March was about the meaning of showing up

I marched for her, but I also marched for him.

My 71-year-old mom, 9-year-old daughter and I descended on Washington, D.C., along with hundreds of thousands of others on Jan. 21. The sight of pink hats as far as the eye could see was awe-inspiring. I loved that we shared it as three generations, which will bind us tighter forever.

A rich and vibrant discussion, mostly over social media, arose about the intention and meaning of the Women’s March. The reasons are as diverse as the individuals who attended (not to mention the sea of colorful and creative signs they carried).

I marched for her. Having no idea what to expect before the event, I was focused on imprinting a life memory in the mind of my daughter – one of the few crystal clear instances we remember within the haze of childhood. I hoped it would be etched into her very core and form the roots for the woman she grows into. There wouldn’t be a specific moment in her life when she realized that her body is her own, or that she demanded equal rights, or that she believed that all humans are worthy of respect. Instead, it would be woven into her fabric, something that was always her.

Since the march, when the flood of people submerged cities around the world, there have been critics who feel it was unnecessary, inappropriate or simply a waste of time. Facebook friends have decried it, saying it did not represent them or their views as a woman. One woman argued that a better way to support women’s issues is to take all the money used for airplanes, hotels and taxis and donate it to cancer research or a domestic violence shelter.

While we marched down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House chanting, “THIS is what democracy looks like!” my mind swirled with the many reasons I was there. While those reasons remain crucial, what I hope my daughter takes away is this: You show up. There is value in just being there, surrounded by thousands of strangers united in presence. There are times that it is simply not enough to express your views on Facebook, or donate to an issue you care about or go to a board meeting. Sometimes you must show up. To stand in solidarity, to use your voice, to feel powerful.

Sometimes you refuse to accept that life is a pendulum swinging away from your beliefs. Sometimes you chant, “Hear my voice!” And sometimes you march.

I also marched for him. One of my own crystal clear memories is when my dad showed up for me. Big time. I was 11 years old and had just made the boys select soccer team until the coach told me that the city would not allow girls on the team. I remember the exact spot I was standing when he said those words. I also remember the exact spot I was standing when my dad said, “That is unacceptable.”

After threats of a lawsuit and weeks of negotiating, I was on that team. The message from my dad was clear: I will show up for you. That memory is impressed on my mind and woven into my fabric.

Part of me hopes the Women’s March is emblazoned on my daughter’s mind. One of those moments she is proud to tell people about as an adult. The beginning of her strength, the day she found her voice. But another part of me hopes it will be a distant, faded memory of an archaic time when “my mom dragged me to D.C. because back then women were paid less than men.”

Sometimes it is hard to show up. You are the only one and your voice can feel shaky and raw. Other times it is easy or joyful, like when you are surrounded by others with a common purpose fueling each other to make your singular voice louder. In many ways the Women’s March was the latter. We were in the majority that day, which is both empowering and the easier path. No one telling you to be quiet or that you are wrong. That questioning feeling of “am I doing the right thing?” that can turn your face red and hot vanishes. I hope she will do both. Find support and unanimity with others but be willing to walk alone when it is uncomfortable or hard.

So I marched for her. But I also marched for him and the gift he gave me to just be there. Because that matters.

Genevieve Mann is a supervising attorney and assistant professor at Gonzaga University School of Law.