist, xenophobic, misogynistic rhetoric. I could not simply ignore this, even from an ocean away.

So on 20 January, I celebrated my birthday quietly in Paris. And on 21 January, I defended my freedoms loudly, surrounded by other women and men, European and American, young and old. I marched alongside people from across the globe, in the footsteps of those strong leaders who fought for justice and equality, in what became one of the largest outcries in the world.

I marched to make this voice louder, to stand behind the signs declaring Women’s Rights are Human Rights. Refugees are People. We Are Not Afraid. A morally bankrupt president will make morally bankrupt decisions for the country. This is dangerous situation for the next generation, and for the world.

I marched in support of women’s rights and equality for all. The leader of the United States has degraded, harassed, and bullied women, as well as laughed about sexually assaulting them.

I marched in support of a women’s right to choose. No government should be allowed to legislate what happens to my body and my reproductive system.

I marched in support of safe, accessible, and affordable health care for all Americans. Trump promised to repeal Obamacare, which would strip a large percentage of Americans of health insurance with no viable alternative.

I marched because I believe that the rights and freedoms of my LGBTQ+ friends and family should be equal, fair, and protected under the law. Trump opposes marriage equality and has appointed people to executive branch agencies, and within the White House and the Justice Department, who are hostile to the LGBTQ+ community.

I marched in support of fair treatment of all religious and racial minorities. America is a country of immigrants, enriched by the history and voices of people from all over the world, who moved there for a better life for themselves and their families. Trump’s discriminatory ban on individuals from several majority Muslim countries (otherwise known as ‘the Muslim Ban’) pulled families apart and created a rift between Muslim Americans and the government. He has also made sweeping statements about refugees and Mexicans, asserting that they are rapists, murderers, extremists, and generally bad individuals. In an effort to put ‘America First’, Trump seems determined to define who and what is American on his own terms. This has lead to an upsurgance of hate crimes and violence, which appears to have been given ‘permission’ and has been ‘normalised’ in recent weeks.

I marched in support of disabled Americans who have been bullied or harassed after the president modelled this appalling behaviour himself. Disabled individuals deserve respect and fair treatment.

I know that a single march on 21 January is not going to directly change a policy or knock some human decency into the current US administration. But what it did do was reinforce a collective sense of awareness of issues currently under threat by the new administration. It also demonstrated the passion of a very sizable demographic of Americans who demand to keep their rights intact. I marched to demand protection of these rights for myself and future generations. It was not a wish for failure of the current government or leader; but rather, a reminder of what the government needs to protect and preserve. I also marched, on foreign soil, to show the rest of the world that I am one of the many Americans who are not represented by the current government, and who believe in building bridges, not walls, in order to promote and protect human rights for all.

The Women’s March on Washington was the first step, and it was on day 1 of the presidency. 1459 days left to go. I hope I’ll be dancing, rather than marching, on my birthday in four years’ time.

For more information about this movement, visit www.womensmarch.com/ 

This article was originally published in 2017 by sp-bx.com and americansresistingoverseas.com. 

An American Living in London

“Where are you from?” was always an easy question to answer before I boarded that 747 jumbo-jet to England. I knew where I was from. I grew up in a small town in upstate New York- not quite Canada, but not too far from it. It was not a question I got asked often, since I blended easily in with the outdoorsy, North Face-clad people and rural landscape that surrounded me.

‘Here,’ I could just as well answer. ‘I’m from here.’

Pausing for a photo with the London Eye at nightfall

I noticed a strange thing happen about a year into living in the UK. The same simple question became harder to answer. No longer asked by people with the same accent, the same style of clothes, the same social systems and the same national flag, I began to realize that this question meant something else. They weren’t simply enquiring about my home state or hometown. They were wondering where my accent and dialect was from, my slightly more casual attire, and why I walked around those quaint British towns a bit more cautiously, more guardedly, than everyone else.

They wanted to know what made me different.

‘I’m from the United States,’ became my new response. An explanation of my uniqueness, my cultural reference, and why I was asking where ‘the London underground’ was instead of the more colloquial ‘tube.’

Questionable sineage in London

Little did I know that this was also the beginning of a major shift in my identity. Answering the question ‘where are you from’ after moving abroad forces you to place yourself on a global map, rather than the map of a state, or a coast, or even a continent. I wasn’t just an ‘upstate New Yorker’ (upstate and downstate is a regional divide with blurry lines that only residents of New York state care about anyway).

I was unequivocally, unquestionably American. I had a blue passport, wore sneakers (as opposed to trainers), and found it perfectly acceptable to smile at complete strangers on public transportation.

Years went by, and I got used to the unrelenting grey English drizzle. I bought an electric kettle for my growing tea collection. My trainers only saw the light of day at the gym, and began wearing more skirts and dresses at the office. I looked forward to a British pint (okay, a half-pint) at the pub on the weekends, and happily waited in a queue for anything and everything.

And still I was asked, where are you from?

The exciting moment I found American apple cider in London

The question was no longer about my obvious foreignness. It was now about my strange hybrid of American and British mannerisms. The way I asked if anyone wants a cup of tea with my nasal upstate accent. The way I described Thanksgiving as an ‘American bank holiday’ to my bemused English friends.

‘I am American, but I’ve lived here a while,’ was my new response. I increasingly felt the need to qualify not only my Americanness, but the pragmatic, yet sophisticated Anglo culture I was rapidly adopting. I was also imploring people to not to put me in a box, not to stereotype me as the ‘typical’ American portrayed on TV or in the movies, or cast a broad generalization about who I was or what I would be. Perhaps I was still figuring it out myself.

They say England and America are ‘two countries divided by a common language,’ and as an American living in the UK, bridging that gap felt sometimes like trying to straddle the entire Atlantic Ocean.

One of the beautiful things about living in the UK is the access to affordable and efficient transportation to the rest of the world. So I travelled. A lot. My first two trips to Europe (‘The Continent’- as Brits are quick to distinguish) were whirlwind coach tours in which I travelled through ten countries in nearly as many days.

The travel bug was swift and unrelenting; the more of the world I saw, the more I wanted to see. I filled my blue passport with stamps, taking planes, trains, and automobiles to as far-flung destinations as Hungary and Israel. I took a gondola ride in Venice. I marched under the Eiffel tower in Paris.

Voting for US president from my flat in London

Again I was confronted with where are you from? Now the question was asked in broken English coloured with deep German and suave French accents. And once again, I was forced to face my shifting cultural identity. To pick a geographic box.

‘Well….I….’

Now I stumbled answering this question. The answer felt more like a conversation than a short reply.

‘I live in England, but grew up in the States’ became my new simplified default response.

No longer the girl from a snowy small town in upstate New York, I was telling people not to classify me by my accent or appearance. My simple life back home felt increasingly like a distant memory, and I no longer knew how to relate to the people I once grew up with. Yes, it was a huge part of my life, but with my new globalized existence, it no longer defined me.

Fast forward to today. Returning to America after nearly a decade in the UK has forced me to face the eternal question once again: where are you from? Asked by friendly American faces, in the northeastern American dialect I grew up speaking, people are genuinely wondering what they can expect from me in this American city I now call home.

And so here is my answer:

My accent is American, but I might enunciate some words as they do in London. My culture is trans-Atlantic. I have worked and played and laughed and cried in countries all around the world. I grew up in small-town America, and grew into myself in the United Kingdom. I can navigate London without a map. I have close friends who have never been to the US. I love s'mores and Sunday roast and smiling at strangers. If I have the opportunity to drive somewhere or go on foot, I will choose to walk every time.

I listen to BBC World News and care deeply about European politics, because they directly affect my friends on the other side of the pond. I have voted in every US presidential election since I turned 18, but never on American soil. I feel at home both in America and Europe. I am a collection of cultures, a patchwork of here and there.

Living overseas changes you for life. I’m not just ‘from America’ anymore. There is no box for how you feel after you return. The biggest gift you can ever be given from your time abroad will be this: you are forever a part of the global world. And that is where you are from.

Originally published in Girl About the Globe in 2017.