Families Belong Together March

It's hard not to feel hopeless and helpless when every day brings news of fresh horrors coming out of the Trump administration's playbook of evil. My mind literally cannot comprehend the thinking—or perhaps the lack thereof—of the people that thought there was no difference between Hillary and Trump, or of the people that still think that Trump is "making America great again."

I am of the belief that America already is great—yes, we have many, many areas to improve upon, but the more I see of this country, the more I fall in love with it. And time and time again I find that what actually does make America great, and what we get right in so many places—but New York especially—is our acceptance and appreciation of immigrants. The racist, "go back to where you came from" bigots may yell the loudest, but they do not represent all Americans. 

Polling is a tricky business, but what a lot of Americans seem to agree on is that we should let DACA recipients stay and that the "wall" is a terrible idea. I won't pretend to know where to begin to try and change peoples hearts and minds—especially in a time when supposedly decent people are actually debating what exactly constitutes a child cage—but I do believe that it's the people who have the least interactions with immigrants that are most afraid of them. 

I had to join the Families Belong Together march on Saturday because I had to do something. To be honest, I didn't want to march, and there were several times along the route that I considered giving up. It was in the 90s and I'm made out of tissue paper. My eyeballs were sweating. The minute I would reapply sunscreen it would melt off my face. I ran out of water halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge. I was alone and my feet hurt from standing in place for hours because like a lot of "marches," progress along the route was at times painfully slow.

I recognize that we go to events like these to make ourselves feel better, and I definitely understand the appeal. To be surrounded by like-minded, passionate, sane individuals for a few hours in a world that increasingly feels isolating and infuriating is soothing to the soul. But ultimately it's about showing up—I don't take signs, just photos—lending my physical body to a movement, to say I am here, I am present and I am pissed. 

In the end, I did make it across the bridge and I'm proud of everyone else who did or who acknowledged the objectives of the march on whatever platform they have. Because I realized that no matter how uncomfortable I was, marching was a choice. I am privileged enough to opt in or opt out. I had access to water and could have left of my own volition at any time during the march. Families trying to enter the US with the hope of making a better life for themselves don't have that choice—and those of us that do will forever have an obligation to stand up for those who do not.