I had thought that in a crowd so big, I would feel small. But I have never felt bigger than I did on March 24, 2018.
I rode the Red Line of the Washington Metro in its entirety, taking me from the station at Shady Grove in Maryland, to Gallery Place in Washington, DC. While standing on the metro, being careful not to step on the toes of the woman next to me, I felt both excited and nervous in anticipation of the big day ahead of me.
I felt small physically. The metro car was tightly packed with people clad in orange and anti-NRA apparel, and holding signs with slogans such as “Arms are for hugging.” I also felt small figuratively. In the week leading up to the March, many people had told me that they were so proud of me for going and that I was making change by attending the March in DC. I understood its importance and I felt fortunate to attend, but I also thought that I was not making a difference by being there. It was predicted that five hundred thousand people would attend . . . what would change if one fewer person was there?
When I got off the metro, I realized that all of the buildup for that Saturday was well merited. I had never been surrounded by so many people—many of whom were giving out pins, selling t-shirts, carrying signs, and holding hands with their friends and family. I was awestruck by the children and teenagers that made up the crowds. By around 11:15 am, I was about as close to the stage as I was going to get (although the event was advertised as a march, the audience was relatively stagnant by the time noon rolled around, and the speakers began to present). At this point, music was playing from speakers all around. Surrounding me, people were holding up their signs, dancing, and embracing those with whom they came. I felt proud and excited to be a part of the diverse crowd.
An important theme addressed in the March was the damage that gun violence has inflicted upon minority communities. Even though the Parkland High School students who achieved the most celebrity were for the most part white, the alliances they made with people of color from places like Chicago, Los Angeles, and Washington, DC were admirable and notable. For me, one of the most affecting speeches was that of Zion Kelly, from Washington, DC, whose twin brother was shot on his way home from a college prep course. While he spoke, I could feel a tightening of the crowd, as audience members held on to their loved ones. During his speech, I started to cry. I could not imagine myself in his position—it was too hard. But this is the reality for so many people across the United States.
Eleven-year-old Naomi Wadler also blew me away. Her speech about black feminism urged me and the rest of the crowd to think about how diverse and large the pool of those affected by gun violence is. She said, “I am here to acknowledge and represent the African American girls whose stories don’t make the front page of every national newspaper, whose stories don’t lead on the evening news. I represent the African American women who are victims of gun violence, who are simply statistics instead of vibrant, beautiful girls full of potential.”
It was after Naomi’s speech that I felt big. I felt as if her words were a chain, linking every member of the audience to one another. Together, we were big. Her words had formed a bond of solidarity among us as we thought about the concentric circles of people affected by gun violence. After listening to her words and the words of others who spoke, I felt that change is possible. I got the sense that we were not just living in history, but we were making and shaping history as well.