I Met A Woman At The Women’s March Who Was Born Before Women Could Vote

It’s so easy to think that we’re beyond fighting for women’s equality. I know, because I was conditioned my entire life to believe it.

At the Los Angeles Women’s March there was a 98-year-old woman in the crowd. I noticed her sign first, and then we locked eyes. I don’t remember what her sign said, except that she was 98 years old, and she was fed up. I smiled at her, and she smiled back at me. I didn’t have any words in that moment, but I nodded deeply. Almost a bow. Is it awkward to walk by a stranger and bow? It didn’t feel like it, because when my eyes met hers again, she was grinning. In this moment it felt like I was given a special gift by time; an opportunity to touch and know history. Or as we like to say, herstory.

As I walked away, I did the math. Her math. She was born before women were allowed to vote in the United States of America. Let this sink in for you, like it did for me: at the Women’s March, I met a woman who was alive when women could not vote.

It’s so easy to think that we’re beyond fighting for women’s equality. I know, because I was conditioned my entire life to think so. I grew up never truly understanding how many obstacles women have had to overcome, and still do. This is what the Women’s March means to me:

It’s about women showing up in numbers, as a show of solidarity, to say that we are not free until all of us are free. This is about every generation of women from every background. And that we have to keep going.

My friend back home near Buffalo drove a couple hours to the Women’s March in Seneca Falls, the place where women’s suffrage first began. Less than a hundred years ago, and less than two hours from my hometown, women organized and fought for the chance to be heard equally. It isn’t just some special interest place; it is a benchmark and a landmark that changed the course of world history. But in school, we never took a field trip there. We never even learned about it in our curriculum. I am trying to not be angry about this, I’m trying not to be heartbroken that my history was intentionally denied to me to keep me subordinate. Instead I am trying to be an agent of change.

My friend, the host of a podcast called Womankind, posted a picture on her podcast’s social media of a little girl hoisted on her dad’s shoulders at Seneca Falls. This little girl will grow up and understand how reverent and important our history is. She will understand it years before I did. She is the future I want.

This past year hasn’t been an easy chapter in women’s history, but that’s a lot to chew. So instead, let’s just talk about this past week. There has been an interesting and prevailing theme that I’ve been tracking about the progress of feminism and the differences in opinions between generations. The story about comedian Aziz Ansari brought texts and phone calls and questions from so many people in my life. People who wanted me to explain what they didn’t understand. I host an all-female comedy show, and I am not quiet about what I stand for when it comes to believing women. From peers to women who came before me and have taught me about feminism, I felt like I had to personally bridge a gap between people from all ages and backgrounds about how we’re supposed to deal with this.

Reductress, whose satire is so cutting because it’s too real, killed with it with a story about a 64 year old woman who is appalled that younger generations insist on being respected by men.

To the women who are older than me who say that women can’t have it both ways, or reason to themselves that when they were our age they just dealt with it and that we should buck up; I want to say I’m sorry, and I know you’re hurting. To the women who are younger than me who want to burn it all down and who think the generations before us aren’t doing enough; I’m sorry and I know that you’re hurting, too. It feels like women are on an episode of Love It Or List it, and we’re debating whether or not we should renovate the system or burn it down and start fresh.

I feel drained, but I don’t feel hopeless. This is the work we have to do.

Back in LA, we marched past a high-rise of senior living apartments. In the lobby at the ground floor were a group of residents, waving and cheering. As the crowd kept on, we noticed a couple on their balcony in matching tracksuits, waving. Then, we collectively cheered when an elderly woman came out to her balcony smiling and giving us the thumbs up. “That will be us someday,” my friend joked.

“That will be us someday.”

Those words, even in jest, really struck me. This past year has reminded us daily that women have never been equally treated, heard or represented. And that we won’t live to see the day where we won’t have to keep organizing, fighting, and cheering on the next generation to keep doing the work to move us closer towards equality. That will be us someday.

But my sadness has turned to reverence. In part because of the 98-year-old woman who was still out there, marching. I believe that for all of us to continue her work is a duty, and more importantly, an honor.

My friend posted a picture of her 15 month old baby, who learned to walk just a few months ago. She’s 15 months old and already marching. But she wasn’t just marching herself, she was pushing a tiny stroller with a little baby doll even smaller than her, secured with a buckle. There’s something about that picture gives me all the hope. It is a peak into the future that is just as powerful as the peak I was given into the past.

Let’s continue to pass this information and reverence on to an entire generation of children — girls and boys — who will share this understanding with the next. There is nothing more powerful.

We’ve all seen those generational photos taken at a family reunions; a great grandmother, a grandmother, a daughter, a grandchild, a great grandchild. There isn’t one (that I’ve seen) from the Women’s March. But I like to think that when you see those impressive ariel photos of the crowd, you know that they are there. Maybe not related by blood, but forever united by the common herstory that flows through all of our veins.

P.S. I changed “history” to autocorrect to “herstory” in my apple settings on election day 2016. I have not changed it back since…I’m sure you understand.

Suggested reading of the week: Sex Object: A Memoir, by Jessica Valenti