On Saturday, January 21, 2017, women all over the world marched against Trump for their rights and the rights of other women. I didn’t march alongside them for reasons I hold dear, but as I passed the chants my heart filled with fervent pride and love for all those around the world today.
And unlike the inauguration that fill this earth with gloom the day prior, I watched occasional live streams hearing powerful speeches, reading creative signs, and checking friends platforms for their steady updates. Then across my feed came a video of Ashley Judd ferociously reciting “I Am A Nasty Woman” by 19-year-old Nina Donovan from Tennessee. At the time I’m writing this, I have spammed as many people as possible, viewed the video four times [viewing to cry ratio is still 1:1], and told anyone, who would listen, about this piece. It’s pasted below for those who spent the day watching FoxNews coverage on Trump’s church arrival.
A quick thank you to Nina for penning such powerful truth with reality-checking inclusivity.
Last night, I had dinner with a friend at The Peninsula Hotel, where the tail end of the warriors passed. I pressed my body against the window to capture a few shots when I overheard a couple dining discussing the “disruptive demonstration”. Moments later the husband, to the waiter, says,”He won! Let’s give him a chance right? At least it’s a peaceful protest this time.”
As I stayed crouch searching for an angle that didn’t give off a glare from the window, it took every ounce of courage to not call him out on his blatant ignorance. You, a man dining at The Peninsula, tell the waiter we should give Trump a chance. A man who probably makes what you make in a month, in a year. That sort of social disconnect is why we are in the turd pile we woke up to on November 9th. But reviewing the signs reminded me that millions of women, all over the world, will continue to fight for true equality. Like we should fight for them too. That’s how sisterhood works.
And dinner? Truth be told, Clement was mediocre. The best thing I had was the raspberry cheesecake chocolate given to us at the end. My oyster should have come with a wedge of lemon and cocktail sauce to season, risotto had a burnt flavor though it wasn’t burned, mushrooms tasted like they had been sautéed with no salt, and the bread was nothing special. Not even the butter could help it. My drink of choice was a gingerbread cocktail that tasted nothing like gingerbread – just lots of bourbon.
We had originally planned to attend high-tea with all the petit four and finger sanmmie fixins, but missed it. High-tea could be the their claim to culinary experiential fame, but Clement was not. It could have been an off evening, but I won’t be returning to find out.
Rihanna happened to be outside protesting inside the barricaded area on 55th and 5th, but I didn’t see her because the Harry Winston area was blocked by the traffic controller box. How I know this? I went on Instagram and saw a video posted of her, at the same time we were outside waiting for our Uber, in the same area we were standing.
Ugh. The one time I’m not observant!